Page 48 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Eoin

Fuck.

I’ve hurt Nicholas. Which is the last thing I ever wanted to do.

The silence between us is heavy in the confined space of our stolen pickup.

“I need to ring Scotland Yard,” I mutter.

I start the car again, but I don’t go far. Instead, I turn down a narrow farm track, cutting the engine behind a row of pine trees that shields us from the main road.

“Wait here,” I say. Nicholas doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at me as I step out of the car.

I pull my secure phone from my jacket, walking just far enough away that he can’t hear, but close enough that I can still see him through the windshield. Thornton answers on the second ring.

“O’Connell? Holy hell, where are you? We’re getting reports of some kind of attack?—”

“We’re compromised,” I cut Thornton off. “Attack at Hobbiton. Multiple hostiles, coordinated. They knew exactly where we’d be.”

“Any casualties?”

“Unknown. Blake and Cavendish were there, but we got separated. Singh was—” I stop, realizing I don’t actually know where Singh disappeared to before the explosion. “I don’t know who to trust.”

“What’s your status?”

“I’ve got the prince. We’re in a stolen vehicle about twenty miles from the attack site. I need an extraction team I can trust. No local assets, no one from the current detail.”

“That’s not easy to arrange on short notice,” he says, his voice tight. “We’ve got limited resources in New Zealand. Pierce is on his way. He should be in Singapore soon. I’ll contact him on the plane, let him know what’s going on.”

“We need a secure location and transport. I can’t guarantee I can keep him safe by myself for long.”

“As soon as Pierce is on the ground, we’ll work out a strategy. But for now, you need to keep moving.”

“We will.”

“Keep in contact.”

“Yes, sir.”

I slide back into the driver’s seat, feeling Nicholas’s cold gaze on me. Without a word, I start the engine and pull back onto the road, the tightness in my chest having nothing to do with the terrorists hunting us.

Nicholas’s features have transformed into that perfect royal mask I’ve seen him wear at ceremonies and functions. It’s polite, distant, and reveals absolutely fucking nothing about what’s going through his head as he stares determinedly out the window.

But I know what lies beneath it now. I’ve seen him undone, vulnerable, laughing. I’ve tasted the salt on his skin. And watching him rebuild those walls, knowing I’m the reason he’s retreating behind them, carves something hollow beneath my ribs.

Is his level of hurt a sign he actually cares about me? That this hasn’t just been about the thrill of forbidden pleasure, or proving he could have what he shouldn’t? Maybe I’ve become more than just his bit of rough, his working-class rebellion against a lifetime of proper etiquette.

The possibility makes my chest constrict even tighter. Christ, what if I’ve wrecked something precious before it even had a chance to exist?

I want to reach across the center console and touch him, make him look at me. But I keep my hands locked on the steering wheel.

We’re coming to the edge of a town now. The sign tells us the name.

Rotorua.

I’m fairly sure it’s best for everyone if I don’t attempt to pronounce that aloud, as my Belfast tongue would make a right mess of it.

“We need to swap cars again,” I say.

“I’ll have to concede to your superior knowledge about getaway vehicles. Is car theft also part of the standard Scotland Yard curriculum, or was that a specialized elective?”

The disdain in his tone lands like a knife between my ribs, but underneath it, I hear something else.

Pain.

I’ve become fluent in Nicholas Alexander over these past weeks, learning to read the minute shifts in his expressions, the subtle changes in his voice. And right now, beneath the sarcasm, he’s bleeding.

I did that.

Me and my necessary lies.

I don’t reply to him. Getting into a verbal sparring match with Nicholas right now would be like stepping into the ring with a champion while blindfolded. He’s armed with royal wit and righteous anger.

I’ve got nothing but compromised principles and regret.

A flash of green catches my eye—a roadside sign for Wai-O-Tapu Thermal Wonderland, 2km Ahead .

Perfect. Tourist attractions mean rental cars, and rental cars mean generic vehicles with minimal security features.

I signal and turn off the main road, following signs to a sprawling car park nestled amid a steaming, otherworldly landscape.

Plumes of vapor rise from the ground, giving the whole place an apocalyptic feel that matches my current mood.

It’s the perfect hunting ground.

I navigate to the far corner where the security cameras won’t have eyes on us, pulling in beside a row of rental cars. The stench hits as soon as I climb out of the car. Rotten eggs and minerals, the smell of the earth’s insides.

Nicholas gets out of the car, wrinkling his nose. “That odor is not particularly pleasant.”

“That’ll be the sulfur from the geothermal activity.”

“It almost stinks as much as your lies,” he says benignly.

I ignore him and concentrate on surveying the car park for a replacement vehicle. We need something inconspicuous, something with enough fuel to get us far from here.

A mid-range Toyota Corolla sits three spaces down, angled perfectly in the camera’s blind spot. Not too new, not too old, probably a rental, judging by the generic license plate frame. Forgettable. Perfect.

“Wait here,” I mutter, pulling my jacket sleeve over my hand as I approach the Toyota.

“Oh, splendid.” Nicholas follows me despite my instructions. “Front-row seats to criminal activity. Should I be taking notes for future royal scandals? Perhaps prepare a statement for when we’re inevitably arrested? Prince Flees Terrorists, Embraces Life of Crime Instead .”

I shoot him a warning look as I check for alarm sensors. Finding none, I slide my sleeve-covered elbow against the driver’s side window and apply careful pressure until it gives with a muffled crack.

“Very elegant technique,” Nicholas says as he leans against the neighboring car. “Perhaps after we evade kidnapping and potential execution, you could teach me your other skills. Lockpicking? Forgery? I’ve always thought royal duties could use more exciting extracurriculars.”

The car alarm doesn’t trigger—thank Christ for small mercies, as I remove the window, reaching through to unlock the door, then slide inside to work on the ignition.

“That was distressingly quick. Should I be worried about the security of the Crown Jewels?”

“Different skill set,” I say as I slide into the driver’s seat and reach under the steering column. The familiar tangle of wires greets me like an old mate.

“Do try not to electrocute yourself,” Nicholas says as he climbs into the front seat. “I’d hate to have to explain to the New Zealand authorities why I’m traveling with both a stolen vehicle and a charred Irishman.”

The engine catches with a satisfying rumble, and I throw the car into reverse.

“Your capacity for casual crime is both impressive and mildly disturbing,” Nicholas continues as we drive out of the parking lot. “Is that why they selected you for this assignment? ‘Send O’Connell—he’s both morally flexible and good with his hands?’”

Heat crawls up my neck as I swing back on the highway. And I’ve had about enough of what I’m prepared to take from this man.

“Is it making you feel better having a go at me?” I ask. “Go ahead then. I can take it. But just know that I know exactly what you’re doing.” I flick a quick glance at him. “You’re doing exactly what you always do, using humor to mask how you’re really feeling.”

Nicholas’s blue eyes are furious.

“Fuck you,” he says back with heat.

“We already did that. And it was incredible, if my memory serves me right.”

The color drains from Nicholas’s face, leaving only two bright spots of anger high on his cheekbones. He looks like one of those royal portraits hanging in the palace corridor.

Beautiful. Cold. Untouchable.

“You don’t get to do that.” His voice drops dangerously low. “You don’t get to act like you know me, like you understand what this feels like. Not after—” He cuts himself off, turning to stare out the window, the line of his jaw so tight I can see a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

“You don’t get to fuck me and then psychoanalyze me in the same week,” he finally finishes. “Pick a lane, Detective.”

The silence stretches between us.

I keep my eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

Because he’s right. I need to pick a lane with this man.

My inability to do that has cost both of us.