Page 39 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

ANNIKA

T he warehouse air is thick with the threat of bloodshed.

Guns are drawn. Brannagan brothers stand shoulder to shoulder, weapons raised. Across from them, Anatoly’s men mirror their stances, fingers twitching over triggers, waiting—daring—someone to make the first move.

But none of it matters.

Not when I’m standing in the eye of the storm, my father’s hand gripping my arm like a vice and the cold press of a gun against my ribs keeping me from running. Not when the man I love is just a few feet away, frozen, eyes locked on mine. Confused. Hurt. Afraid.

“Papa, please,” I beg, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I didn’t betray you. You have to believe me.”

His grip tightens.

“I want to believe you, Annika,” he says, low and sharp. “But I’ve learned not to ignore the facts. Dariy has proof.”

“He’s lying,” I snap, desperation lacing every word. “He’s been lying to you for years, twisting things?—”

“Your keycard,” he interrupts, voice rising. “Your access. You were the only one who could’ve gotten into that server room. And someone gave those files to the Feds. Someone put me in a cell for eight months. And the timing? Convenient, isn’t it? Right after you ran.”

“I wanted out,” I admit, voice trembling. “But not like this. I just—I just wanted to breathe. To live without being owned. I would never hand you over.”

“But you did,” he says, voice flat and final. “You just didn’t have the guts to face what that meant.”

I reel like he’s slapped me. My knees nearly buckle, and not from the gun pressed to my ribs—but from the devastation behind his words.

He really believes it.

And for one horrible, breathless second… I wonder if Liam does too.

I chance a look across the warehouse. His face is unreadable. Pale, tense, locked in that Brannagan-stoic mask he wears when everything is spiraling and he’s trying to hold it all together.

I don’t know what he’s thinking.

I don’t know if he believes me.

The panic claws up my throat, sharp and wild. My hands tremble, my skin suddenly too tight. I try to remember every moment from that night—the one they keep accusing me of.

Did I leave my keycard somewhere? Did someone take it? Was I that careless?

My mind races, flipping through fragments. I remember packing my things. I remember crying in the dark. I remember the way the walls of my bedroom felt like they were closing in on me.

But nothing about a server room.

Nothing about files.

Nothing except?—

Wait.

The hospital.

My heart slams into my ribs, because that’s it. That was that night.

I wasn’t home. I wasn’t even conscious when the files were stolen.

“I couldn’t have done it,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I even fully form the thought.

Anatoly narrows his eyes. “What?”

“I wasn’t there,” I say louder, my voice shaking. “That night—when the files were stolen—I wasn’t at the compound. I was at the hospital.”

He scoffs, but I see it now. The crack in his certainty. A hairline fracture.

“I fainted,” I continue, the memory rising sharp and clear now. “I thought it was just stress, but they ran tests. I was out cold for nearly an hour. And when I woke up…”

The words catch in my throat.

“I found out I was pregnant.”

The warehouse stills again. Like something holy just broke.

Anatoly stares at me, stunned silent.

“I have medical records,” I press, breath quickening. “Bloodwork. A timestamped admission form. I wasn’t even awake when those files were taken. If someone used my keycard, they had to have cloned it. They had to have planned it. Framed me.”

I let the next words sink, each one like a stone.

“You want to talk about betrayal? Then look at the person who wanted me gone so badly, they made sure the moment I left… I couldn’t ever come back.”

My eyes drift sideways, landing on him.

Dariy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. But I see it. That slight clench of his jaw. The calculation flickering behind his eyes. Not surprised. Not outraged.

Just… caught.

Papa’s expression shifts—slow, subtle, terrifying.

The rage falters.

In its place, disbelief. Horror. A flash of something like grief.

Someone set me up. And for the first time, he sees it.

“I didn’t know,” he murmurs, voice hollow.

“I know,” I whisper. “Because you didn’t want to.”

His hand drops from my arm.

But I don’t breathe. Not yet. Not with the Brannagan brothers still standing across the floor, weapons drawn. Not with the Russians just as armed, just as ready. Not with a single spark poised to turn this entire room into a massacre.

And not when I spot movement—just barely—along the warehouse edge.

A glimmer of metal. A boot sliding across the concrete.

One of the Brannagan men. Slipping through the shadows, weaving through crates and scaffolding, trying to find a better position. Another follows close behind.

My pulse stutters.

I have to keep them distracted. Keep him distracted.

So I do what I’ve always done best—I perform.

“She’s mine,” I say softly. “My daughter.”

Anatoly looks at me again, as if seeing me for the first time.

“She’s named Lily,” I say, my voice trembling. “And she has your smile.”

His breath catches.

“She’s only five months,” I continue, stalling for time, each word weighted, deliberate. “She loves music. I sing to her at night, and she gets this little smile like she understands every word.”

I glance toward Dariy, just briefly, gauging his reaction. He hasn’t moved. He’s too still. Too quiet.

Suspicious.

“She curls her fists into my shirt when she sleeps,” I add. “Like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.”

Papa swallows hard.

“I’ve been trying to make a life for her,” I whisper. “Trying to make a name for myself outside all this. I’m singing again. I even have a manager.”

Another Brannagan soldier slips behind a rusted container, unseen.

Just a little more time.

