Page 28 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

LIAM

I ’m white-knuckling the steering wheel, jaw so tight it feels like it might snap. The city lights blur past, all harsh edges and flashing chaos. Tonight was supposed to be a goddamn celebration—Burns winning, a step toward legitimacy. Instead, it turned into a fucking nightmare.

Beside me, Annika is silent, hugging herself. I can feel the tension radiating off her, but I don’t dare take my eyes off the road.

I jab the Bluetooth button. “Call Rory.”

It barely rings before he picks up. “You alright?”

“No. I’m taking Ana to the secondary site. Blackthorn North.”

“Jesus,” Rory mutters. “We’ve got reports of at least three separate flare-ups across the city since the gala. Burns is pissed, but alive. He’s calling it a scare tactic.”

I grip the wheel tighter. “This wasn’t just a scare tactic. Someone came into a crowded venue and tried to start a war.”

“Yeah, well, it worked,” Rory says grimly. “Get her somewhere safe and stay put. We’ll regroup in the morning. Lucky’s already sweeping your place.”

I nod even though he can’t see it. “Copy. Tell Shane to reroute to meet us there. I don’t want her out of sight again.”

“You got it.”

The line goes dead, and I toss the phone into the console. Ana turns toward me slightly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Liam… who do you think it was?”

I stare ahead, the muscles in my neck burning. “I don’t know. And that’s the problem.”

The tires screech against gravel as I pull into the drive at Blackthorn North, the headlights slicing through the dark like blades. I kill the engine, jump out, and circle the car, already in motion. My mind is a checklist—locks, sightlines, exits, weapons.

I punch in the code at the door and shove it open. “Inside. Now.”

Ana brushes past me without a word, but her body’s taut, every step stiff with barely contained fury. I lock up behind us, draw the shades, check the side window. The place is clean. Alarm system armed. No signs of tampering.

Still not enough.

I move through the living room, double-checking the cameras and backup battery packs, already planning to run another sweep in fifteen. That’s when I hear it—her footsteps, deliberate and fast, coming right for me.

I turn just as Ana squares up, fire in her eyes.

“No,” she says, firm and shaking. “Before you go full bodyguard-mode on me again, you need to stop and actually listen.”

“Ana—”

“No!” Her voice cuts through the space like a whipcrack. “You’re so convinced this was the Russians. But I don’t think it was them.”

I blink, stunned for half a second. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She takes a step closer, unflinching. “You know my family, Liam. If my father wanted me dead, I’d be dead. If Dariy wanted to make a statement, he wouldn’t do it in front of that many cameras. This—this was messy. Reckless. It felt… off. Like it was meant to scare, not kill.”

I exhale, rubbing a hand down my face. “You’re saying this wasn’t a hit.”

“I’m saying it wasn’t a Russian hit.”

I scoff, turning away. “You’re giving them too much credit.”

“I’m giving them accurate credit,” she fires back. “You just don’t like the idea that your perfect little theory might be wrong.”

I whirl back toward her, frustration boiling over. “No, what I don’t like is watching you walk straight into danger with your eyes wide open, thinking you’re smarter than everyone else!”

Her jaw tightens.

I push forward anyway, too angry to stop. “You don’t see how people use you, Ana. You don’t pick up on it fast enough. You trust too easily—especially when someone tells you exactly what you want to hear.”

She goes still. I should stop.

But the words are already out before I can catch them.

“You miss things because of your autism. You see what you want to see and you?—”

Her eyes flash, and I freeze.

Silence slices between us.

The look she gives me isn’t just hurt—it’s betrayal. Pure and sharp.

And I feel it, like claws raking down my throat. I went too far.

Way too far.

She doesn’t even raise her voice.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” she says, low and cutting. “You think I’m naive because of how my brain works? Like I can’t tell when someone’s lying to me—or using me? Even when it’s you?”

“Ana,” I say, regret already choking me, “I didn’t mean?—”

“Yes, you did.”

She backs up like I hit her.

“You just meant it more than you wanted to admit.”

She’s breathing hard, shoulders trembling, and I take a step forward, sick with guilt. “Ana, I?—”

“Don’t.”

Her eyes blaze as she shoves me, hands flat against my chest. “You’re being an asshole, Liam.”

I react before I think. My hands catch her wrists, twist gently, pinning them above her head as I press her back—firm but careful—against the wall.

The air sparks between us. Our faces are inches apart.

Her breath catches.

My voice drops, rough. “I know.”

