Page 18 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

LIAM

B urns is still conscious when I reach him—thank Christ. Blood stains the front of his suit, soaking through the white of his shirt, but the EMTs say it missed anything vital. A clean shot through the shoulder. Painful, but not fatal.

He’s cracking half-hearted jokes through gritted teeth as they load him into the ambulance. “Tell Rory I better still get his endorsement,” he groans as they shut the doors, and I force out a laugh even though my hands won’t stop shaking.

Once the flashing lights start to fade, I realize a crowd’s already gathered at the bottom of the steps, murmuring like a swarm of bees. Cameras. Reporters. Spectators with phones raised high like they’re filming a damn concert.

I straighten my jacket and step forward, adrenaline still flooding my system, my pulse a steady drum in my ears.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“Was it politically motivated?”

“Is Senator Burns going to be alright?”

I raise a hand, trying to steady the crowd. “He’s stable. The paramedics say he’s going to make a full recovery.”

There’s a ripple of relief, but it’s short-lived. The questions keep flying—faster now, sharper.

“Do you know who’s responsible?”

“Was this connected to his speech tonight?”

“Is this retaliation from one of the crime families?”

I turn toward the nearest camera, meeting it head-on. “Senator Burns made it clear tonight that he’s taking a hard stance on organized crime,” I say, my voice calm, and maybe more certain than I feel right now. “And some people don’t like being held accountable.”

Silence. Then--

“Are you saying this was a hit?”

“I’m saying that someone out there is scared. And they should be.” I pause. “Because we’re not backing down.”

Before they can regroup, I lean in slightly toward the nearest mic. “Starting tomorrow, Senator Burns will be protected by Blackthorn Security—a premier private security firm backed by years of experience and trusted by high-profile clients across the state.”

A ripple moves through the crowd.

Someone up front squints at me. “Isn’t that your family’s company?”

I nod. “It is. Blackthorn’s been in the works for a long time.

My brother Rory started it with Senator Burns’s encouragement, and it’s grown fast. We handle private contracts for celebrities, executives, anyone who needs elite, discreet protection.

We’re proud of what we’ve built—and we’re honored Senator Burns trusts us with his safety. ”

That part’s all true. Mostly.

The company’s barely a year and a half old, and it started because Burns whispered in Rory’s ear that going legit would be good optics. But no one here needs to know that. Not when I can spin it into gold.

Another reporter chimes in. “Is this the Brannagan family distancing itself from criminal associations?”

I give a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Look, I get it. The name comes with baggage. But that’s not who we are anymore. We’ve worked hard over the past few years to build something real. Something legitimate. People just haven’t caught up to the truth yet.”

I let that sit. A beat of silence. A few scribbled notes. The kind of pause that signals they’re actually listening now.

“We’re business owners. Job creators. We care about this city—and we’re not part of the problem. We’re part of the solution.”

I know how it sounds. Carefully worded, perfectly rehearsed even though I’m improvising. But that’s the game. Politics is all smoke and spin, and today, I’m playing it better than I ever thought I could.

Let them take this and run with it. Let them print headlines about Blackthorn. Let them start rewriting the Brannagan story.

And let whoever pulled that trigger know—we’re watching now.

The moment I step back inside, Ana’s there.

Her eyes are wide, panicked, scanning me like she’s expecting to find blood. “Are you okay?” she breathes, rushing toward me. “Liam, what happened? I heard a shot?—”

I catch her by the waist before she can start checking me over like I’ve been hit. “It wasn’t me,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. It was Burns.”

She stiffens. “Is he… ?”

“Shoulder hit. He’s already on his way to the hospital. They said he’ll be alright.” I brush her hair back, just to do something with my hands. “Scared the shit out of me, but he was conscious. Talking. Making jokes.”

Ana exhales a breath that sounds like it was caught in her lungs for a full minute. “Jesus…”

“Yeah.” I glance toward the main room, already feeling eyes and questions crawling in behind us. “Look, I don’t want to stick around for the second wave of reporters. And whoever fired that shot might not be done yet.”

She nods. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”

I don’t even bother saying goodbye to anyone else.

I just take her hand and lead her out the side exit, where Shane already has the car pulled around.

The ride back is silent, tense. Ana watches the city blur past the window, her fingers twisting in her lap.

I keep glancing in the mirrors, half-expecting another shot to come from nowhere.

When we finally get home, our nanny Kate meets us at the door with Lily in her arms. “She’s fed, changed, and asleep,” she whispers. “Did something happen?”

