Page 17 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

“We’re currently caring for several koalas rescued from bushfires,” she explains. “This little one came to us severely dehydrated and with extensive burns.”

In a specialized enclosure sits a smaller koala, patches of its fur singed away, its back paws wrapped in bandages. Nicholas approaches the enclosure slowly, his expression softening.

“How is she doing?” His voice is quieter than usual.

“She’s a fighter,” the keeper responds. “We’re optimistic for a full recovery, though she’ll always have some scarring.”

“What’s her name?”

“We’ve been calling her Ember.”

Nicholas crouches. “Hello, Ember,” he says, talking in a soft tone that no one but I can hear. “You’re doing brilliantly. I won’t try to touch you because I don’t want to hurt you, but you keep on being a brave girl, okay? Lots more munching on eucalyptus trees in your future.”

The moment feels strangely intimate. No cameras pushing for better angles. No officials hovering. Just Nicholas talking to this small, injured creature.

I take a step back, and the noise makes Nicholas look up. His expression immediately shutters.

He straightens, tugging his shirt sleeves back into place.

“Well, I suppose we should move on to the next photo opportunity, shouldn’t we?” he says to the director. “We can’t keep the wombats waiting. I hear they run a very tight schedule.”

The director chuckles, already turning toward the exit. “They certainly do. We’ve got a particularly grumpy male who gets quite irritable if his afternoon feeding is delayed.”

“Sounds like my Uncle Rupert. Do the wombats also complain about the wine selection?”

The director laughs again, but I can’t help feeling unsettled.

Like I just glimpsed a rare creature before it darted back into hiding.

As we leave the rehabilitation center, I receive a message from Cavendish.

Suspicious individual not located. Security footage being reviewed. AFP running ID check on sanctuary employees.

I reply with a terse acknowledgment, positioning myself closer to Nicholas as we proceed to the next exhibit.

Nicholas continues to be the perfect royal, fielding questions about his grandmother with appropriate seriousness and deflecting inquiries about his personal life with self-deprecating humor.

“Am I seeing anyone special?” he echoes the reporter’s question.

“Well, I’ve just been intimate with a python named Sheila, so I suppose that counts.

Though I suspect she’s not the commitment type. ”

When posing with twin wallaby joeys, he cradles them gently, asking the keepers detailed questions about wallaby diet and habitat. The cameras click furiously, capturing exactly the image of thoughtful royalty the palace wants projected.

In the car heading back to the hotel, Nicholas is uncharacteristically quiet, staring out at the city sliding past the bulletproof windows. Officer Blake sits up front with the driver, while I occupy the seat beside Nicholas, maintaining a professional distance.

The silence stretches uncomfortably before Nicholas finally breaks it.

“So, are you going to tell me what that was about?” he asks, still looking out the window.

“What are you referring to, sir?”

He turns to face me, his expression unreadable. “Don’t play dumb, O’Connell. Something happened back there. All the little security whispers, that maintenance worker Singh was chasing. I’d like to know what was going on.”

Fuck. The directness in his gaze makes it harder to deflect than it should be.

I weigh my options. I know Nicholas has been briefed that his security has been enhanced due to general concerns following the Matheson-Webley incident, but he doesn’t know the specific intelligence suggesting he might be targeted on this tour.

And, obviously, he has no idea about my dual role investigating potential traitors within his protection team.

“We observed an individual exhibiting suspicious behavior,” I say finally.

“And?”

“And they left the premises before they could be questioned.”

Nicholas’s eyes narrow. “That’s rather convenient, isn’t it? Surely your team has ways of tracking suspicious individuals who conveniently disappear?”

His question reminds me that beneath the practiced charm and deliberate frivolity, Nicholas is actually quite perceptive.

“We’re reviewing security footage,” I reply. “We’ll identify the individual and determine if they pose a genuine threat to your security.”

“Do you believe the threat is real?”

I meet his gaze directly. “Yes.”

He goes very still. For a moment, he looks genuinely startled. Then his eyes narrow again. “Is it anti-monarchy protesters or another group?”

“I can’t speculate on that.”

“Of course not.” He leans back in his seat, radiating frustration. “God forbid I should actually be informed about threats to my own safety. I’m just the principal being protected, after all. Why would I need to know anything?”

“Nicholas—” His name slips out before I can stop it. His eyes snap to mine, and I have to clear my throat. “Sir. There is credible intelligence suggesting increased risk.”

“What kind of intelligence?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss specifics.”

“Marvelous. So I’m just supposed to smile for the cameras while you lot scurry around playing spy games?”

His frustration hits me somewhere unexpected. This isn’t the polished prince complaining about protocol—this is a man realizing he’s in danger and being kept in the dark about it.

He fixes those unsettling blue eyes on me. “I’m asking you, Officer O’Connell. Not as a protection officer talking to his principal, but as one person to another. Would you want to be kept ignorant of threats against you?”

“No,” I admit, my voice coming out rougher than intended. “I wouldn’t.”

He raises an eyebrow expectantly. “Well then?”

“Your safety is our priority,” I say, falling back on protocol language because I have nothing else to offer him.

“Your priority,” he repeats flatly. “Not mine, apparently. Just another item to be managed, like my schedule or my wardrobe.” He turns back to the window, effectively ending the conversation. “Inform me if you decide I’m permitted to know anything about the threats against my life, won’t you?”

The rest of the ride passes in frosty silence. I stare straight ahead, hyperaware of the tension radiating from Nicholas beside me.

I can sympathize with his frustration. If our positions were reversed, I’d be furious too.

But sympathy doesn’t change the parameters of my mission, or the fact that I can’t yet fully trust anyone, including the other protection officers. And I can’t even trust the prince himself, who could easily slip up and create vulnerabilities an enemy would exploit.

As we pull up to the hotel, my phone vibrates with a message.

It’s from Pierce.

Suspicious individual identified. Former military. We believe there are connections to the terrorist cell involved in the Matheson-Webley incident.

I glance at Nicholas, who is still staring out the window with a scowl on his handsome face.

Fuck.

The threat against Prince Nicholas is no longer theoretical.

It’s here in Australia, and it’s already testing our defenses.