Page 33 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)
Chapter Eighteen
Nicholas
“You don’t do that!” Eoin’s yelling at me, so angry he’s shaking. “You don’t put yourself in danger like that!”
And then he’s pulling me to him, and his lips are on mine, terrible and unyielding.
This is not a kiss. This is a brand. It’s raw, unfiltered emotion pouring from him to me.
This is a collision of anger and fear and want so powerful it feels like being thrown into a storm after years of careful navigation around the edges.
It’s fingers digging into my arms like he needs to possess me, like he’s terrified I might disappear if he loosens his grip for even a moment.
After two heartbeats, I recover from my shock enough to kiss him back just as ferociously, messy and raw and real.
He makes a low growl as my teeth graze his lower lip, and I swallow the sound greedily, wanting more, wanting everything. One of his hands slides up my neck to cup my jaw, his touch gentling even as his kiss remains desperate.
The contrast unravels something in me, makes me arch against him, seeking more contact, more heat, more of whatever this is that burns between us like a wildfire.
I’m drowning in sensation. The rough scrape of his stubble against my chin, the pressure of his body pinning me against the shelves, the scent of him filling my senses.
I’ve been kissed by people who wanted the title, the status, the story they could sell later.
But O’Connell kisses like he wants to consume me, like I’m water after a desert crossing, like nothing exists beyond this room.
His hand moves to tangle in my hair, tugging just enough to send electricity racing down my spine, making me gasp against his mouth.
This is what has been here all along, simmering beneath the surface in every snarky exchange between us. It feels like an untapped energy source that’s just been discovered.
O’Connell’s earpiece crackles to life, Singh’s voice sounding both miles away and brutally close. “Building secured. Extraction team inbound, thirty seconds.”
O’Connell wrenches his mouth from mine, stumbling back, his face a battlefield of desire and horror.
We stare at each other, chests heaving. We’re like two boxers who’ve fought to a standstill and can’t quite believe the blows they’ve landed.
The taste of him is still on my tongue.
Footsteps thunder outside, voices barking commands. O’Connell’s still breathing hard as he crosses to the door in two strides, his fingers slipping on the simple bolt lock before he manages to wrench it open.
Blake bursts in, weapon drawn. She takes in the scene with a single sweeping glance, her professional assessment giving way to confusion as she registers our disheveled states.
“Sir,” she says, addressing me while her eyes flick to O’Connell. “Are you injured?”
Define “injured.” If she means “has your entire worldview been rearranged by the lips of an angry Irishman in a maintenance shed?” then yes, critically.
But I’m quite certain the ways I’ve been injured won’t show on medical charts.
“Nothing serious.” My voice comes out unnervingly steady considering my internal state. “Just a scrape from a headbutt.”
Behind Blake, three more security personnel pour in. O’Connell has already transformed back into the perfect professional.
If it weren’t for the slight tremble in his hands as he adjusts his jacket, I might almost doubt the last few minutes happened.
“Extraction route is clear,” Singh announces. “We need to move now, sir.”
O’Connell nods crisply. “The Thistle to secure location. Standard formation.”
Blake positions herself at my left shoulder while Singh takes point. O’Connell stays to my right. His face is a stone wall now.
“Ready, sir?” he asks.
I want to say something cutting, something royal and dismissive to match his sudden distance.
But I can’t.
Instead, I simply nod, letting them envelop me in their protective formation as we move toward the doorway.
The brightness of the Australian sun is shocking after the dimness of the maintenance building.
I squint against it, taking in the chaos of the parade ground.
Several men in naval uniforms lie face-down on the ground, hands zip-tied behind their backs, surrounded by Australian Federal Police officers.
A black SUV with tinted windows idles nearby, its doors already open. O’Connell guides me toward it with a hand that hovers near but doesn’t quite touch my lower back.
The absence of contact feels deliberate, pointed.
“A medical team is waiting at the extraction point,” he says, his eyes scanning everywhere but my face. “That headbutt may have done more damage than you realize.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, though the throbbing in my forehead suggests otherwise.
“With respect, that’s for the medics to determine.” His voice is cool, professional, as if he didn’t just have his tongue in my mouth a few minutes ago.
The SUV swallows us up, Blake and Singh joining me inside while O’Connell confers briefly with Cavendish before climbing into the front passenger seat. The vehicle pulls away, leaving the naval base and its chaos behind.
