Page 1 of Royal Beast (Royals of the Underworld #1)

DARCY

T he bell above the door jingles as I step into Maeve’s cafe, the rich, familiar scent of coffee greeting me like a warm hug.

As I step to the counter and order my usual nonfat, skinny vanilla latte, something prickles at the back of my neck. I glance around and notice a pale-faced figure in a nondescript, faded hoodie sitting in the back corner, nearly hidden in the shadows.

I shift my weight, adjusting my bag as I glance back. The man’s dark eyes follow me, and I feel tension creeping up my shoulders. If this is connected to my father, I don’t have time for it.

I take a slow breath, willing myself to stay calm, to not let the familiar dread take over.

It’s always the same—he’s good for a while, then the signs creep in. Little things, like the one currently following me as I walk to work, pretending I can’t see him stalking me.

I pay for my coffee and exit the shop. Cars honk in the distance while people hurry around me, the shuffling of feet on the pavement pulling me toward the hustle and bustle of downtown Thornville.

By the time I reach the sleek, towering building that houses Enchanted Dreams Publishing, I’ve forgotten all about the pale-faced man.

I head inside, my heels clacking against the marble tile as I walk to the bank of elevators in the lobby.

I flash my badge at the security guard then head up to the thirty-ninth floor, where my intern, Jessa, is waiting for me with a stack of manuscripts and a nervous look.

“What’s on the agenda today, Jessa?” I ask, plucking the manuscripts from her hands and ignoring her nervous expression.

“Miranda wants to see you,” Jessa mutters. I nod, heading into my office to drop off my coffee and the manuscripts I need to review.

Miranda is seated at her desk when I enter her office. She looks up at me with a beam on her face. She and I have been working together for the last eight years after she took a chance on a fresh-faced graduate and saw my potential.

“Morning, Miranda,” I say, leaning against the door.

Miranda’s office is decorated in soft, neutral tones with gold accents.

The walls are white-paneled, floor-to-ceiling, built-in bookcases taking up most of the space.

An ornate glass chandelier hangs above her modern, black-and-gold desk as she sits in a plush, tufted cream chair.

I settle into the soft, lavender armchair across from her.

“Good morning, Darcy,” Miranda says, impeccably styled, as usual. She surveys me briefly before her lips turn upward into a smile and she leans forward.

“What can I do for you this morning, Miranda?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and crossing one leg over the other. Miranda removes her glasses, fixing me with that familiar look—a peculiar mix of patience and pressure.

“When are you going to give me your manuscript?” she asks, her soft voice carrying a hint of steel. The question hits like a dart in my chest and my leg starts jiggling.

“Ah. I see.” The words come out smoother than I feel, the practiced deflection coating my rising anxiety.

Miranda’s been pushing me hard on this for the last year. “I don’t have anything yet,” I say, forcing a smile that feels too tight. “I have a couple of drafts, but nothing good enough to give you yet.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, as though she can see right through me. “I don’t know why that is,” she says, her gaze sweeping over me carefully. “You have such a great imagination and a real passion for children’s stories. I wish you could see yourself the way others see you.”

She shakes her head, the motion slow and deliberate. “When you’re ready to take on the role of author, I want to be the one to put your books out into the world.”

A warmth blooms in my chest, but it’s quickly replaced by the familiarity of doubt.

“I appreciate it,” I manage, the words careful and polite.

“We can talk later. I’ve got a meeting with Clement Hobbs in fifteen,” I say, shifting the conversation.

Clement, the Indie author we’ve been courting, is a safe topic, something I can control.

Miranda raises an eyebrow. “How’s that going?”

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “I think we’re nearly there. She’s holding tight to the film rights for the Morpheus trilogy, though.”

“I trust you to handle things,” Miranda says, waving me off.

An hour later, Clement and I are shaking hands and saying goodbye when I catch a glimpse of someone staring at me.

“Things went well, I take it?” a voice calls out after she walks away.

Guy Maddox stands in the doorway to his office holding a cup of coffee, a sly grin on his face. I return it with a polite smile, but inside, I’m holding back annoyance.

“It did, thanks.”

“Congrats.” He saunters over, almost bumping into Jessa who is carrying a stack of folders. He runs a hand through his greasy mop of tangled curls. “Free for dinner tonight, Darce? You promised, remember?”

I shrug, knowing I did no such thing. “Can’t, sorry. Busy with the kiddo, you know how it is. And you know I don’t date, Guy.”

Guy’s face falls and he opens his mouth to speak, but my phone rings, cutting him off. I escape into my office and shut the door.

By lunchtime, my stomach growls loudly, reminding me that all I had this morning was my cup of coffee. I pack up and head out to get a bite at the diner next door, but before I can enter, a shadow falls across my face. I glance up to see two tall men standing in front of me.

