Page 42 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

LIAM

T he room still smells like blood and gunpowder.

Ana’s resting on the worn sofa, foot bandaged, skin pale but calm. Her fingers keep twitching like she’s still in fight-or-flight, but she’s trying to pretend she isn’t. Anatoly’s sitting in a chair nearby, head bowed, eyes haunted.

I stand in the corner, arms crossed, trying to process what the hell just came out of his mouth.

Miranda Voss is his stepsister.

All those little red threads in my mind suddenly knot together. The Harborview District. The push to “go legit”. The security contracts. Burns. The sudden way she inserted herself into our lives like she belonged there—because she did.

“She’s been in our orbit for months,” I murmur aloud. “She helped Ana. She helped Darcy. Clary. Even Rory. She introduced him to Burns.”

Anatoly looks up. “She’s been planning this for longer than any of us realized.”

Ana’s voice is quiet. “But why Burns? Why not take control herself? Why help him?”

My stomach twists. I don’t like the answer forming in my head.

I step out into the hall and pull out my phone.

I call him.

Burns picks up on the second ring, sounding calm. Too calm.

“Didn’t expect a call from you tonight, Liam. Everything alright?”

“No,” I say. “I know you’re working with her.”

A pause.

“Her who?” he asks, faux-innocent.

“Miranda,” I snap. “Miranda fucking Voss. Or whatever her real name is. Don’t lie to me.”

Another pause. Then a chuckle.

“Took you long enough.”

I go still. My spine locks up. “You knew. This whole time.”

“Of course I did,” he says easily. “Miranda has ambition. So do I. That’s why we work well together.”

“She’s using you,” I say flatly. “You think you’re partners? She’s just setting the board. You’re another pawn.”

“Maybe,” he allows. “But pawns can become queens if they play it right.”

There’s something off in his tone—so smug, so convinced he’s untouchable. It makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

I go still.

He wants to be a pawn. He thinks that makes him smart. That if he gets close enough to Miranda, she’ll crown him king next.

“She’s been helping me since the start,” Burns goes on, calm as you please. “Setting up the dominoes. Making the right introductions. Like you, for instance. Like your brother.”

“You son of a?—”

“Don’t be so dramatic. She knew I needed legitimacy. You needed a win. We both got what we wanted. Hell, thanks to you Brannagans, I’ve got the unions, the working-class vote, the muscle to keep the streets clean. It’s a good look for a man like me.”

I stare at the floor, bile rising in my throat. He used us.

No—she used us. But he knew. He knew the whole time.

“You think she’s going to let you run the city?” I ask, voice tight. “You think once you’re in the governor’s seat, you’ll be in charge?”

Burns gives a soft laugh.

“I think I’ll be where I belong. And if you’re smart, Liam, you’ll get on her side too—before it’s too late.”

My hand clenches so hard around the phone I nearly crush it. My jaw aches from how hard I’m grinding my teeth.

“Go to hell,” I say and hang up.

For a second, I just stand there. Breathing.

Then it hits me.

We’re fucked.

Burns is winning. The polls have been in his favor for weeks. Miranda put him there. We put him there. We gave him our backing, our networks, our power base.

We handed him the damn crown. And behind it—Miranda's hands. She didn’t need to run for office. She built the office herself. She’s already on the throne.

I hang up and lower the phone slowly. For a moment, I just breathe. But it doesn’t help.

My chest feels too tight. My stomach turns. My ears are ringing with the echo of Burns’s voice, smug and sure, like he’s already won.

We’ve been helping her win.

We made her kingmaker. All of us. Rory, Kellan, me—we handed Burns the legitimacy he needed, the money, the connections, the Brannagan name. And all along, Miranda was holding the strings.

She didn’t want the spotlight. She wanted the throne behind the throne.

I swallow hard and push off the wall, heading back into the main room. The air feels heavier now. Like the smoke and blood from the canning factory followed us here and won’t let go.

Ana’s curled up on the couch, tucked under a threadbare blanket.

Her foot’s elevated, propped on a throw pillow that’s stained through with blood.

Her face is pale. Not the soft, peachy kind of pale that makes her freckles pop, but gray.

Her eyes flutter open as I walk in, but she doesn’t say anything.

Anatoly’s sitting nearby, elbows on his knees, watching me closely.

“Burns knew,” I say, my voice rough. “He’s been working with her since the beginning.”

Anatoly doesn't react much, just exhales, slowly and tiredly.

“Of course.”

That stings. I blink at him. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not.” He leans back in the chair, looking older than I’ve ever seen him. “She’s been laying this groundwork for years. Burns was always ambitious, but never smart enough to win on his own. Miranda gave him what he wanted—and made sure he thought it was his idea.”

