Page 130 of The Unlikely Spare

Time to rewire my thinking before it gets us killed. This protective instinct isn’t just due to my training anymore. It’s something messier and more personal. Something that makes me want to pull him close and never let go, even as he’s pushing me away.

But treating Nicholas like he’s made of spun glass instead of steel is exactly what Pierce expects. The only way we’ll survive is by ripping up the playbook.

Which means accepting that my privileged prince might be of more use than simply knowing the proper forms of address for minor European royalty.

“As soon as I talk to him, the phone will be compromised. We’ll be down to one phone between us,” I point out.

“Then we stick together like we’re glued. Shouldn’t be too difficult.” His voice catches slightly on the last word.

Still, I hesitate. This goes against every protocol I’ve ever learned.

“You need to know about Malachy,” Nicholas says. He checks his phone, suddenly all business. “There is a roundabout ahead that splits three ways. It would be the perfect place to ditch the phone and leave them playing guess-the-getaway-route.”

Why does Nicholas’s strategic thinking still catch me off guard? My expression must be doing something stupid because he deploys the eye roll.

“We’ll discuss your underestimation of me at some future point. Right now, you need to call your brother.”

He’s right. Every tactical reason says this is stupid: burning a secure phone, potentially revealing our location, stopping when we should be moving. But my hands are already steering us to the verge, gravel popping under the tires like tiny firecrackers.

I get out of the car, and Nicholas and I swap seats.

Once I’m in the passenger seat, I turn to face him. Nicholas must be able to read my face like it has subtitles because he cuts me off before I can say anything.

“You won’t be able to function properly until you know the truth.” His voice softens before it returns to the polite tone that cuts worse than his anger did. “You can’t process that level of betrayal until you know all the facts.”

His words are a direct hit, proving he knows me better than anyone.

It’s like he’s picked the lock on my brain and read the instruction manual inside.

I swallow the desperate need to reach across the space between us, to prove with touch what my words can’t seem to convey. That, while everything else was a lie, the way I feel about him never was.

But he’s right. Right now, I need to talk to my brother.

“I can’t stay on long,” I say. “Every second gives them more of a chance to triangulate. Basic tracking 101. Warn me when I’ve hit two minutes.”

“I will,” Nicholas promises as he pulls back into the flow of traffic. His hands are steady on the wheel, but there’s tension in his shoulders. I don’t know if it’s due to driving on foreign roads or because of me.

Probably the latter.

I wrench my eyes away from him so I can dial Malachy’s number.

This number’s been my lifeline through every assignment, every promotion that took me farther from Belfast, every night when London felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Happy drunk calls, miserable drunk calls, stone-cold sober calls at three a.m., when the job went sideways. My anchor to something real.

Funny how anchors can also drag you under.

“Hello?”

“Mal.” His name barely makes it past the construction site in my throat.

“Hi, Eoin.” And I know immediately it’s true from those two words. No surprise in his voice. No confusion. Just the careful tone of someone expecting this call.

My internal organs rearrange themselves.

“How could you?” It comes out strangled, like the words are fighting me.

“How could I join people wanting payback from the leeches who got rich destroying half the world? How could I join in with other people from countries around the world who are finally demanding accountability for centuries of exploitation? Who’ve had their resources stripped, their cultures decimated, their people exploited by British aristocrats getting fat on colonial blood money?” His voice gains heat with each word. “The same ruling class who owned our tenement? Who counted their insurance payout while I learned to piss in a bag? You should be asking how I could not join them in demanding justice.”

“And you expected me to just…go along?” The question scrapes my throat raw.