But I can’t escape the chaos of my mind.
“What happened to the children?” I suddenly remember the reason I’d broken protocol in the first place.
“All safe, sir,” Singh replies. “Naval security escorted them to a secure area.”
Relief floods through me. At least something good came from my reckless decision.
Although could O’Connell kissing me also be classed as good?
I rub my lips, which feel bruised. Bloody hell. I think I’m in shock. Not from my attempted kidnapping, but from what happened afterward.
I shiver, and Blake sends a worried look at me.
It’s not fear. Not at all.
The extraction point turns out to be a hastily established security perimeter at a nearby military facility. The SUV glides through multiple checkpoints before depositing us at a nondescript building where, as promised, a medical team awaits.
“I need to debrief with Cavendish,” O’Connell announces as we exit the vehicle. His eyes finally meet mine, just for a second, and the conflict I see there causes a constriction in my chest. “Officer Blake will accompany you to medical.”
And just like that, he’s striding away.
The medical assessment is brief but thorough.
My forehead sports the beginnings of an impressive bruise from the headbutt, and there are minor scrapes on my hands and marks on my arm where one of the attackers grabbed me.
Nothing serious, nothing lasting. The physical evidence of what happened will fade within days.
Unlike the memory of O’Connell’s hand on my face and in my hair, his body pressed against mine, the sound he made when I bit his lip.
“You’re very lucky, Your Royal Highness,” the doctor says, applying a small butterfly bandage to my forehead. “Headbutting someone can cause concussions for both parties if done incorrectly.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” I say.
The doctor starts to pack up, and I send a glance at Blake.
“Where are they taking me now?”
“Secure hotel location, sir. Full security briefing scheduled upon arrival,” she answers.
“And the attackers?”
“Being processed by the Australian Federal Police.” Her expression reveals nothing. “Four in custody, one in hospital.”
Another SUV, another security formation, this time without O’Connell. I stare out the window at the Darwin landscape blurring past.
What is he thinking right now? If I’d known a week ago that this would happen, I’d have assumed I’d feel triumphant over the evidence that the stoic Irishman wants me.
But what I’m feeling right now definitely isn’t triumph.
Instead, that kiss has just left me hungry for more. Starving for more. I’ve been set alight by a kiss that I know should have never happened.
The hotel is a different one—a security precaution, Blake explains.
Cavendish meets us in the lobby, his face drawn with tension. “Emergency briefing is set up in the conference room. We’ll convene as soon as everyone arrives.”
“Everyone?” I try to keep my voice casual.
“Full security team,” he confirms.
I nod, affecting nonchalance while surveying the lobby for a particular tall, broad-shouldered Irishman.
By now, palace communications will be drafting statements and my family will have been notified. I’m sure the media will be spinning narratives about the brave prince who survived an attempt on his life.
None of them will know about what happened in that maintenance room. No one will know that, for a few glorious minutes, I wasn’t the spare heir or a royal security risk.
I was just a man being thoroughly, magnificently kissed.
The lift doors slide open, and my heart performs an entirely undignified leap at the sight of O’Connell standing in the corridor. He’s deep in conversation with Singh and looks up as we approach. His expression shifts through too many emotions to register before settling into careful neutrality.
“Your Royal Highness.” His voice is steady, but his eyes are turbulent.
“Officer O’Connell.” I match his formality. “I trust the debriefing was productive?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Very, sir.”
We stand there for a moment, and his gaze drops briefly to my mouth before snapping back to my eyes. The sheer want I see before he shutters it away makes heat pool low in my stomach.
“Shall we?” Cavendish gestures toward the conference room.
O’Connell steps aside to let me pass, but we’re forced into proximity by the narrow hallway. Our arms brush, the brief contact sending electricity skittering across my skin.
Good god. When did I become someone who comes undone from arm touching?
This is going to be the longest security briefing of my life. I know I should be thinking about what happened. The syringe aimed at my neck. Was it meant to kill or incapacitate? Who is behind the attack, and what do they want from me?
But despite all the questions swirling in my brain, as I move past Eoin into the conference room, I allow myself one backward glance.
He’s watching me, his expression unreadable.
What happened in that maintenance room changed something fundamental between us.
The question is, what happens now?