I catch movement from the corner of my eye—not the Russians, not the Brannagan backup sneaking into place.

Liam.

He’s shifting again, just slightly, unable to keep still. His weight bounces from one foot to the other, fingers flexing on the grip of his gun like he doesn’t know whether to hold it tighter or just use it.

He looks like he’s barely breathing.

His eyes keep darting to me, then to Dariy, then to Anatoly. Watching every movement. Waiting for something to go wrong. For one twitch in the wrong direction.

I can see the war playing out behind his eyes.

He wants to protect me. He wants to end this. He wants to trust me. He wants to act.

And the worst part is… I can’t reassure him. Not without blowing the distraction.

So I keep talking. Keep spinning the story and drawing my father’s focus in tight—because I have to be the anchor right now. I have to give Liam and his brothers the chance to do what they came here to do.

Even if it means pretending I’m not on the edge of unraveling too.

“I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d take her away. That you’d try to shape her into something she’s not. Like you tried to do to me.”

My eyes lock onto his.

“But I love her, Papa. More than I’ve ever loved anything.”

Something in his face cracks. Just slightly.

And I pray—God, I pray—that’s enough.

Because we’re running out of time.

I keep my voice steady, pouring every ounce of emotion into the words, praying they keep his focus locked on me.

“Lily looks like you,” I say, lying just enough to keep the story going. “When she cries, she sounds like?—”

Movement.

More now. Brannagan men slipping through the warehouse shadows, quick and quiet. They’re almost in position. One behind the crate. Another crouched behind the catwalk support. I see Lucky glance toward Liam, just the smallest nod—ready.

I can feel it—we're so close, so I keep going.

“She deserves better than this,” I whisper. “That’s why I left. That’s why I’ve been trying to build something real. Something safe. For her.”

Anatoly looks shaken, his jaw tight, eyes stormy. I almost think he might lower his weapon.

And then,

A flash of movement from the corner of my eye.

Dariy.

His head snaps toward the shadows. His eyes narrow. And I know—he sees them.

He knows.

“NOW!” he roars, lunging backward. “They’re flanking us! SHOOT!”

Time shatters.

Gunfire explodes through the air—loud, violent, immediate. Muzzle flashes light up the dark. The warehouse erupts into chaos.

Men scream. Bullets ricochet. Someone crashes into a stack of crates, sending them toppling. Kellan dives to cover, firing. Rory pulls a man down with a clean shot to the chest.

I hit the ground hard as Anatoly jerks away from me, shouting orders in Russian.

The Brannagan backup floods the warehouse from the sides, and suddenly it’s a war zone.

And I can’t breathe.

Because this is it.

The storm has broken.

The air is thunder and screams.

I duck and scramble, crawling through the smoke and chaos. My ears ring from the gunfire, the sharp cracks echoing off metal and concrete. I can’t see where Liam is—I don’t know if he’s safe. I don’t know if anyone is safe.

All I know is I have to move. I have to run.

I shove myself up, legs trembling, blood roaring in my ears.

If I can make it to the far side of the warehouse, I can slip out through the back. I just need to get to the door. Just need to disappear into the dark.

I brace myself and run .

For one wild second, I believe I’m going to make it.

My foot hits the ground, then another. I’m almost halfway to the back exit, the metal door just a dozen strides away. The warehouse spins behind me in chaos and gunfire, but all I can think is Lily. I have to get back to her. I have to live.

And then,

“There she is!”

Dariy’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. I turn just in time to see him raising his gun.

Everything slows.

The barrel flashes. I hear the shot before I feel it.

Crack .

Then silence. For a breath. Maybe two.

And then,

Agony .

It sears up my leg like a wildfire, instant and consuming. My foot buckles, and I hit the ground hard, hands scraping concrete, blood rushing to my ears. The pain is so sharp it doesn’t even feel real at first—just heat and pressure and something wrong.

I try to scream, but my breath won’t come.

Red spills across the floor beneath me, soaking into the fabric of my jeans. I can’t tell how bad it is. I can’t tell anything except that I can’t move. Not like I need to.

My brain keeps screaming Go, get up, MOVE —but my body has already surrendered.

Somewhere in the blur, I hear Liam shouting my name, but it sounds distant. Warped. Like it’s coming through water.

The only thing I can think is, This is how it ends .

Not with a betrayal. Not with a bullet to the head.

But with a foot I can’t stand on. A voice I can’t raise. A body failing me in the moment I needed it most.

I bite down on a scream as pain tears through me, white-hot and jagged. My foot—God, my foot—I can’t even tell if the bone’s shattered or if it’s just the shock, but I know I’m bleeding, I know I’m down, and I know I’m vulnerable.

Somewhere through the haze, I hear my name again—Liam’s voice sounds broken and panicked.

“ANA!”

He surges forward, weapon raised, fury written in every inch of him. He’s going to kill Dariy. I see it—he doesn’t care who’s watching, doesn’t care if it starts a war.

But he never gets the chance.

Because out of the shadows—like they were waiting—more of Anatoly’s men emerge.

From the catwalks. From the crates. From the loading bay in the back.

Dozens of them.

Automatic weapons drawn, cold expressions locked in.

The Irish are surrounded.

Liam freezes mid-step, and I see the moment it hits him.

This was never just a fight.

It was a goddamn ambush.