Page 15 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

ANNIKA

F or a long beat, I just look at him.

The question hangs in the space between us—quiet, steady, heavier than it should be. Do you want to go upstairs?

He’s not pushing. Not pleading. Just offering, open and careful, like he’s holding his heart in both hands and hoping I won’t crush it. And maybe, for the first time in longer than I care to admit, I don’t want to run.

I nod—barely. But it’s enough. He sees it. He always sees me.

His fingers slip into mine. The way he holds my hand is gentle, but there’s something grounded in it too. Like he already knows this matters. Like he’s not just leading me upstairs—he’s leading me back to something I thought I’d lost for good.

The stairs creak under us, each step a soft exhale. We don’t speak, but the silence is anything but empty. It’s full—alive with every unsaid word, every breath we’ve been holding.

At the top, he pauses. Just enough time for me to change my mind.

I don’t.

The bedroom is dim and golden, light pooling across the sheets like a quiet welcome. When he lets go of my hand, it’s only to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb brushes my cheek—barely there. I close my eyes and lean into it.

Yes , I think. Even if I never say it out loud. Yes. I want this. I want him .

He cups my face, eyes searching mine. The kiss he gives me is soft—slow. Like a question.

I answer with a sigh, my hands pressed lightly to his chest. There’s no rush. No script. Just the warmth of him and the way he makes me feel steady again.

His hands move to the hem of my top. He hesitates. I nod.

When he lifts it, it’s careful. Intentional. Like every inch of fabric he pulls away is part of a vow he hasn’t spoken yet.

And when he touches me—really touches me—it’s reverent. Like he’s memorizing, not just feeling. Like he’s afraid I might vanish if he isn’t gentle.

Every piece of clothing he removes feels less like undressing and more like unveiling. Like he’s peeling away the parts of me I’ve hidden from the world—and myself.

I reach out and undress him in return, trying to match his pace, his gentleness. As I move, I take in every inch of him like I’m trying to memorize this moment.

His skin’s warm under my hands. Solid. Real. I let them wander—chest, shoulders, a line down his ribs. I don’t rush. I just… take a minute. To feel him. To breathe.

Liam doesn’t talk. Just watches me, eyes soft. Like he doesn’t totally believe I’m here. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t know what to do with it.

His hands come to my waist again, thumbs brushing in slow circles, like muscle memory. He leans in and kisses me—deeper this time. It’s not frantic, but there’s heat there. A little bit of hunger under all the quiet.

He kisses down my jaw, to my neck, to my shoulder. Slow, like he’s got nowhere else to be.

When he says my name, it’s not loud. Barely there. But it hits like a weight.

I tilt my head without thinking, just trying to give him more. My fingers are in his hair now, and I’m not even sure when that happened. Everything’s kind of blurry, in the best way.

His mouth keeps going—collarbone, down my chest—and I can feel the shiver coming before it even starts.

When his hands slide up, over my ribs, I arch toward him. Not on purpose. Just instinct.

Then he looks up. His eyes are dark and wide, and there’s something in them that knocks the breath out of me. It’s not just lust. It’s him.

“I want to make you feel good,” he says, voice low. “Tell me what you need, Ana.”

He reaches for my hand, laces our fingers together like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

We move to the bed. Sheets are still rumpled from earlier. Doesn’t matter. Right now, it feels like the safest place in the world.

We don’t say anything. Just get in. Face each other.

There’s a beat—long enough to feel it—and then he touches my face, light and careful. His thumb brushes my lips, and I kiss it, small and soft.

He kisses me again. Slower than before. No rush. No pressure. Just him, and me, and whatever this is building into.

His hands begin to explore, not with greed but with reverence. Fingertips skim over my arms, down my sides, across the dip of my waist. He touches me like I’m something to be treasured, not consumed.

I slide my hands down his back—slow at first, unsure, just getting a feel for him.

He’s solid, warm. There’s muscle, yeah, but also this softness in certain places that makes me want to stay close.

He shivers a little when I touch the base of his spine, and then he kisses me again.

This time it’s deeper. Less guarded. Like he’s finally letting go.

He shifts, and suddenly we’re pressed together—skin to skin. I let out this shaky breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. It’s not just about the heat or the closeness. It’s that I don’t feel like I have to keep my walls up right now. Not with him.

His mouth finds my throat, then lower, tracing along my collarbone. The kisses are slow. Steady. He’s not in a rush. Each one feels like it’s trying to tell me something, like maybe he’s saying “I’m here” without actually saying it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.

I snort—just a little. Because what else am I supposed to do with a line like that? But when I feel the way his voice stumbles at the end, I realize he means it. Not just saying it to be sweet. He actually means it. And that knocks something loose in my chest.

My fingers slide into his hair, and he keeps going. His hands are always on the move, but never rushed. Just… gentle. Thoughtful.

