Page 43 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Eoin

I’d lingered in Nicholas’s suite after everyone else had scarpered because I wanted to tell him I’m going to ask for a reassignment, how this assignment is destroying every principle I’ve built my career on.

How it’s turning me into the kind of eejit who puts personal wants above professional obligations.

How I’m compromising his safety with every glance, every touch, every moment I spend imagining his body instead of scanning for threats.

Instead, we had the most intimate conversations I’ve ever had, and then I bent him over the bathroom counter and claimed him like a man possessed.

And now it appears I can’t stop kissing him. Soft, sweet kisses where I claim his beautiful, sarcastic mouth. The little sigh he makes when I kiss the pulse point at his throat feels almost like a confession.

Nicholas. This brave, reckless, haughty, compassionate, infuriating, brilliant, broken, fragile, fierce man.

All his contradictions, his multitudes. I want the whole bleeding lot.

I don’t understand this fascination with a man whose world couldn’t be further from mine, whose life is dictated by centuries of tradition I’ve spent my life resenting.

This impossible situation where every moment of joy comes tangled with the certainty of eventual pain.

Yet I can’t make myself walk away.

Even though I know I have to.

A noise at the suite’s entrance causes ice to flow through my veins. The electronic click of a security keycard followed by footsteps too measured to be hotel staff. Shite.

I freeze, my hands still cupping Nicholas’s face, before instinct takes over.

I pull away from him, cursing under my breath as I fumble to pull my trousers up and exit the bathroom with my service weapon already half-drawn. Singh freezes mid-step when he sees me, his gaze flicking up and down my disheveled appearance, his eyes narrowing.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I was just helping the prince clean up from the party.”

“Right.” Singh’s face is a polite mask that doesn’t quite conceal the skepticism beneath.

The bathroom door opens with the worst possible timing. Nicholas appears in the doorway, shirt half-untucked, his lips still visibly swollen from my kisses. He freezes for a second before his royal training kicks in, that practiced smile sliding into place like armor.

“Ah, Officer Singh. Lovely of you to join us. Officer O’Connell stayed behind to explain the security protocols for post-party debris removal. Fascinating stuff.”

Singh’s gaze shifts from Nicholas’s disheveled appearance to my flushed face, a look of resignation settling in his eyes. “I’m sure it was most educational, sir.”

“Why are you here?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Thought Davis had the evening rotation.”

Singh’s expression remains neutral. “Davis is down with food poisoning. Something about suspect seafood.”

Nicholas steps forward, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“Oh dear, was it the prawns? I did warn the hotel staff about serving seafood on Christmas Day. Heat and shellfish make such treacherous bedfellows.” He pauses, a hint of his usual sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Speaking of dangers, perhaps you could suggest to Cavendish that I wish to go through the revised security procedures at some point?”

“Of course, sir. Your security is our primary concern,” Singh says flatly.

Fuck.

“I should get back outside. Update the night rotation on the situation with Davis,” Singh says.

Nicholas shoots me a glance I can’t quite interpret. “I’m just heading to bed. Christmas festivities and all that, it’s quite exhausting being joyful on command.” He flashes that practiced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you gentlemen don’t mind?”

“Of course,” Singh and I answer in unison, our voices overlapping awkwardly.

I follow Singh to the door, hyperaware of Nicholas watching us leave.

“O’Connell,” Singh begins once we’re out in the corridor.

I brace myself for the accusation.

Instead, he says, “Be careful.”

The words hang in the air between us. Not “stop this madness” or “I’ll report you” or any of the dozen reprimands I’ve been mentally preparing for. Just “be careful.”

I look at him sharply. “What exactly does that mean?”

Singh meets my gaze, his expression unreadable. “It means we’re all responsible for keeping him safe. From all threats.” He presses the call button for the lift. “Including ourselves, if necessary.”

The lift arrives with a soft chime, saving me from having to respond.

I get in and the door closes, leaving me alone with the sinking realization that my secret isn’t much of a secret anymore.

I make it to my room in a daze, locking the door behind me and leaning against it like it might hold back the consequences rushing toward me like a freight train.

My hands are shaking—actual fucking tremors—like I’m coming off a three-day bender.

It’s like my body is physically rejecting the magnitude of what I’ve done.

I need to leave. Not at the end of the tour. Right now.

I’ve compromised myself, compromised Nicholas, compromised the entire operation. My judgment is shot to hell. I can’t trust myself around him, that much is painfully clear after tonight’s encounter.

And if I can’t trust myself, how can I possibly protect him?

My chest constricts at the thought of Nicholas’s face when I tell him I’m requesting immediate reassignment, the way his expression will shift from confusion to that practiced royal mask that hides everything real.

If this is more than a simple distraction for him, if he feels anywhere near the complex mess of emotions I feel toward him, then my leaving will hurt him.

But Singh knows. Or at least strongly suspects. And if he knows, others might too. How long before whispers reach Cavendish? Before word gets back to Scotland Yard? Before Thornton calls me in and asks point-blank what the hell I’m playing at?

I need to send a message to Thornton. Professional, detached, giving just enough information to justify immediate extraction without revealing the true reason.

