Page 31 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

ANNIKA

I slip through the gap in the chain-link fence, breath catching as it rattles shut behind me. The rusted metal groans loud in the quiet, and I flinch, heart jumping.

Like the sound alone could give me away.

The old shipyard stretches out like a graveyard—dark, still, forgotten.

The air bites at my cheeks. The smell of salt and rot curls in my nose, thick and sour.

Shipping containers rise like tombstones in the distance, their jagged shadows spilling across the gravel under the stuttering orange light of a busted streetlamp.

There are no cameras here. No lights. And no second chances.

Every step I take, the gravel underfoot crunches too loudly, making too much noise.

I feel too exposed here. It’s too open. Every nerve in my body screams, telling me to go back.

To run home to my daughter and my… to Liam.

My thoughts race. What if it’s a trap? What if Sasha doesn’t come alone?

What if she doesn’t come at all?

I stop behind a rusted metal crate and scan the dark, half-expecting to see a muzzle flash, or the glint of a scope catching light from the distant streetlamp. I tell myself I’m being paranoid.

But the truth is, I’ve learned paranoia is just survival wearing a mask.

My hands are trembling. I stuff them in my coat pockets, gripping the fabric inside to steady them, but it doesn’t help much. My mouth is dry. My mind keeps drifting back to Lily—curled in her blankets, probably sleeping soundly. I should be with her. I shouldn’t be here.

And yet, I have to be.

Because I need answers. Because the walls are closing in. Because if I don’t figure out who’s behind this, I won’t live long enough to protect her.

A sound behind me makes me whip around, my breath catching.

Footsteps.

I freeze.

Then, Sasha steps into view.

She’s alone. No backup. No weapon that I can see.

She looks the same, but not. There’s tension in her shoulders, exhaustion in her eyes. She stops a few paces away from me, her face unreadable in the shadows.

“I told you to lay low,” she says flatly. “And you didn’t listen.”

My mouth opens, but she holds up a hand.

“They’re watching you, Ana. People who don’t answer to Anatoly. People who don’t care that you’re his daughter. People who’ve been tracking your movements since the moment you stepped out of that Irishman’s apartment.”

A chill lances down my spine.

I whirl on her, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “Then who is it?”

Sasha frowns. “I told you?—”

“No,” I snap. “You haven’t told me. No one will. Everyone keeps saying it’s not him. That it’s not Papa. But every threat I’ve gotten? Every warning? Every time I look over my shoulder—his shadow is the one I see.”

She opens her mouth, but I barrel on.

“I need to hear it. I need someone—anyone—to just say the damn words out loud. Is it him? Is it my father who wants me dead?”

My voice cracks on the last word, the fury burning hot under my skin, the betrayal eating through my ribs like acid.

“I know I left. I know I broke his heart. But if that was enough to send a death squad after his own daughter, then I need to hear it. I need to know what kind of man raised me.”

Sasha looks at me like she’s seeing all the bruises I’ve kept hidden.

Then, quietly, she says, “It’s not him.”

I blink. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know who it is.”

I wait a moment, and she closes her eyes, breathing slowly before opening them again. “It’s Dariy.”

The name hits like a strike to the chest. I blink at her, unable to speak at first.

“No,” I murmur. “No, it can’t be Dariy. He’s just—he’s Anatoly’s second. He follows orders.”

Sasha shakes her head. “Not anymore. He gives them now.”

My heart thuds painfully in my chest. “But why?”

She looks at me. “Because he believes you’re a threat to everything the bratva stands for. And because convincing Papa of that gave him more power than he ever had under obedience.”

I take a step back, trying to breathe through the sudden cold that settles in my bones. My mind is racing, flipping through memories I’d long pushed aside.

Dariy at family dinners—quiet, watchful, always one step behind Anatoly

Dariy showing up unannounced the day I told Papa I was done performing for his friends, saying nothing but watching me with those unreadable eyes.

Dariy standing behind Papa the night I stormed out, saying nothing, not even blinking.

