Page 56 of The Unlikely Spare

“Your control is slipping, Your Highness,” I murmur against his throat.

“So is yours, Officer O’Connell.” His fingers thread through my hair, tighter than necessary. “Tell me something—do you dream about tackling me in ways that aren’t in your security protocols?”

There’s no suitable response to that, so I show him instead. In one motion, I flip our positions, pinning him beneath me on the bed. His eyes widen, then darken.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, breathless but still smirking.

My mouth finds his again, swallowing whatever clever retort he was about to make. His legs wrap around my waist, pulling me closer.

“Are all Irish this bossy,” he gasps when we break for air, “or is it just you?”

“Are all royals this mouthy,” I counter, “or is it just you?”

He grins. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

The world narrows to just this—his quickened breath, the flutter of his pulse beneath my lips, the banter that’s somehow become foreplay. His head falls back, exposing the elegant line of his throat, and I?—

I jolt awake, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, breath coming in rough gasps.

“Fuck,” I mutter into the darkness of my hotel room. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

The digital clock on the nightstand reads three-twelve a.m., its red numbers accusing.

I drag a hand down my face, willing my body to calm down, to forget the dream still clinging to me.

This is exactly what I don’t fecking need. My subconscious betraying me, manufacturing images of Nicholas—of Prince Nicholas—in ways that would get me not just fired but probably deported if anyone knew.

Christ knows why my subconscious decided to become a romance novelist specializing in forbidden royal encounters.

I throw off the covers and pad to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The man in the mirror looks haunted, with dark circles beneath his eyes.

It’s natural that I dream about him. I mean, every waking moment of mine is spent focusing on him. Keeping him safe. Trying to work out the hidden threat against him.

It’s natural that my subconscious mind won’t let Prince Nicholas go.

That’s all this is. Proximity. The intensity of the job. Nothing more.

I lean against the sink, water dripping from my chin.

Who am I trying to convince?

The spider incident keeps replaying in my mind. The panic in his eyes when I burst in. The absurdity of finding him perched on the edge of the bathtub, clutching a towel around his waist. The way a stray droplet of water had trailed down his chest, catching in the hollows between his muscles.

And then the realization that the danger was real. A funnel-web spider, over a thousand miles from its natural habitat. One of the deadliest arachnids in the world, conveniently waiting in the royal bathroom.

Someone had to plant it there. Someone with access. Someone close.

I towel-dry my face and return to the bedroom. But I can’t settle back to sleep, so instead, I start pacing.

The implications are undeniable. This couldn’t have been the work of a random protester or even a lone operative infiltrating the hotel. The security protocols are too tight. Room access is too restricted.

It had to be someone with inside access—either a member of the hotel staff who’s been vetted, or worse, someone on our team. One of the people I work alongside every day, someone who knows our movements, who can slip past our defenses because they are our defenses.

The thought makes my blood run cold.

If the traitor is in our security team, Nicholas is in danger at all times.

The person meant to take a bullet for him might be the one planning to put it there.