Page 47 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nicholas

“Where are we going to go?” I ask. Eoin’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw working like he’s grinding glass between his teeth.

“I’m not sure yet,” he says.

I’m uneasy. Something’s off. And it’s not merely the fact that I’ve been attacked by a terrorist group for the second time in just over a week.

Something else is not quite right.

I study Eoin. His eyes are constantly flicking between the road and the rearview mirror.

“So, how are we meeting up with everyone else?”

“We’re not,” he says simply.

Something cold and slippery coils in my stomach. My fingers curl involuntarily against the leather seat.

“Why are we not meeting up with everyone else?” I demand.

“I don’t trust the other members of your protection team.”

My mind ticks over his words for a few seconds. “You think one of them is compromised.” It’s a statement of fact, not a question.

“Yes.”

The notion that one of my own protection officers might be a traitor settles in my stomach like a badly swallowed oyster. These people surround me constantly, observe my every move. I’ve been irritated by their presence, chafed against their protocols, but I’ve never questioned their loyalty.

How naive of me. How utterly, royally naive.

My mind races through the faces of my security detail.

“Who do you suspect?” I ask.

“I don’t know yet. We need to get far enough away from them to keep you safe. We’ll change cars soon. And then I’ll need to establish a secure line to Pierce, try to arrange an extraction team.”

It sounds like Eoin is almost talking to himself rather than actually having a conversation with me.

“An extraction team?” I repeat. The words feel foreign in my mouth, like I’m suddenly starring in some spy thriller. “You make it sound like we’re behind enemy lines in a war zone.”

“That’s not far off.” Eoin takes a sharp turn onto a smaller road that cuts between pastoral farmland. “We need people we can trust absolutely, and right now, that list is very short.”

“So your plan is what, exactly? Drive around rural New Zealand in a stolen car until rescue arrives like the bloody cavalry?”

Eoin’s eyes meet mine briefly before returning to the road. “Pretty much, yes.”

“Brilliant. Perhaps we could stop for tea with the hobbits along the way. I’m sure Gandalf can provide magical assistance.”

“Your wit remains intact. I’ll take that as a good sign,” Eoin says.

I glare at him. “Someone has attempted to kidnap me, shoot me, and blow me up, and now I’m being told one of the people I trusted with my life is actually trying to end it. I think I’m entitled to a bit of sarcasm.”

“You are. But focus that energy on staying alert. Whoever is behind this has resources and inside information. They won’t give up because this attempt failed.”

I twist in my seat to look behind us, half-expecting to see a convoy of black SUVs in pursuit. “How high up does this go? If one of the team is compromised, what about Cavendish? What about the palace security?”

Eoin’s silence is answer enough.

“Christ,” I breathe, running a hand through my hair. “Is there anyone I can trust?”

He takes his eyes briefly off the road to meet mine. “You can trust me.”

The conviction in his voice feels like stepping from a cold room into unexpected sunlight. It’s terrifying how much I want to believe him.

“How do you know a member of the security team is compromised?” I ask.

A muscle works in his jaw briefly before he answers me.

“I was placed on your security detail specifically to find them.” His words come out clipped and precise. “Scotland Yard received intelligence suggesting someone close to you was feeding information to the same group that targeted Matheson and Webley. My assignment was to identify the traitor.”

Despite the air blowing in the windows, the pickup suddenly feels airless.

Eoin is telling me he’s known all along that someone in my security team is potentially a threat to me?

“Let me make sure I understand correctly. You’re not actually a protection officer. You’re what—a detective? An undercover agent?” My voice is dangerously quiet.

“Yes. I’m an undercover agent in Scotland Yard’s MO3 Covert Policing division.”

The betrayal burns through me like acid.

“So, when you were claiming to tell me the truth earlier today, it transpires you failed to mention some details that are rather relevant.” My tone is icy cold.

Eoin’s expression twists like he’s in pain. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t compromise the investigation. The more people who knew my true identity, the greater the risk. I was under direct orders to maintain my cover at all costs.”

My chest constricts as if someone’s tightening a vise around my ribs.

It’s the same sensation I felt standing in my mother’s drawing room three years ago, holding a bank statement that proved everything I’d believed was a lie.

Different accent, different circumstances, but the same fundamental deception—someone I trusted had been playing a role, keeping secrets, making decisions about my life without my knowledge or consent.

When I factor in Amelia’s betrayal, I’m beginning to suspect I’m cursed, that something in my DNA attracts deception.

My hand finds my signet ring, twisting it round and round as everything I thought I knew about Eoin rearranges itself into a new, uglier picture.

Of course he’s undercover. Of course the one person who makes me feel like I can drop my mask is wearing the biggest mask of all.

“So, you’re professional enough to hide the fact that you’re really an undercover agent, but not professional enough to refrain from fucking me. That’s an illuminating insight into your priorities.”

“Nicholas—”

“Or was sleeping with me just part of your cover story? After all, your fellow protection officers would hardly suspect you were an undercover agent when you were busy fucking the principal. Did Scotland Yard teach you how to seduce your way into royal confidence, or was that your own creative initiative?”

“Of course it wasn’t—” Eoin starts again, but I cut him off.

“It’s a fascinating technique. Get the prince to trust you, get him to open up about his past traumas, then what—file it all in your official report? Subject displays vulnerability regarding maternal relationship, recommend exploiting for further intelligence gathering .”

“Nicholas!” Eoin roars. He swings the car over to the side of the road and sits there, staring at me, his chest heaving.

The vein at his temple throbs visibly, and his gray eyes have darkened to the color of a winter storm.

When he finally speaks, his Irish accent bleeds through stronger than I’ve ever heard it.

“Is that what you think? That I played you? That I—Christ, Nicholas.” He claws a hand through his hair.

“I’ve risked my entire career, my reputation, everything I’ve worked for since crawling out of Belfast’s slums because I couldn’t stay away from you.

Every moment we’ve spent together has been a breach of protocol so severe I could lose my job.

After last night, I almost requested immediate extraction because I knew I’d compromised myself beyond repair.

Does that sound like a bloody cover strategy to you? ”

My lips feel numb.

“And why didn’t you request extraction?” I manage to ask.

“Because I discovered there was definitely a sleeper agent in your protection team, and I needed to keep you safe.” He takes a deep breath, dragging a hand across his face.

“You have every right to be angry that I didn’t tell you who I really was.

About my assignment. But don’t you dare reduce what happened between us to some kind of tactical maneuver. ”

I want to believe him. I want so desperately to believe that the moments between us aren’t just a performance from a man trained to be whoever the job requires. That when he looks at me, he sees Nicholas, not the investigation target or the royal spare.

But then I believed every word Daniel said to me, and look where that got me.

I can feel myself shutting down, that familiar numbness creeping in from the edges.

It’s the protective mechanism that got me through those first weeks after Daniel left, after I understood what my mother had orchestrated.

It’s easier this way, to let the ice form around my heart again, to retreat behind walls I’d foolishly started dismantling.

At least when you expect betrayal, it doesn’t leave you gasping like a landed fish.

I look away from him.

“You’d better start driving. There are terrorists after me, remember?”