Page 27 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

ANNIKA

T he morning air in Liam’s apartment feels thick, like it’s pressing down on everything. Even Lily can sense it. She’s unusually quiet, tracking my movements with those wide eyes of hers, like she knows something’s coming—we just don’t have a name for it yet.

I pace the living room with her on my hip, the floor creaking under every step.

She lets out a small, restless sigh, and I bounce her gently, trying to soothe us both.

Liam was already gone by the time I woke up—dressed, distant, half-muttering to himself about ballots and precincts.

His coffee sat untouched on the counter. Mine too.

He kissed my forehead before he left, but it felt mechanical. His hand never even brushed my arm. Just a quick press of lips and a distracted murmur about checking in with Burns’s team before heading to a polling site. I didn’t ask which one. Didn’t see the point.

Now it’s just me and Lily and this gnawing quiet. Like the day is holding its breath.

I settle her into the bouncer and drop onto the couch across from her. She waves her hands a little, unfocused, like she’s not quite sure what to do with them. No smiles. No giggles. Just stillness.

Liam’s been off all morning—tense, edgy, eyes flicking to the windows like he’s waiting for something. When I asked what was wrong, he just muttered that he was tired.

But I know tired.

And that wasn’t it.

I glance at my phone on the coffee table. No new messages. No warnings. No reminders. But I can still feel them, like ghosts pressing in at the edges of my mind.

Sasha’s text is burned into my memory. You need to stay hidden for the next few days. Stay out of the spotlight . I never responded. What could I even say? That I’d take her advice while secretly signing contracts and planning performances under an alias?

Then there’s Miranda. I still don’t know what game she’s playing, only that I’ve stepped onto her board and every move I make feels like it’s being watched. She’s not the type to help without strings attached—and I have a sick feeling I won’t like where those strings lead.

And Ingrid. Cool, poised, terrifying Ingrid, who looks at me like she’s assessing a product instead of a person.

She says she believes in my potential, but she’s already started making plans—sponsored content, social media, interviews.

None of which I’m ready for, not really. But I told her I was. I had to.

I’ve been telling everyone what they need to hear. Liam. Miranda. Ingrid. Myself.

So no, I don’t ask Liam what’s really going on. I don’t demand the truth or press him for the things he’s too afraid to say out loud.

Because I’m just as guilty.

I told myself I came here for protection—for Lily. But the truth is, I ran here because I didn’t know where else to go. Because I needed Liam. And now that I’m here, I’m holding on too tightly to everything, hoping it doesn’t all fall apart.

That evening, the hotel ballroom pulses with energy—glasses clinking, voices rising and falling in waves, screens flashing red, white, and blue as the precinct results roll in.

Campaign volunteers cheer as numbers tilt in Burns’s favor, and Liam stands near the front, flanked by Lucky and a few of Burns’s aides, deep in conversation. He hasn’t noticed me walk in yet.

I hover near the edge of the room, feeling the weight of every glance tossed my way.

Even with my hair curled and makeup done, dressed in a soft, slate-blue dress Ingrid insisted I wear, I might as well be wearing a bullseye.

Eyes slide over me, pause, then slide away again—cold, cautious, calculating.

Whispers don’t reach my ears, but I feel them anyway, the unspoken question hanging over everything. What is she doing here?

A glass of champagne is pressed into my hand by one of the aides, but I barely sip it. My throat feels too tight. Too dry.

I shouldn’t be here. Not in this world, not in this moment. I’m not part of this celebration—not really. I’m an interloper, a Russian Bratva girl who ran into the arms of the enemy with a baby in tow, hoping to find something that felt like safety.

And now I’m surrounded by suits and whispers and allies who only tolerate me because Liam insists I’m on his side.

Even if I’m not sure I am.

I take a shaky breath and scan the room again, eyes finding Liam near the stage. He’s not watching the screens. He’s not watching me. His gaze is fixed on his phone, thumb moving fast, face set in a tight, unreadable line.

He’s wearing a sharp navy suit—the one that makes him look like he belongs here more than anyone else—but there’s a tension rolling off him in waves. His jaw ticks. His shoulders stay locked, arms crossed over his chest and I know his mind is miles away from this party.

I inch closer, slowly weaving my way through the crowd, trying not to look like I’m following him, even though I am. Someone brushes against my shoulder and mutters an apology.

But I’m stalled when the announcement is made, the numbers flashing bold and bright across the screen.

BURNS — WINNER: 52.4%

The room explodes into cheers.

People leap to their feet, champagne sloshing. Hands go up. Campaign staff scream and hug and kiss and laugh like it’s already November. The Brannagan boys are grinning—Lucky slapping someone’s back, Kellan and Rory giving tight nods, even a smirk from Clary’s direction.

But Liam doesn’t move.

He doesn’t clap. He doesn’t cheer. His phone buzzes again in his hand, and he turns away slightly, angling his body to read it in private.

I feel something cold curl in my gut.

He should be smiling. He should be basking in the moment. This is a win—a big one—and he helped make it happen. But his face doesn’t reflect victory.

Only worry.

Something’s wrong.

And whatever it is, he hasn’t told me.

I’m only a few feet away from him when the tone in the ballroom shifts again—cheers falter, eyes swivel toward the main screen as the anchor’s voice sharpens with urgency.