Every touch feels like it’s asking me Is this okay? Do you want this?

And I do.

So when I roll him onto his back, he lets me. Just watches. There’s trust in his eyes, even though his breath’s coming faster now. I lean in and kiss his throat, just under his jaw. I feel his pulse jumping there, and I kiss it again. And again.

“I want to take care of you,” I say, barely above a whisper.

His grip on the sheets tightens for a second. Then he nods.

I move down slowly, taking my time. Kissing his chest, his stomach, getting to know him like this. Really know him. Not to tease, not to perform. Just because I want to learn what makes him feel good. What makes him shiver.

He smells like skin and laundry detergent and something that’s just him. Familiar. I breathe him in, pressing kisses lower, my hands roaming across his hips, his thighs. Trying to ground him. Trying to ground myself.

When I finally take his cock in my mouth, I do it slow. Careful. I glance up once—just to see his face—and he’s already gone soft around the edges, one hand finding mine and holding on.

I move at my own pace, steady and soft, lips and tongue working in careful rhythm down his shaft. Not to bring him to the edge, not yet—just to give. To love.

The sound he makes when he breathes my name nearly undoes me.

“Ana,” he groans, broken and beautiful. “God, you… you don’t have to?—”

“I want to,” I whisper, mouth brushing against the underside of him before I return to that slow rhythm. “Let me love you.”

And he does.

His body trembles under me, fingers curled tight in the sheets. I don’t rush. I just keep going, slow and focused, listening to every sound he makes—his breath catching, my name slipping out like it’s the only word he remembers.

When I finally start kissing my way back up, it’s not some neat little trail of poetry—it’s messy and hot and real. His skin is warm, flushed, damp with sweat, and I want to feel every inch of it. His hands find my waist, then my back, steadying me as I rise up over him.

Our eyes lock—and everything just stops.

There’s a lot in his expression. Want, sure. But also something softer. A little unsteady. Like he’s giving me something that still scares him.

I press my hands to his chest. His heart’s racing, strong and steady. One of his hands comes up to cradle my face, thumb brushing my cheek.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low.

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”

That’s all it takes.

He keeps his hands on my hips, guiding me as I lower myself onto his cock. It’s slow—like we both need a second to catch up to what’s happening. I gasp when I feel him, eyes fluttering shut as my body takes him in.

The stretch is deep. I’m careful but it still knocks the air out of me.

Liam groans, his grip tightening, then easing off like he’s forcing himself to stay gentle even with all that tension coiled inside him.

“You feel…” he starts, then trails off. Breathless. “You feel like home.”

My hands find his, lacing our fingers together as I start to move—slow, fluid, like a tide coming in. There’s no rush. Just this rhythm. Just us.

He meets me with quiet reverence, rising to meet every motion with soft, perfect counterpoint. We stay close—foreheads brushing, lips finding each other in between gasps and sighs.

Every kiss is a confession. Every touch, a vow.

And as we move together, bodies tangled and breaths tangled tighter, I realize it’s not just about the pleasure or even the love. It’s about the surrender.

The letting go. The choosing of each other. We come together like a sunrise—slow, radiant, inevitable.

And when it happens, it’s not with a scream, but with a sigh. Like the world exhaling.

Like peace.

Liam falls asleep with his arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against my shoulder, slow and steady in the dark. He looks so peaceful like this. So open. His lashes brush his cheeks, and his mouth is parted slightly, lips still swollen from kissing me like I was something sacred.

I should feel safe. I should feel whole.

But I don’t sleep.

I lie awake beside him, my body still humming from what we shared—still aching in the best way—but my mind is already spiraling. The quiet presses in on me, thick and heavy, and all the warmth in the room suddenly feels like it’s just on the surface.

What have I done?

I let him in. Again. I gave him everything. I let myself believe, just for a little while, that this could be different. That we could be different.

But reality has never cared about our hopes.

We are still standing on opposite sides of a war.

Even now, as his chest rises and falls against my back, I can hear my father’s voice in my head.

Brannagans can’t be trusted. I see Rory’s face when he looked at me like I was poison.

I think about the Russians Liam’s family has put in the ground.

About the Irish blood spilled on my father’s orders.

Liam and I—we come from different worlds.

Different loyalties. Different kinds of damage.

And even if I understand now why things went wrong before—how his ADHD made it hard for him to be there when I needed him, how my own wiring made it hard to explain what I needed at all—it doesn’t change the fact that we live inside two broken empires that were never meant to merge.

This… us… it feels like trying to build a bridge across a battlefield.

His arm tightens slightly in his sleep, pulling me closer with a quiet sigh.

I blink up at the ceiling, my chest aching with the weight of everything I can’t say.

I still love you, I think.

And it still might not be enough.