“Hello, Miss Flynn. I’m Niall,” the burly man greets, extending a thick hand.

“What do you want?” I cross my arms, bracing for the usual routine.

The other man smirks and says, “We’re here because of Max.”

I sigh and shake my head. Same story, different day. The familiar frustration simmers beneath the surface. He swore he wouldn’t drag me into this mess again.

“How much this time?” I ask, already calculating what I can scrape together. If it’s no more than a few grand, I can handle it. I’ve done it before.

“Two hundred,” Niall says, flashing a self-satisfied, sleazy grin. It’s the kind of smile that makes my skin crawl, but I keep my face expressionless.

I pull out my wallet, already thinking about how I’ll juggle my bills this week. “How about I give you a hundred now and the rest tomorrow?” I ask, holding out the cash.

Their laughter is immediate, filling the small space between us.

Niall’s eyes glint with amusement as he shakes his head. “Two hundred thousand ,” he says, correcting me.

My hand freezes, the money hanging in the air as my brain scrambles to process what he just said. “Two hundred thousand ?” I repeat, disbelief creeping into my voice. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The other man crosses his arms, his expression hardening. “Your father’s been digging a deeper hole than usual,” he explains, the playfulness gone from his tone. “Max went in for thirty-six grand about six months ago. Came to my buddy Niall ‘The Fixer’ Gallagher here to get out of it.”

Niall shrugs, his eyes narrowing. “I covered him, but the fool lost it all again. Sold the house to pay me back, then kept borrowing. This time, I’m done letting him off easy. I want my money, and I want it now.”

A cold knot forms in my stomach. “I can’t pay you two hundred thousand dollars,” I say, trying for strong but coming out smaller than I’d like. The reality of it hits me in waves. “That’s insane! You can’t just show up and demand that from me like it’s pocket change.”

Niall takes a step closer, and though I’ve been through this before, there’s something different in his eyes this time, something more dangerous. “You’ve got forty-eight hours,” he says softly, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind my ear.

I jerk away and turn my head to the side. I’ve dealt with these kinds of men before, but the stakes are so much higher this time. My body feels ice cold.

By the time I get home, a million thoughts are racing through my head as I walk in the door. How are we going to pay this? Did my dad really sell the house out from under us?

He and Rose are in the living room, watching a Mickey Mouse cartoon, when I enter.

They both look up, and Rose runs over to greet me. I ruffle her soft, brown curls and scoop her up for a tight hug and a kiss on the forehead.

“Love you, Petal,” I tell her. “Can you stay in here and watch your cartoons while I talk to Grandpa?”

I turn to my father. “Dad,” I say, my voice shaky, “can I talk to you in the kitchen?”

Max stares at me, his eyebrows drawn together, but he follows me into the kitchen anyway. I lean against the counter, trying to gather my strength. “Some of your friends came and talked to me today,” I explain, my body tense. “They told me an interesting story.”

“Darce,” my father starts, but I hold up my hand.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I snap. “Two hundred grand? What the hell were you thinking, Dad? You’ve pulled irresponsible stunts my whole damned life, but this takes the cake!”

“You weren’t supposed to find out about it!” Dad protests. “It wasn’t supposed to be your mess to deal with, for once!”

“Oh, please,” I say, hand on my hip. “Enlighten me. How in the world were you planning on keeping this from me?”

“I figured I’d be gone by the time they came to collect,” he reveals.

“And where were you planning to go, exactly?” I ask, crossing my arms. “Were you just gonna skip town and leave us holding the bag?”

He shakes his head. “No, I would never abandon you.”

“Then what?” I demand. “What was your magical plan to avoid paying the debt?”

His voice goes soft. “Darcy, I’m dying,” he says, unable to meet my eyes. My entire world tilts on its axis.

I search his face, waiting for a punchline, a smirk—anything to make sense of what he just said. But all I see is resigned sadness.

I struggle to make sense of his words as he continues.

“I’ve got cancer, Princess,” he says, reaching out to touch me.

Unlike with Niall, I step into his touch, letting his hand cup my cheek.

“It’s late-stage renal cancer. I don’t have much time left.

I was hoping to go and leave you without my debts. I thought it was better this way.”

“Papa, don’t say that,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “You can’t leave me like this.” I swallow hard and a thought occurs to me. “Besides, Niall and his men might still come after me for the money.”

“I don’t want you worrying about that, Princess,” he insists. “Let’s just try to enjoy the time we have left together. I doubt they’ll come for you after I’m gone.”

I follow him back into the living room where we sit in uneasy silence as I process the news. I can’t believe my father is sick. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.

The next morning, I know his hopes will fall short when I see the note attached to my windshield.

“Pay the debt,” it reads. “Or else.”