There’s something wild in my eyes—apology, need, anger—all knotted together.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, right before I kiss her.

Hard. Desperate. A crash of everything we’re too stubborn to say.

She gasps into my mouth, but she doesn’t pull away. She presses in, fiery and unrelenting.

Her whole body trembles. She kisses like she’s trying to erase the fight, to burn it out of us both.

To win.

Her wrists tense under my grip, but she doesn’t try to break free—not really.

She kisses me like she’s furious. Like it’s punishment.

I let go of her hands just long enough to drag her against me, one arm around her waist, the other in her hair. I walk her back blindly until her hips hit the kitchen counter.

She shoves me again—but this time, it’s not to push me away.

It’s to pull me closer.

Her fingers yank at my shirt, nails scraping skin. I growl into her mouth and lift her onto the counter.

She kicks me in the thigh—more playful than angry—then slides down, pulling me with her.

We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and breath. My hand slips under her shirt, fingers splaying across her waist as her mouth trails down my jaw, my throat, my collarbone.

I don’t remember how her dress comes off. Or how I end up flat on my back, her knees bracketing my hips.

Her eyes are dark. Dangerous.

She grinds down onto my hard cock with a sharp inhale, and my control shatters.

“Still think I’m too naive to see what’s right in front of me?” she hisses.

I groan, bucking beneath her. “God, no.”

“Good.” She leans down, kissing me again—deeper this time, slower, but no less intense. “Then shut up and show me how sorry you are.”

So I do, right there on the cold tile floor, with the taste of anger and need burning between us, I worship her like a man starved—like she’s the only thing anchoring me to this world.

Our bodies twine together, passion, need, and desire all fanning the flames around us as we burn and perish, her wet cunt making lewd noises as I slam into it over and over again.

“You’re still an asshole,” she growls as she bites down into my neck. Squeezing her ass, I pump up into her, creating delicious friction.

“I know,” I say, digging my fingernails into the taut flesh, leaving marks behind. “I just want to keep you safe. I just want to protect you. You hired me to be your bodyguard,” I remind her.

“Then stop pushing me away,” she mutters, raking her nails down my back. “Listen to me, let me help you.”

I know she’s right about that, but I can’t bring myself to admit it. Sometimes I go overboard in trying to protect her, but it’s only because of how damn deeply I care about her.

Silence falls between us as we continue making love with wild abandon, my cock pistoning in and out of her so fast I feel like I’m running a marathon.

The two of us fall apart together—her name ripped from my throat as she cries out mine, our bodies locking tight like we’re trying to fuse into something whole, something more. The world narrows to nothing but the heat, the pressure, the devastating relief of giving in.

The two of us collapse, utterly spent. We stay there on the kitchen floor, tangled together in the afterglow, our breaths still ragged and our bodies slick with sweat. The fight is gone—for now—but something heavy still hangs in the air, unspoken and waiting.

Her head rests against my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over my ribs. I close my eyes, just for a second, letting myself feel the quiet. The way she fits against me. The way, for one fleeting moment, everything felt right.

Her head rests against my chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over my ribs. I close my eyes, just for a second, letting myself feel the quiet. The way she fits against me. The way, for one fleeting moment, everything felt right.

But even now, even like this, my mind won’t shut up.

I know I’ve been too much lately—hovering, controlling, always three steps ahead of a danger she keeps insisting isn’t coming.

I hate that part of me, the part that grips too tightly out of fear.

But Christ, I’ve already almost lost her once.

And now, with everything spiraling, I can't stop bracing for the next blow. For the day she disappears again.

She thinks I don’t trust her. But it’s not that—I don’t trust the people around her. Her family. Her world. The Russians.

I want to believe she sees it for what it is, but I know better. She’s too close. Too entwined with them. No matter what they’ve done, part of her still wants to believe they’re redeemable.

She can’t see it like I do. Not yet.

And maybe I am smothering her. Maybe I’m making it harder. But I’d rather be overbearing than bury her because I didn’t act fast enough.

Then her phone buzzes.

The sound slices through the calm like a blade. I tense instantly, propping myself up on one elbow as she shifts to reach for it.

“Anything?” I ask, watching her closely.

She goes still, staring at the screen. The glow lights up her face, but not the way I expect. Her brows pinch. Her lips part—just slightly.

“Ana?”

She blinks, then presses the screen off and sets the phone face-down on the floor.

“It’s nothing,” she says, giving me a tight-lipped smile. “Just spam.”