At the time, I thought he was just another loyal soldier. Another piece of the machine.

But maybe that’s what he wanted me to think.

And suddenly, I’m seeing everything differently. Every threat, every closed door, every warning. Every time someone told me I was being paranoid.

Maybe I wasn’t.

Maybe I wasn’t paranoid enough.

I press a hand to my stomach, nausea roiling through me.

“If he’s behind this,” I say slowly, “then none of this was an accident.”

Sasha nods once.

“He framed me,” I whisper, the words tasting like blood. “He made it look like I betrayed the bratva. That I ran because I had something to hide.”

She doesn’t deny it.

And the silence between us says more than words ever could.

“Papa would never let him get away with this,” I insist, bunching my hands into fists. “He’s?—”

“You don’t get it, Ana.” Sasha cuts in, her voice low but fierce. “He’s the one who convinced Papa that your betrayal was real. He’s the one who’s been pushing for retribution from the start. He thinks you’ve turned your back on the family to destroy us from the inside out.”

My stomach twists. “But I haven’t. I just— I left. I took my daughter and?—”

“To him, that’s worse,” Sasha says. “You didn’t just leave, Ana. You ran to the enemy. You took Volkov blood and handed it over to the Irish like some kind of peace offering. He doesn’t see it as you protecting yourself. He sees it as treason.”

I stagger back a step, bile rising in my throat. “And Papa? He believes him?”

Sasha’s eyes flick away.

“That’s the problem,” Sasha says quietly. “Dariy’s made himself indispensable. Papa doesn’t see the truth anymore—not with the way Dariy feeds it to him.”

I stare at her, my breath caught in my lungs like it’s been frozen there.

My heart races but not from fear—from fury. White-hot and blinding. I’m tired of drowning in everyone else’s version of the truth. It’s like I’ve been clawing my way out of a coffin someone else nailed shut.

No one ever asked why I left. They just decided I was the problem. That I was ungrateful, impulsive, dangerous.

That I was a traitor.

“I never betrayed him,” I whisper, but it sounds like I’m trying to convince myself now.

“Sasha, I swear to you—I didn’t. I just…

I wanted out. I couldn’t breathe under him anymore.

I couldn’t be who he wanted me to be.” My voice cracks.

“But I never wanted to destroy our family. I never wanted to destroy our legacy.”

Sasha doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her watching me. Weighing me.

And suddenly, that silence feels like a knife.

Do you believe me? I want to scream. Do you? Or are you just here out of guilt?

Because even now, I don’t know if I can trust her. Not really.

No one’s been on my side—not since the moment I walked away. Not even Aleksey. Not even Papa. And maybe not Sasha, either.

Everyone talks about the family, like it’s some sacred bond, but what kind of family throws you to the wolves because you wanted a life that was your own?

My fists clench.

They never believed I could want something different without turning against them. That I could want freedom without vengeance. That I could love them and still need to leave.

But none of them ever loved me enough to believe that.

Not even him.

And that truth—more than anything else—burns.

She steps closer, the tension in her shoulders easing just enough for me to see my sister in her again—not the Volkov soldier, not the distant heir, but Sasha.

“I believe you,” Sasha says softly.

But I don’t feel relief.

I feel rage.

“Do you?” I ask, my voice low, brittle. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like anyone has.”

Sasha blinks, surprised by the edge in my tone.

“For months, I’ve been running. Hiding. Wondering which one of you is going to show up with a bullet behind your back and call it justice.” I take a shaky breath. “And now you say you believe me, like that fixes it?”

Her mouth tightens. “You think this has been easy for me?”

“I don’t know what’s been easy for you, Sasha. You’ve never let me in.” I pause. “You always stood by him. Even when he tore me apart.”

“That’s not fair,” she snaps, and there’s real heat in her voice now. “I stayed because I had to. Because someone had to keep things from falling apart while you were off playing fugitive.”

I flinch. That one lands.

