Page 16 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

LIAM

T he day of the gala arrives, and the apartment feels like a shaken snow globe—tense and glittering with nervous energy.

Shane is already pacing by the door, double-checking the rotation schedule for the men who’ll be posted outside the venue.

He barely looks up when I walk in with my tie half-knotted and my hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower.

I mutter a curse under my breath and start again on the knot, fingers fumbling. This whole thing—Burns’s gala, the campaign, the Russians—it’s all balancing on a knife’s edge. And yet all I can think about is whether Ana will let me dance with her tonight.

The sound of heels against the metal stairs draws my eyes upward, and then I forget how to breathe.

She descends like something out of a dream.

Her dress is a seafoam green piece that shimmers with every step like moonlight on the ocean.

It hugs her curves just enough to make my mouth go dry, before cascading into a soft, flowing skirt that brushes the tops of her matching heels.

A high slit along one thigh reveals just a glimpse of pale skin with each step, and I catch myself gripping the edge of the kitchen counter a little too hard.

Her hair’s all done up in soft waves, tucked behind one ear just so.

There’s a little shine to it—glossy, like she stepped out of a black-and-white movie.

A simple pearl necklace sits at her collarbone, and her gloves go all the way to her elbows like she’s on her way to the Oscars. She looks untouchable.

But then she looks at me.

And that wrecks me.

There’s a steadiness in her gaze—like she knows who she is—but it’s not all cool and collected. There’s a flicker of nerves too, like she’s wondering what I’ll say. Like maybe she still cares what I think.

“Jesus,” I mutter, and a stupid grin tugs at my mouth. “You trying to kill me before we even get to the damn gala?”

She lifts one brow, smirking a little. “Is it too much?”

“No,” I say, stepping in and taking her hand—glove and all. “It’s not enough. I should’ve been warned.”

Inside, the place is as over-the-top as expected. Chandeliers everywhere, champagne floating around on trays, and a hundred rich people talking like their voices matter more than the music.

Ana’s swept away almost immediately. Miranda pulls her in, and she leans in to press a quick kiss to my cheek—fast, warm, gone too soon. Then she vanishes into the sea of pearls and red lips and expensive perfume.

I watch her go. That seafoam green dress of hers moves like water, and for a second, I forget where I’m standing. Just staring, like some idiot who’s never seen her before.

Then Senator Burns claps a hand on my back and launches into motion. “Come on,” he says cheerfully. “Time to work the room.”

We start making rounds, and I’m trying to follow along, but mostly I’m just watching him.

With every handshake, every smile, Burns changes—just a little, but noticeably.

Like a chameleon shifting shades to match whatever foliage he’s standing in.

With one guest, he’s loud and booming, clapping backs and throwing out jokes like confetti.

With another, he softens his voice, nods thoughtfully, listens like the world might hinge on every word this person says.

And none of it feels fake. That’s what’s wild. It’s not like he’s performing—at least, not in a way that makes you recoil. It’s more like he just… adapts. Like he knows how to make people feel important. Like he knows how to become whatever they need him to be in that exact moment.

And I’m kinda in awe of it.

Because I’ve never been good at that. I’ve always been too much or not enough. Too loud. Too blunt. Too distracted. I say the wrong thing, I forget the right one, I overshare or shut down entirely.

But Burns? He moves through this crowd like it’s a dance he’s done a thousand times. No missteps. No faltering. Just seamless, effortless presence.

I find myself wanting to know how. How does he read people so quickly? How does he adjust without losing himself in the process?

He glances over his shoulder at me during a lull and smiles. “You getting the hang of this yet?”

“Still learning,” I admit.

Burns winks. “You’re a quick study. You’ve got good instincts.”

I nod, but I’m still watching him—this man who can change his tempo without losing the rhythm. I don’t fully understand it, but I can’t stop watching. He makes people feel like they matter. Like they’re seen.

And God, I wish I was that good at making people feel seen.

Burns moves to the next circle of donors, easing into their conversation like he was born into it.

I hang back just enough to avoid stepping on toes, but close enough to be introduced if needed.

Honestly, I doubt they’d notice me even if I did cannonball into the middle of the champagne fountain. Their eyes are glued to the senator.

Near the refreshment table, two men in tuxes lean in close, voices pitched low beneath the music. One of them sips his drink like it’s gossip-flavored.

“—hearing the charges might not stick,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Volkov’s got friends in all the right shadows.”

The other hums. “Word is, his lawyers are gearing up for a clean sweep. If he walks…” He whistles softly. “Back to business as usual.”

My spine goes rigid.

I pivot just enough to catch more, pretending to glance at a passing tray of hors d'oeuvres.

“Everyone’s acting like the city’s on the mend, but if that monster gets out…” One of the men trails off, his expression grim.

My ears are ringing.

It’s been too quiet lately. No new moves from the Russians. No retaliation. No suspicious fires. Just… nothing.

And now I know why.

Volkov’s planning his next play—and if he beats those charges, it it’ll be a full-scale reckoning. For Ana. For Lily. For all of us.

I’m about to head back to Burns’s side when I catch movement near one of the ballroom’s darker corners. Not a waiter. Not a donor. Someone standing too still, too quiet—half-shadowed beneath an archway, watching the room like he’s casing it.

My stomach drops.