“We have breaking news coming in now out of Thornville—several suspected members of the Russian syndicate have been arrested in connection with an attempted interference in today’s primary election…”

The words echo across the ballroom like a gunshot.

A ripple of confusion and alarm surges through the crowd.

Conversations die midsentence. Glasses lower.

The anchor continues, detailing how a coordinated sting operation led to multiple arrests at different polling locations, and that authorities suspect the Volkov syndicate may have been trying to tamper with ballot machines or intimidate poll workers.

My blood turns to ice.

I whip my head toward Liam, and for the first time all night, I see him react.

Relief.

Not joy, not panic—relief. His shoulders sag just slightly. The tension in his jaw eases. His phone drops to his side as he exhales, long and low like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“I knew it,” he says, voice low and tight as I step closer. “I knew it. I told Burns. I told Rory. They didn’t believe me, but I knew the Russians were trying to steal the election.”

He turns to me then, eyes flashing with something sharp and vindicated.

“They tried to rig it, Ana. Your family. They tried to take him down. And now we’ve got proof.”

My mouth opens, but the words catch on the way out.

I want to say Are you sure?

I want to say What if it wasn’t them?

I want to tell him about Sasha’s warning, about the uneasy feeling threading through my chest like barbed wire. That something about this—about the timing, the neatness of it all—feels wrong.

But before I can say anything, a booming voice cuts through the haze.

“Liam!”

Senator Burns strides up to us, grinning like a man who’s just seen his future handed to him on a silver platter. His arms are already outstretched as he barrels in for a hug. Liam barely has time to brace before he’s swept into a half-embrace, clapped hard on the back.

“You did it, kid,” Burns says, loud enough for half the room to hear. “We did it.”

Liam lets out a short laugh, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We sure did.”

I step back instinctively, giving them space, but the unease inside me doesn’t fade. It sharpens. Burns is basking in his win, but I can’t stop staring at the screen. At the words Volkov Syndicate in bold red letters. At the way Liam is still holding onto his phone, knuckles white.

I feel the truth straining at the edges of this moment—something just out of reach, something I’m not supposed to see.

And now it might be too late to ask.

I drift a few steps away, trying to ground myself in the music that’s started back up, the champagne flutes clinking again as the room recovers from the shock and leans back into celebration. But I can still hear Liam and Burns—just barely—voices lowered now but not enough.

Burns leans in, gripping Liam’s shoulder with a firm hand, his smile thinning into something tighter. Something calculated.

“Now that the real work begins,” he says, his voice just loud enough for me to catch the words, “can I still trust you to make the tough calls?”

Liam doesn’t answer right away.

The pause stretches long enough to make my stomach twist.

Then I hear him say, low and certain, “You can count on me.”

I swallow hard.

The champagne in my hand has gone warm. The music feels too loud now, the lights too bright, like the whole room has shifted a few degrees to the left and I’m the only one who noticed.

Because that wasn’t a victory lap. That was a pledge. And it wasn’t to me.

Liam’s world has always been complicated, messy, full of secrets and shadows. But this—this is different. This isn’t Mafia politics behind closed doors. This is power, out in the open, wielded like a weapon in suits and soundbites and votes.

And he just promised to be a part of it.

I weave through the clusters of people, heels clicking against the ballroom floor like the ticking of a clock winding down.

Liam spots me, and that flicker of concern is back in his eyes like it never left.

“Ana—”

“Something’s wrong,” I cut in, voice low and urgent. “Liam, it doesn’t make sense. The arrests, the timing—it’s too perfect. Sasha warned me something was coming. What if this wasn’t my family at all?”

His brow furrows. He opens his mouth to answer?—

And then it hits.

A crash near the back of the ballroom. Shouting.

Glass shatters.

A scream cuts through the air, and chairs screech across the floor as panic ripples through the crowd.

I whip around, heart hammering.

Someone’s pushing through the chaos—shoving hard, knocking a waiter aside. Moving with terrifying purpose.

“Get down!” someone yells.

“Liam!” I gasp, reaching for him.

But he’s already in motion.

He grabs my arm, eyes blazing. “We’re leaving.”

No questions. No arguments. He hauls me through the crowd, cutting a path like a battering ram. One arm locked around me. The other dives into his jacket, fingers closing around something I can’t see.

“Stay with me,” he keeps saying. “Stay with me.”

We burst through a side exit into the night. The air is sharp and cold.

Tires squeal as Liam yanks the car door open and shoves me inside. The door slams shut. He’s rounding the hood before I can blink, throwing himself behind the wheel.

The engine roars.

And then we’re gone.

The city smears past the windows. Liam’s hands grip the wheel like a lifeline, jaw clenched, eyes flicking to the mirrors every few seconds. Like he’s waiting for something to crawl out of the dark behind us.

“Liam,” I say softly, trying to keep my voice steady. “What just happened? Who was that?”

No answer.

“Liam.” Louder this time. “Talk to me.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Not now.”

I flinch at the sharpness in his tone. It’s not cruel—it’s afraid. Controlled. That same feral protectiveness I saw when I first showed up at his door with Lily in my arms.

“But something is going on, something you aren’t telling me and?—”

“I said not now , Ana.” His voice cracks like thunder, low and raw.