She exhales, steadies herself. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I came to warn you. I’m risking everything by being here—don’t you get that?”

I stare at her, heart thudding. And for a second, I want to ask, Then why did you wait so long?

But I don’t.

Because I think I already know.

There’s a beat of silence. The wind picks up, whispering through the hollow frames of abandoned shipping crates around us.

Then Sasha speaks again, quieter this time.

“They’re coming for you, Ana. Not to talk. Not to bring you home. To make an example out of you.”

I feel like the ground is tilting under me.

I reach out and grab her arm before she can turn away. “Wait. What do you mean make an example?” My voice trembles. “Why would Dariy do this? Why now?”

Sasha stiffens beneath my grip.

“Why frame me?” I ask, the panic rising again. “Why make it look like I betrayed the Bratva?”

She looks at me, and for the first time tonight, she hesitates.

Not like she’s afraid.

Like she’s weighing whether or not it’s safe to say it out loud.

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” she says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not about who is after you. It’s about why they needed you gone.”

My stomach drops.

“Someone wanted you out of the picture, Ana. Someone with the power to twist the narrative. You need to stop looking at the fallout—and start asking who lit the fuse.”

I let go of Sasha’s arm slowly, my fingers numb.

My mind races, every moment of the past few months flashing through me like broken glass—leaving the house in the dead of night, the threats, the safehouse, Burns, the campaign, Liam, Lily.

It hits me like a tremor beneath my skin.

This was never just about me.

It was never just about a daughter running away, a girl refusing to fall in line.

Someone wanted me out of the way.

Someone needed a scapegoat—someone expendable enough to discredit, to isolate, to chase into the arms of the enemy.

And I played right into their hands.

I look at Sasha. “This isn’t about me, is it?”

She doesn’t answer.

But the silence is all the confirmation I need.

I open my mouth to ask the next question—Who? Why? What did they gain from framing me?

But Sasha’s head jerks up like she’s heard something and she goes still.

Completely, terrifyingly still.

Then her hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.

“We need to go,” she says, voice clipped and urgent. “Now.”

“What—why?” I spin, searching the darkness. “Did you see something?”

“I don’t know,” she mutters. “But we’re not alone anymore.”

A chill rips down my spine. The air shifts. The night feels different—heavier. Watching.

A chill rips down my spine. The air shifts. The night feels different—heavier. Watching.

She tugs me back the way we came, boots crunching soft against the gravel, every step tight with urgency.

We move fast, cutting toward the fence. Even the wind sounds too loud—the creak of distant metal, the hiss of air slipping between rusted beams and broken containers.

Everything feels amplified out here.

Then something shifts.

I don’t know how to explain it. Just a pressure in the air. A weight. Like we’re not alone. Like we’re being watched.

Sasha slows. Her eyes flick to the dark space between two containers. I stop beside her, breath catching.

“I don’t like this,” I whisper.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her whole body goes still—muscle memory kicking in as her hand moves toward her coat.

She’s scanning now. Careful. Sharp.

More alert than I’ve ever seen her.

A gust sweeps past, lifting my hair and sending a chill down my spine.

And then I smell it.

Smoke. Not fresh. Not strong. But there. Lingering. Like someone was just here.

Watching.

I turn slowly in place, pulse hammering.

“Do you see anything?” I ask, eyes straining.

Still no answer.

Sasha grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my coat. “We need to leave. Now.”

We start to move again—hurried steps, adrenaline pressing at the edges of my vision.

Then a sound cuts through the silence.

A soft click.

We both freeze.

Across the shipyard, maybe thirty yards away, a black SUV sits in the shadows. Engine off. Lights off. I hadn’t even seen it until now.

The rear door swings open with slow, deliberate ease.

A man steps out.

Dressed in black. No markings. No words. No rush.

He doesn’t look at us. Not directly. But every fiber of my body feels it—the gravity of his presence, the weight of his intent.

He didn’t come to negotiate.

He came to collect.