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

The tabloids love him—the party prince with the perfect smile who haunts exclusive clubs with an ever-changing cast of glamorous companions.

In this particular shot, he’s emerging from some nightclub, designer clothes disheveled, flashing a grin that probably makes hearts stop across the United Kingdom.

The photo of him definitely makes my heart react, but not in the same way.

Because Northern Ireland and the royals are like that couple who had a messy breakup but still share a flat because of the lease.

Eight hundred years of the English monarchs and the aristocracy helping themselves to Irish land, Irish crops, Irish everything, then acting shocked when we weren’t grateful for the privilege.

They planted Scottish Protestants in Ulster to civilize us wild Catholics, carved up the island when we had the audacity to want independence, and then kept the six counties in Northern Ireland filled with enough Protestants to vote the way London wanted.

The peace walls between the Protestants and Catholics went up in Belfast to keep us from killing each other.

And even twenty-seven years after the Good Friday Agreement, when paramilitaries on both sides agreed to lay down their arms, they still lock the gates at night.

The royal family has always been the most prominent symbol of English oppression.

And here’s me, a working-class Catholic from Belfast, apparently about to get an assignment that involves investigating a threat against one of them.

If that’s not cosmic comedy, I don’t know what is.

“We’ve had some intelligence suggesting Prince Nicholas is the next target,” Thornton says. “Therefore, if the sleeper agent is anywhere in RaSP, the likelihood is they’re in his team.”

I stare at Prince Nicholas’s perfect smile in the photo.

“Why him?” I ask.

Thornton shrugs. “Who knows? Perhaps the group feels like Prince Nicholas is more accessible than Prince Callum. We’re going off only a whisper on the intelligence pipeline. Which is why we need someone inside RaSP.”

The silence that follows makes the implication crystal clear.

“With all due respect,” I say carefully, “I have no close protection experience.”

“You have extensive undercover experience,” Thornton counters. “Your combat training exceeds most RaSP officers, and your instincts are exceptional. Most importantly, you look like a protection officer.”

“Look like a protection officer” is code for six-foot-four with shoulders that block doorways.

“You’ll receive accelerated training,” Pierce jumps in. “The cover story is that you’re a transfer from diplomatic protection, brought in due to enhanced security concerns following the Matheson-Webley kidnapping.”

I look down at Prince Nicholas’s photograph again, trying not to recoil.

Prince Nicholas represents everything I’ve fought against my entire life. Everything eight hundred years of Irish history fought against. The system that protects the privileged while ignoring the vulnerable.

And my natural revulsion has me opening my mouth and speaking without considering that I’m facing down the brass who hold my promotion, my entire career, in their hands.

“I’m not sure I’m the right fit for this,” I say bluntly. “I’ve never done anything in aristocratic circles before.”

It’s true. Scotland Yard uses me to crawl through society’s broken windows. I’ve played an addict, a small-time fence, a dockworker with gambling debts. All roles where my Belfast accent and rough edges aren’t liabilities but credentials.

I know how the streets work. Know the difference between a junkie’s twitch and a dealer’s tell, between a fight brewing and just bluster.

I know fuck all about royal protocol.

“That’s precisely why you’re perfect,” Commander Adebayo says, her calculating eyes having clearly done the arithmetic on me within seconds of my arrival. “No preconceptions or existing loyalties within the palace system.”

“For how long?”

“Until the threat is neutralized,” Pierce says, his eyes meeting mine.

So, indefinite. Feckin’ grand.

I know this is a good career opportunity. The kid from the slums, now trusted to protect the second in line to the throne. If Da were alive, he’d either laugh himself sick or put his fist through the wall.

Knowing him, probably both after a few jars.

I take a deep breath, weighing my options, which realistically are none. Turning down a high-priority assignment after most likely being hand-picked by Pierce in my probation year would be a black mark on my record.

In this line of work, reputation is the only currency that matters.

I can’t help hoping that the higher I get in Scotland Yard, the closer I get to changing the machinery that chewed up my family and spat us out with a shrug and insufficient compensation.

“I’ll do it,” I say finally.

The subtle tension releases around the table. Pierce’s shoulders relax. Thornton nods, the ghost of approval flitting across his gruff features.

I stand, wincing slightly as my bruised hip protests. “When do I start?”

“Training begins at zero six hundred tomorrow,” Pierce says. “You’ll be on duty with Prince Nicholas within the week.”

As I turn to leave, Commander Adebayo speaks again. “Detective Sergeant O’Connell?”

I look back at her.

“Remember your cover. You’re a protection officer, not a detective. You need to behave like a protection officer at all times.”

She means I’ll need to be deferential to a man whose greatest achievement in life was being born, whose idea of hardship is probably when the palace runs out of his favorite breakfast tea.

I offer a tight smile. “I’m sure His Royal Highness and I will get on grand.”

As I exit the office, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just walked into a pub brawl with my hands tied behind my back. Something about this assignment feels dodgy as fuck.

Have I just made a massive mistake? I joined the force to protect the vulnerable, not to babysit one of the most privileged men in the world.

Still, this is bigger than what I think about silver-spoon wankers. Traitors within our ranks. Terrorists targeting our institutions. And apparently, Prince Nicholas Alexander—second in line to the throne, professional party boy, and royal spare—might be in danger.

I glance down at his photograph in my hands one more time. That practiced, perfect smile. Those eyes that have never seen real hardship.

This will definitely be interesting.