“I’ll explain later,” I say, softer than usual. “Thanks, Kate. You can head home.”

She gives Ana a gentle smile and presses Lily into her arms before gathering her things. Once she’s gone, the apartment feels too quiet. Like all the noise from earlier got swallowed whole.

Ana shifts Lily into her bassinet, and we both linger there for a second, watching her chest rise and fall.

Then Ana turns to me. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am now.”

I reach for her hand.

Because the truth is, I don’t want to talk about what happened. Not right now. I don’t want to dissect the why or the who or the what-it-means.

I just want her.

I pull her in hard, crushing her mouth to mine.

Ana gasps, but she’s already yanking at my jacket, pulling me in like she’s starving for air and I’m the only thing keeping her breathing. There’s no build-up. No slow burn. Just heat. Panic. Need.

Her hands fumble at my shirt. Mine are already at her zipper. We barely break apart long enough to shed the clothes between us, letting them fall wherever they land. I back her into the stairs, one of Lily’s toys getting kicked out of the way, but neither of us notices.

She bites my lip, hard, as I lift her. Her legs wrap tight around my waist, and I groan into her mouth.

“I thought you got shot,” she breathes, voice cracking.

“I didn’t.” My voice is raw. “I’m here. I’m fine. I’ve got you.”

I press her back into the wall, hands gripping her thighs, my mouth on her neck, her collarbone, her chest—anything I can reach. She claws at my back, grounding herself, anchoring me.

“Liam—”

“I need you,” I say, rough. Honest. “Now.”

No teasing. No games. I find her, already there for me, and thrust deep in one desperate motion. She cries out, head falling back, and I lose whatever control I had left.

We move hard and fast, like this might be the last chance we get. The rhythm is messy, frantic. My hand slams into the wall to brace us, her moans catching in my ear, her body tight around mine.

“I’ve got you,” I chant, over and over. “I’ve got you.”

She comes hard, legs tightening, her cry muffled against my neck. I follow fast, buried in her, clinging like the world might fall apart again at any second.

We don’t move. Just hold on, panting, shaking, waiting for our heartbeats to slow.

Still alive. Still here.

The next morning, sunlight spills through the wide loft windows, soft and golden, like the night before never happened.

Lily babbles from her playmat on the living room rug, waving a stuffed giraffe in the air like it personally offended her. Ana’s at the stove in one of my shirts, humming under her breath as she flips pancakes, and for just a moment, everything feels almost normal.

I pour coffee into two mugs and join her, brushing a kiss to her temple before setting hers down beside her. She gives me a tired smile in return. Neither of us got much sleep, and it wasn’t just because of what we did against the wall last night.

We’ve both been waiting for the fallout.

The TV murmurs in the background, tuned to the local morning news.

“… investigation is still underway after yesterday’s shooting at a Thornville campaign fundraiser?—”

Ana stiffens slightly at the mention. I glance at the screen just in time to see footage from the gala playing—Burns being loaded into the ambulance, me standing on the steps, speaking to reporters.

No mention of suspects. No clear motive, at least not yet. But then the chyron at the bottom of the screen suddenly flickers and changes.

“Breaking News… Heiress Emilie Gunnerson in hot water after DUI crash…”

Ana turns, spatula hovering midair. “Wait, what?”

We both watch as the anchor launches into the story, her tone shifting to a mix of scandalized delight and faux-concerned professionalism.

“Sources confirm that socialite Emilie Gunnerson, daughter of the late Magnus and Sigrid Gunnerson, was seen leaving Club Viridian late last night accompanied by an unidentified man. Minutes later, she crashed her luxury vehicle into the front patio of a nearby jazz club. Authorities suspect alcohol may have been involved. Fortunately, no one was seriously injured.”

A grainy still flashes across the screen—Emilie in a slinky dress, laughing wildly as she stumbles out of the club with a man twice her age, his hand suspiciously low on her back.

Ana squints. “Is that… ?”

I already know. My stomach drops as I recognize the man.

“That’s Martin Tisdale,” I mutter. “One of our gala donors. Married. Three kids. Just made a big show last week about family values and public morality.”

Ana winces. “Oof.”

I rub a hand over my face. “That’s going to be a mess. Burns can’t afford for this kind of scandal to touch the campaign. Not when he’s trying to look like he’s cleaning up the city.”

“And now he’s got a headline-chasing heiress crashing sports cars into nightclubs after cozying up to married donors.”

She flips a pancake with a sigh. “We really know how to pick allies.”