I’ll cite concerns about my ability to effectively investigate while maintaining my protection duties.

Not technically lies, just carefully curated truths.

By this time tomorrow, I’ll be on a plane back to London. Someone else will take over this assignment, someone who doesn’t feel like they’re being torn apart from the inside every time those blue eyes meet theirs.

The thought of never seeing Nicholas again, never touching him, never hearing that genuinely unguarded laugh he sometimes lets slip, cuts deeper than I expect.

But it’s the right thing to do. For him. For the mission.

For whatever remains of my professional integrity.

I reach for my secure phone to call Thornton, but before I can dial, it flashes to life with Pierce’s ID.

I freeze, cold dread washing through me.

Jaysus fecking Christ. Pierce calling me unscheduled on my secure line is bad. Very bad.

My mind whirls. Has Singh already contacted London?

Has he called in what he saw between Nicholas and me?

I picture Thornton’s face, that Yorkshire scowl deepening as he hears about his trusted officer compromising the entire operation for a royal fling.

Pierce’s face when he learns that the officer he recommended has been caught with his lips locked to the very prince he’s meant to be protecting, transforming a counterterrorism operation into the world’s most expensive matchmaking service.

The shame burns hotter than any physical wound I’ve ever sustained.

But Pierce wouldn’t use the emergency line for a disciplinary issue, even one this serious. This is something else.

Something worse.

I answer immediately. “O’Connell.”

“We have confirmation.” His voice drops lower, more urgent. “There’s definitely a sleeper agent in Prince Nicholas’s security detail. And it appears another attack is imminent.”

My blood turns to ice. “How certain?”

“Certain enough that Thornton has alerted the palace. We’ve had intelligence reports from a credible source.

And we’ve been monitoring communications since Darwin.

There was a spike in encrypted traffic right after you arrived in Auckland, and it’s increasing.

Similar patterns as before the naval base attack. ”

“I don’t get it. If there is a sleeper agent in the protection team, why didn’t they emerge during the kidnapping attempt in Darwin?”

“We don’t know,” Pierce says. “Nothing about this is making sense.”

I think through the whirl of Darwin. I’ve watched the security footage countless times, tracked every member of the team, but no one acted suspiciously.

The only protection officer who has been doing anything dodgy is me.

“Any idea of who it could be?” I ask. The truth sits like acid in my throat. I’ve been too distracted by Nicholas to do my fucking job properly. While I’ve been cataloging the exact shade of his eyes, someone’s been passing intelligence to terrorists.

“No, not yet. But we’re closing in. Someone’s definitely been feeding information about your movements, your contingency plans.”

Someone like Singh, who always seems to pop up when you least expect him. Like Davis, whose convenient illness removed him from tonight’s rotation. Hell, it could be any of my fellow officers who have sworn to protect Nicholas.

I rake my hands through my hair.

“Intelligence suggests the cell is well-organized,” Pierce continues. “Multiple operatives, different skill sets. This isn’t some hastily assembled group. They’ve been planning this, waiting for the right moment.”

“And we think that moment is coming soon,” I say.

“Yes, it looks like it. There’s talk about cutting the tour short, getting the prince back to the UK, where security can be better controlled.

I’m going to catch the next available flight to New Zealand, so I can be on the ground if necessary.

RaSP can’t weather another high-profile betrayal from a protection officer. ”

The thought of a terrorist getting his hands on Nicholas causes nausea to crash through me so violently that I have to brace against the wall. My mind conjures images I can’t bear, those blue eyes wide with fear, that cutting wit silenced, those perfect hands bound.

I’ve seen the aftermath of kidnapping operations gone wrong, bodies returned in pieces. The idea of Nicholas ending up broken, bloodied, used as a pawn in some madman’s game makes my vision blur with something that feels dangerously close to panic.

“You need to let me know as soon as you have more information,” I manage to choke out.

“I’ll keep you updated on any developments. I’m going to make sure you’re assigned to be the Prince’s body-close, the PPO 1, for the next few days.”

“Good,” I say.

“And, Eoin? You need to be very careful. Until we figure out who is compromised in the protection team, trust no one.”

“Understood,” I say as I end the call.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I pace my room, my footsteps wearing an invisible trench in the hotel carpet. Each turn brings me back to the same impossible choice.

I can’t leave now.

None of the reasons why I should leave have changed. I can’t be clear-headed enough to protect Nicholas. Not when I feel this way about him.

But I can’t leave him with someone potentially close to him poised to strike at any moment.

I check my weapon again, falling back on the rituals that kept me alive during years undercover with Belfast’s and London’s worst. I’ll head to Nicholas’s floor now, claim insomnia as the reason why I’m there, keep an eye on Singh.

And I’ll get Pierce and Thornton to get the feeds from security cameras streamed directly to my phone.

Then, in the morning, I’ll need to find ways to investigate my colleagues while being Nicholas’s body-close and maintaining my cover.

And I’ll have to do it all while fighting this constant, maddening pull toward the very man I’m sworn to protect.

I’ve got to remember that Nicholas isn’t Nicholas—he’s the principal, the protectee, the assignment.

And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him safe.