Page 72 of Royal Bargain
It’s Sasha.
You should be asking why Burns needed to be shot, not who shot him.
I stare at the screen, my pulse ticking up.
Not who.Why.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I don’t type anything.
Because suddenly, the world feels just a little more tilted. Like I’ve been looking at the pieces of the puzzle upside down this whole time.
And someone—maybe more than one someone—has been moving them behind my back.
24
LIAM
Something’s been off with Annika all day.
I don’t know what it is, and she’s sure as hell not saying. She’s been quieter than usual, her smiles just a little too forced, her touches softer but more distracted. Like her body’s here, but her mind’s caught somewhere else.
And it’s driving me crazy.
I’ve been pacing the loft, half out of my mind with restless energy, because I can’t stop thinking about the Russians. The shooting. Burns. Every time I close my eyes, I see blood on a tuxedo and the smug, phantom grin of Dariy Volkov. If I let myself sit still too long, the rage starts creeping in again—hot and sharp, telling me I need to do something. Fight someone. Burn it all down if I have to.
But then I hear her soft footsteps behind me.
I turn, ready to press her again—ask what’s wrong, why she won’t talk to me, if someone said something, if she’s scared—but she doesn’t give me the chance.
Her fingers slip into my hair and she pulls me into a kiss that stops the whole damn world.
It’s deep, searching—like she needs to lose herself in this, in me. And maybe I need it too. Maybe we both just need the noise to stop for a while.
So I kiss her back. Harder. Deeper.
If she doesn’t want to talk, fine.
I’ll show her what I can’t say out loud anyway.
Her mouth is hot on mine, and the way she kisses me—it’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s urgent. Like she’ll shatter if I don’t hold her together.
I grab her hips and slam her back against the counter, swallowing the gasp she lets out. She clutches at my shirt, yanking it up over my head, her nails raking down my chest like she wants to leave marks. Good. I want her to. I want proof that this is real, that we’re still standing, still breathing, still fighting.
I press my forehead to hers, our breaths tangling.
“You sure?” I manage to grit out.
She nods, eyes blazing. “Don’t make me beg.”
That’s all I need.
I lift her onto the counter in one swift motion, knocking over a glass, not caring when it shatters on the floor. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me in like she’ll die if we’re not touching. My hands are everywhere—her waist, her thighs, tangled in her hair as I kiss her like it’s the only language we speak.
She claws at my belt, frantic, like she needs my cock inside her now, and I don't make her wait. We’re tearing at each other, desperate and wild, our bodies crashing together like waves against jagged rocks.
She moans my name—no pretense, no holding back—and it wrecks me.
There’s no rhythm at first, just raw need. I grip her thighs hard enough to bruise, and she bites my shoulder to muffle the sounds she’s making. We’re both panting, sweating, moving like we’ll tear each other apart and still want more.
