Page 26 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

LIAM

I wake before my alarm, eyes snapping open to gray morning light bleeding through the curtains. For a second, I don’t move—just listen. The soft hum of the fridge downstairs. The quiet whistle of wind against the windows. The small, rhythmic breath of the woman sleeping beside me.

Annika’s curled away from me, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other wrapped protectively around the stuffed fox Lily sleeps with sometimes. Her hair is a mess, wild and beautiful. She looks peaceful. It almost makes me forget what day it is.

Almost.

I glance at my phone, screen lighting up with the date like it’s taunting me.

The primary’s tomorrow. But today—today is the trial.

Anatoly Volkov finally goes to court.

My jaw tightens. I don’t know if he’ll show up in cuffs or in some sleek designer suit with that smug look he always wears, like none of this touches him.

Like he owns the damn courthouse. And maybe he does.

With people like him, you never really know.

There’s always someone paid off, always some hidden play.

My thumb hovers over the screen, itching to check the news, my email, texts from Rory, Lucky, hell, even Burns. But I stop myself.

I don’t want her to see.

I know if I tell Annika what today is, she might want to go. She’ll say it’s just to see for herself, or to support Aleksey, or to get closure. But we both know it wouldn’t stop there. She’s not built to stand still when something big like this happens. She moves toward the storm.

And I can’t let her.

Not when it could blow everything up again.

So I slide the phone under my pillow and roll onto my side, tucking an arm around her waist. She shifts slightly but doesn’t wake. I press a kiss to her shoulder.

Then I slip out of bed as carefully as I can, easing the sheets back and planting my feet on the floor like I’m afraid the whole apartment might creak and give me away.

I grab yesterday’s jeans from the chair, a black button-up, and a jacket from the closet.

Nothing flashy. Just sharp enough to send a message.

Downstairs, the place is quiet. Kate must still be asleep in the guest room. Lily’s sound machine hums softly through the monitor on the kitchen counter. I pour myself a cup of coffee, drink half of it black and bitter, then set it down without finishing. My stomach’s too twisted to handle more.

It’s not like I was asked to come. No official reason for me to be at the courthouse. But I don’t need one. Just being there sends the message I want it to send.

I’m not afraid of you. I will protect what’s mine.

He tried to bury Annika under his shadow. Tried to twist her into something she wasn’t, then sent monsters to hunt her down when she broke free. He wants her back in a cage. He wants our daughter raised in his empire.

Not happening.

Not ever.

Outside, the morning air is crisp and gray, clouds hanging low like the sky can feel the weight of what’s coming. I climb into the car and tell myself not to second guess it.

The courthouse is already buzzing by the time I arrive. Press crowding the steps. Police at every door. Protesters with signs—some screaming for justice, others declaring Anatoly’s innocence like they’ve got his face printed on a damn T-shirt.

I flash my ID and walk straight through security. No fuss. No flinching.

Inside, it smells like old paper and floor wax. Cold marble underfoot. Everything sterile, polished, and pretending it isn’t a battlefield.

I head for the courtroom, ignoring the buzz around me. Every step I take feels deliberate. Heavy. I want people to see me. Let them whisper. Let them report it. Let Anatoly know I showed up.

The gallery’s half-full when I slip inside. A few reporters. A couple of suits I recognize from past court cases. But mostly it’s Russians. I can feel it—tight posture, sharp suits, eyes that flick toward me and then quickly away.

I sit in the second row, center, just behind the prosecution’s table. Front and fucking center. I fold my hands in my lap and wait.

Ten minutes later, the doors open.

He walks in, flanked by two officers. No cuffs. Of course not. Just enough security to pretend it’s not theater. His suit’s tailored, charcoal gray with a crisp white shirt. Polished shoes. He walks like he owns the building.

But when his eyes scan the room, they land on me.

And he stops—just for a beat.

It’s subtle. Barely a flicker. But I catch it. That faint narrowing of his gaze. That almost imperceptible tension in his jaw. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t gesture. Just looks at me.

And I look right back.

He knows why I’m here. I don’t have to say a word.

She’s not yours anymore.

You don’t get to pull her strings. Not while I’m breathing.

We hold the stare until the bailiff clears his throat and Anatoly finally steps forward to take his seat at the defense table. Even then, I feel his presence like a weight pressing down on the air in the room.

The trial begins. Motions. Opening remarks. A parade of legalese. I half-listen. I’m not here for the case. I’m here for him.

An hour in, the judge calls for a fifteen-minute recess.

People shuffle to their feet. I stay seated, eyes still on the front of the room.

That’s when a man breaks from the defense table—a tall lawyer with a deep navy suit and smug energy. He heads toward me, steps measured and casual, but I can tell he’s sizing me up.

He stops just beside my bench and leans in slightly.

“Mr. Brannagan,” he says smoothly, “my client would like a word.”

I glance past him toward the defense table. Anatoly isn’t looking at me now—he’s speaking to another lawyer, calm as ever—but I know this was planned.

I arch an eyebrow. “And if I say no?”

The man smirks, unfazed. “Then I’ll let him know. But he said to tell you it’s about Annika.”

Of course it is.

I don’t move right away. Just sit there, feeling the pulse in my jaw. Finally, I stand.

“Lead the way.”

The lawyer leads me through a side door and down a narrow hallway, away from the crowd, away from the press. The walls here are thicker. Soundproofed. Meant for deals made in whispers and threats masked as diplomacy.

He opens a door near the end of the corridor. A private meeting room—clean, neutral, table and chairs bolted to the floor like anyone might flip them otherwise. There’s a pitcher of water on the table, untouched. The air smells faintly of metal and old ink.

Anatoly’s already inside.