I look at Ana again. She’s watching us, trying to stay alert, but I can see how much it’s costing her.

“He said we should get on her side,” I mutter. “Before it’s too late.”

Anatoly lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s always been her trick. Make you think you still have a choice.”

“Do you think she can be stopped?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “No. Not like this. Not with what we have. She’s too far ahead. She made us dance for her without even realizing we were part of the play.”

He gestures vaguely toward the room—toward me, toward Ana, toward himself.

“The pieces are in place. The audience is seated. The stage is set. It’s nearly opening night.”

I rake a hand through my hair. “There had to be signs. You must’ve noticed something.”

He looks at me, mouth pulling tight. “Of course I did. But when you’ve known someone as long as I’ve known Miranda, it’s easy to convince yourself you’re imagining things. That she still cares. That there’s still a line she won’t cross.”

His voice turns distant. “She used to be my best friend. Before she was my enemy.”

Something in that hits a nerve. I glance at Ana again, and this time, I really look at her.

Her breathing is too shallow.

There’s sweat on her upper lip now. Her hands are twitching—not from stress. From weakness. The bandage on her foot is nearly soaked through again.

Shit.

I kneel beside her. “Hey. You okay?”

She opens her eyes, tries to smile. “Just tired.” But she looks more than a little tired. I touch her forehead. Clammy. It’s too cold.

“She’s still bleeding,” I say, looking sharply at Anatoly. “She needs a doctor. Not a first aid kit.”

“She’s stable,” he says, but it’s half-hearted now. He can see it too.

“No. She’s not.” My voice is rising. “She’s not okay. She’s trying to play it off, but she’s gray and fading and she’s already lost too much blood.”

Ana shifts, winces, and whispers, “I’m fine…”

“You’re not.” I stroke her cheek, voice softening. “And I’m not letting you die here just to prove a point.”

I scoop her into my arms. She’s too light. Too limp. The last time I held her like this, she was laughing in the kitchen, her hands in my hair, her lips on mine. This doesn’t feel like her. This feels wrong.

As I stand, Anatoly rises too.

Ana is awake, but only just. Her lips are turning pale. Her fingers are twitching again—but not with anxiety. With weakness.

My stomach knots.

“We’ll never stop fighting,” I say softly. “Not as long as we have something to fight for.”

“Then you’re a liability,” Anatoly says. “Miranda will know that, too.”

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t fucking underestimate us.”

He raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just saying. Miranda eliminates threats. Anyone close to her—close enough to see through the lies—is already in danger.”

“We need to get her out of here,” I say abruptly.

I turn back to Anatoly. “I was going to say maybe our families could come together—just this once. Try to stop her. But that conversation can wait. Right now, she comes first.”

Anatoly stares at me. And for once, there’s no disdain in his eyes. Just something cold and resigned.

“Then go,” he says. “Take her.”

“You sure your people won’t follow us?”

He shakes his head. “Not unless I tell them to.”

We hold eye contact for a long second. And then I nod.

“We might’ve been enemies,” I say, lifting Ana into my arms. “But for now… we’re on the same side.”

She barely stirs in my arms. Her head lolls against my shoulder, warm but far too light. I clutch her tighter and head for the door.

Behind me, Anatoly doesn’t say goodbye, just mutters under his breath, like an old man reading the last line of a cursed play.

“God help us all.”

But before I can step through it, Anatoly speaks again—quiet, almost hesitant.

“Take care of my daughter.”

I stop. Look back.

He’s still seated, still the picture of the Bratva king he’s always been—but there’s something cracked behind his eyes now. Something soft. Something breaking.

“And my grandchild,” he adds. “Please.”

It’s the “please” that does it.

Not a demand. Not a threat. Just… a father asking another man to do what he can’t.

I nod, solemn. “I will.”

We hold each other’s gaze. For the first time, there’s no heat in it. No pride. Just the kind of understanding that only comes when the war has taken too much from both sides.

Anatoly dips his head once, slowly and heavily. I shift Ana carefully in my arms and step out into the hall, boots echoing on the floorboards, heart pounding against my ribs.

By the time I get to the car, my thoughts are spiraling.

How bad is she really? Will she be okay? Is Lily safe? Does she even know what’s happening?

But underneath the panic, the fear, the racing adrenaline, is a sliver of something else.

Relief.

Because for the first time, the lies are gone. The masks have dropped. Miranda’s true face is finally out in the open. And now we know exactly who we’re fighting.

I adjust Ana against me as the engine turns over, her weight pressing into my chest.

I’ve got you , I think, tightening my grip.

I’ve got both of you.

And I won’t let go.