Page 168 of The Unlikely Spare

“Pemberton’s definitely our man,” I say, loosening my bow tie. “Three shipments scheduled for next month, all routed through companies that exist only on paper.”

“We’ll need proof,” Eoin replies, but he’s already pulling out his secure phone, fingers flying across the screen. “I’ll call Henry, have the team start deeper surveillance.”

“Tomorrow,” I correct, plucking the phone from his hands. “Tonight, you’re mine.”

His eyebrows rise. “Am I now?”

“Consider it a performance review with significantly fewer clothes and considerably more enthusiasm than your old Scotland Yard assessments. And tomorrow, after you’ve called Henry, we can have breakfast in bed.”

“Sounds dangerously domestic,” he says, but he’s smiling.

“Someone recently told me I need more balance in my life.” I shift closer, tucking myself against his side. “Though given that someone also taught me three different ways to disarm an attacker armed with only a dessert fork, I’m not sure he’s the best judge of balance.”

“Four ways, actually,” Eoin corrects. “But the fourth requires a specific type of fork.”

“Of course it does.”

We lapse into comfortable silence as London streams by. His arm settles around me, and I breathe in the familiar scent of his pine-scented cologne. A year ago, I was running for my life, not sure if I was brave enough to ever fully trust someone again. Now I’m planning investigations with my partner, who chose me over everything else.

“You know what I realized tonight?” I ask quietly.

“What’s that?”

“I used to hate these events. The networking, the false smiles, the endless small talk about nothing.” I trace patterns on his knee absently. “Now they’re some of my favorite nights. BecauseI’m not just cutting ribbons and making bland speeches. I’m actually doing something that matters.”

“You’ve always mattered,” Eoin says firmly. “You just matter differently now.”

I think about Lord Pemberton’s shipping manifests, about the justice we’ll serve by exposing his operation. About the Royal Foundation, that has already distributed over thirty billion pounds in reparations to people impacted by the legacy of colonialism, including a significant amount to LGBTQ+ charities. About Georgia, who’ll grow up in a world slightly more fair and equitable because we decided to be brave. About this man beside me who makes every day an adventure worth having.

“We make a good team,” I tell him.

He presses a kiss to my temple. “The best.”

“Although, maybe not so much when you leave wet towels on the bathroom floor.”

“That was once,” Eoin protests. “And I believe I was distracted by someone insisting on showing me the seventeen different ways he could escape from zip ties.”

“If memory serves, we then found rather creative applications for those zip ties that definitely weren’t covered in any Scotland Yard manual.”

Eoin’s laughter rumbles through his chest, and I feel it everywhere we’re touching.

The car glides through the London streets toward York House, where we’ve made our home. Tomorrow, we’ll chase leads and expose corruption, save lives and risk our own. We’ll navigate palace protocols and police procedures and the perpetual conflict between crown and conscience.

But tonight, we’re just Nicholas and Eoin, and somehow, that’s become the only identity that matters to either of us.

The city lights blur past like falling stars, and I close my eyes, feeling his heart beat steadily beneath my palm.

In fairy tales, royalty often gets saved by true love’s kiss.

Nobody mentions that sometimes the real magic isn’t in the rescue but in what follows. Including the quiet moments between the adventures when you realize you’ve found not just love, but a partner in every sense of the word.

“We’re home,” Eoin says as the car slows.

“I know,” I reply.

The look he gives me shows he understands I’m talking about more than simply our address.