I cut across the floor without thinking, weaving between tuxedos and gowns, not caring that I’m probably drawing attention now. Shane’s not far, but I gesture for him to stay back. I need eyes on Ana, just in case.

When I get closer, the figure straightens and steps forward into the light.

Of course.

“Aleksey,” I grit out, barely containing the snarl in my voice.

He looks just as I remember—cold eyes, stiff posture, dressed to blend in but never quite able to hide that coiled, soldier’s stillness. Like he’s waiting for a fight.

He doesn’t offer a greeting. Just says, “I came to check on her.”

“You don’t get to do that,” I snap, voice low and sharp. “You don’t get to be here.”

“We fought,” he says, jaw tight. “I wanted to make sure she was alright. That’s all.”

“You show your face at a public gala filled with political donors and press just to ‘check on her’? Try again.”

His lips twitch, like he’s trying not to rise to the bait. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone used a gala to do more than mingle.”

I step in close, close enough that I can feel the tension between us like static. “Say the word and I’ll have you dragged out of here. You don’t belong on this side of the city.”

“I didn’t come for trouble,” he says. Then, softly, like it’s an afterthought—“Though I could help you. If I wanted to.”

I blink. “What the hell does that mean?”

He shrugs, voice casual, but every word deliberate. “If Burns wants the Russian vote, someone’s going to have to broker that deal. You’re not exactly on speaking terms with my side of the fence.”

I narrow my eyes. “You think I’d trust you to do that?”

“No,” Aleksey says, almost smiling. “But I thought she might.”

That does it.

I grab his lapel, yanking him close enough that our foreheads almost knock. “You’re done here.”

Aleksey doesn’t resist. Just holds my gaze like he’s already several moves ahead on the board.

“I’ll go,” he says simply. “But think about it, Brannagan. You want to keep her safe? You’ll need more than charm and campaign flyers.”

I shove him back. “Get out.”

He adjusts his cuffs like nothing happened, gives me one last unreadable look, and disappears through the side door like he was never here.

I exhale shakily, pulse still pounding.

Because the worst part isn’t that Aleksey was here.

It’s that for one brief second—I almost wanted to hear him out.

The band quiets, the lights shift, and all eyes turn toward the raised stage near the center of the ballroom. Burns climbs the steps like he owns the place—hell, maybe he will soon—and takes his place at the mic, beaming like the golden boy Thornville’s been waiting for.

He opens with pleasantries, thanks the donors, cracks a joke that gets polite laughter.

Then his voice lowers. Steadies.

“And now, the part of the evening where I tell you why I’m really running,” Burns says, gaze sweeping the room. “Because this city is rotting. Not at the surface, no. Our streets are clean, our businesses are thriving—but underneath? The foundation is cracking.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd.

“For too long, we’ve tolerated criminal enterprises operating in our neighborhoods. They leech resources. They recruit our children. They twist the law to serve their own ends. Well—” He leans in slightly. “No more.”

My stomach goes tight.

“I intend to see every last one of these syndicates dismantled. Piece by piece. Group by group. Until there’s no one left to intimidate our people or exploit their pain.”

A few scattered claps turn into real applause. Loud. Growing. The kind of response he wanted.

I don’t clap.

Because my blood’s gone cold.

Every last one?

Burns steps down, flashing his too-perfect smile, shaking hands again as he returns to the floor. I’m still frozen in place when he finds me near the bar, raising a glass in triumph.

“Hell of a speech, right?” he says, grinning like we’re still on the same team.

I stare at him. “You said you wanted to clean up corruption. But that sounded like you’re planning to go scorched earth.”

Burns’s smile softens. “Relax. That wasn’t about you.” He leans in, dropping his voice. “I meant the Russians. The Polish gangs. The cartel that’s trying to creep in from Westbridge.”

“But the way you said it?—”

“I had to say it that way.” His tone is calm, confident, like he’s explaining something to a jittery intern. “You can’t win public favor by saying some crime is okay. I needed to draw a line—rally support. That line just happens to be… flexible.”

My jaw tightens. “So the Brannagans are on the right side of that line?”

“For now? Absolutely.”

He claps me on the shoulder, genial as ever, like we didn’t just have a conversation that sounded like a warning wrapped in reassurance.

“Trust me, Liam. I know who the real threats are. And it’s not your family.”

Then he turns away to charm the next crowd, leaving me standing there, heart pounding and mind racing.

Because “for now” doesn’t sound like a promise.

It sounds like a timer.

By the time the gala winds down, I keep waiting for something to go sideways. But it doesn’t. No disasters. No drama. Just a bunch of champagne toasts, the band playing their last song, and people heading out in waves.

Outside, the air’s cool. Burns walks beside me, practically buzzing.

His phone buzzes too. He ignores it.

“You did good tonight,” he says, clapping me on the back. “We’re gonna win this thing.”

I huff a laugh. “Bold of you to say before the votes are even counted.”

He smirks. “I’m not bold. I’m right.”

“I’m sure that speech helped,” I mutter.

Burns laughs. “Liam, you worry too much. Trust me. People eat that righteous justice shit up. Tomorrow, the polls will jump. You’ll see.”

We step out the hotel doors, into the night air. I’m just turning to respond when?—

CRACK.

The sound splits the night like a whip.

Burns jerks forward, a look of shock in his eyes.

Then he collapses.