He doesn’t rise when I enter. Just sits there, one leg crossed over the other, like this is his boardroom and I’m late to a meeting. His expression is unreadable. Calm. Controlled. But his eyes are sharp. Calculating.

“Liam,” he says smoothly, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Please.”

I shut the door behind me, but I don’t sit.

“I’m only going to say this once,” I start, voice low, steady. “Stay the hell away from Annika.”

A faint flicker of amusement touches his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“She ran to you,” he says. “It was inevitable.”

“She ran from the people who were trying to use her as a pawn,” I snap. “You think she betrayed you? She didn’t. She was set up. She didn’t give your location to anyone—someone else did, and you were too blinded by your pride to see it.”

Something shifts behind his eyes. Not surprise. Not denial. Just something like consideration.

“I’m aware of that possibility,” he says finally, calmly. “There are inconsistencies. Loose ends.”

“Then why is there a target on her back?” I demand. “Why the hell is your bratva still hunting her like she’s some kind of traitor?”

He exhales slowly, like a man trying to explain something to someone who won’t understand.

“Because not everyone around me shares my doubts,” he says. “There are men who want her to be guilty. Men who benefit from it.” The way he says it—calm, almost bored—makes my skin crawl.

I stand up, done with this conversation. I said what I needed to say.

As I’m leaving though, my hand on the knob of the door, Anatoly calls my name and I turn my head, wondering what he wants.

“Be careful who you trust, Brannagan.”

I ignore him and head for the lobby, having done what I needed to do and seeing no point in staying.

But by the time I get back home, I’m still replaying the conversation in my head. I didn’t get answers—just more questions. And the worst part is, I think that was the point.

The apartment is warm, cozy. The baby monitor hums low in the kitchen. It smells like coffee and whatever Kate cooked for breakfast.

Annika’s in the living room, bouncing Lily gently in her arms, humming something soft under her breath. She looks up as I walk in, eyes lighting up—then narrowing.

“Where were you?” she asks, trying to keep her voice casual. “You were gone when I woke up.”

I force a smile and lean down to kiss the top of Lily’s head before brushing a hand over Annika’s shoulder.

“Just had a few last-minute campaign stops,” I say lightly. “Canvassing for Burns before tomorrow.”

She watches me for a second too long, her gaze probing. Like she’s trying to read the truth under my skin.

But then she nods, just barely.

“Oh,” she says. “Okay.”

I give her another smile, but it feels wrong on my face. She turns back to Lily, cooing softly.

And I stand there for a second, still hearing Anatoly’s voice echoing in my head.

Be careful who you trust.

Later that night, after dinner and bath time and a chorus of Lily’s bedtime fussing, the apartment finally settles into quiet.

Annika curls up next to me on the couch, her legs tucked under her, a throw blanket draped over her lap. The TV plays some old sitcom neither of us are really watching. Her head leans against my shoulder, warm and familiar—but I can feel the weight of something unspoken hanging between us.

It’s her who finally breaks the silence.

“So…” she says carefully, “am I going to be allowed to come to the watch party tomorrow night?”

My stomach tenses.

I don’t answer right away. My first instinct is to say no. The thought of her being anywhere public right now, especially a party full of donors, campaign staff, and reporters—with God knows who watching—makes my skin crawl.

I feel her shift beside me, sensing the hesitation.

“It’s important to you,” she adds. “I know that. And I know it’s a risk. But I don’t want to be hidden away like I’m some secret.”

“I know,” I murmur. “It’s not that I don’t want you there, Ana…”

I trail off, struggling to explain the knot of dread in my chest. It’s not just about her safety. It’s about Lily. About what Anatoly said. About not knowing who’s still out there, waiting for the perfect chance.

I reach for my phone and pull up the contact list.

“What are you doing?” she asks softly.

“Calling backup,” I say. “If you’re going then we’re not going alone.”

I dial Lucky first, then Rory. Ask them both to be there. Quiet, casual, no details—but I can hear the shift in their tone when I ask them to keep eyes open. They know something’s up. They don’t ask questions. They’ll be there.

When I hang up, I turn to her.

“You can come,” I say finally. “But you don’t leave my side. Not for a second. If I go to the bar, you come with me. If I take a piss, you’re waiting outside the door.”

Annika raises an eyebrow, smiling faintly. “That serious, huh?”

“I’m not joking,” I say, and the look in my eyes must kill any lingering amusement in hers. “I’m not taking chances.”

Her smile fades, but she nods. “Okay.”

I pull her closer, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.

Be careful who you trust.

The words keep echoing in the back of my mind.

Later, we move through the bedtime routine like muscle memory. Brushing teeth. Locking up. Turning off lights. I watch her slip out of her clothes and into one of my old T-shirts, and for a second, I forget all of it—the trial, the threats, the pressure building behind tomorrow’s election.

But it doesn’t last.

She slides into bed beside me, pulling the blanket up to her chin, her hair spilling across the pillow in loose waves. I crawl in next to her, the mattress dipping with my weight. The room is dim and quiet, the only sound the soft whoosh of the fan overhead.

She turns toward me, voice gentle. “You okay?”

I hesitate.

The words are right there, perched on the edge of my tongue. Someone in the bratva wants you dead. Someone powerful enough that Anatoly doesn’t even feel safe saying their name out loud.

I should tell her. She deserves to know.

But I think of Lily, sleeping down the hall. Of how Annika looked tonight—relaxed for the first time in days. I can’t rip that peace away from her. Not yet. Not unless I have something more than shadows and suspicion.

So I swallow it down.

She touches my arm. “Liam?”

I force a small smile and shake my head. “Nothing,” I murmur. Then, quieter, “You’re beautiful.”

I can’t burden her right now. I can’t stress her out more, not with everything going on.

I’m just protecting her.