Page 52 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Eoin

I can’t believe this man.

Nicholas has apparently taken the fact that I’m the sleeper agent planted in his protection team to aid in kidnapping him in his stride. Almost as if this is simply another royal inconvenience to be managed alongside charity galas and ribbon-cutting ceremonies.

He said he trusts me to keep him alive.

Not that he trusts me. Just that he trusts me to keep him alive.

Trust . The word sits in my chest like a live grenade. Because I heard what he didn’t say as clearly as what he did.

His walls have gone back up, and it feels like he’s measuring the distance between us, like he’s calculating exactly how much space he needs to stay safe.

Not from bullets.

From me.

Despite all this, he’s somehow managing to hold me together by being so perfectly, infuriatingly Nicholas that I can almost forget I’m the weapon that was supposed to be aimed at him.

My impossible feelings for him only seem to be growing even stronger and even more impossible with every passing minute.

I have to push my feelings for him aside and focus on keeping him alive and away from the people trying to kidnap him.

Maybe if I do that well enough, he’ll… What? Forgive me? Trust me again? Let me close enough to break his heart the way everyone else has?

But that doesn’t matter right now.

Nothing matters beyond keeping him safe. Even if he’ll never let me be anything more than his protector again.

First, we need to steal a car.

I position myself at the passenger side, blocking any view of my less-than-legal activities. The lock gives up without even a token protest, proving these old wagons have about as much security as a garden shed.

“Keep an eye out,” I tell Nicholas, sliding into the driver’s seat.

Nicholas follows my instructions, doing his best impression of a lookout, which is surprisingly decent for a man who’s spent his life being watched rather than watching.

The speed he’s adapting to life as a fugitive rather than a figurehead is impressive. And also slightly disturbing.

The steering column comes apart like it’s held together with good intentions and sellotape. My fingers move with muscle memory, stripping insulation, touching copper to copper.

Nicholas folds his long frame into the passenger seat, eyebrows raised.

“So, are you going to explain your slightly disturbing competence in hot-wiring cars?” he asks.

“I worked undercover as part of a car theft ring operating between Belfast and Dublin. Eighteen months embedded with the Flannery crew. They specialized in luxury vehicles for export to Eastern Europe, but they’d take anything with four wheels if the opportunity presented itself.”

It feels strange, sharing this with him.

And I have the urge to tell him more. How Jimmy Flannery tested new recruits by making them boost a car with him watching.

How I spent Christmas that year in a warehouse full of stolen BMWs, playing cards with thieves who regarded me as a friend.

How hard it was to testify against some of them afterward, knowing I’d sent men to prison for trying to feed their families the only way they knew how.

Christ, when did I become someone who wants to share?

But I want Nicholas to understand me, to know the real me, warts and all. Even if it’s too late. Even if he’ll never trust me again.

I pause at the edge of the car park. “Which way?”

Nicholas squints at the app on his phone. When he shows me the screen, he’s careful not to let our hands touch. Such a small thing, but it feels like another wall going up.

“East is a single highway, nowhere to hide. It’s basically a one-way ticket to getting caught. South gives us options at the lake’s end. Multiple roads, harder to track.”

“South it is,” I say, swinging out of the car park and joining the flow of traffic along the waterfront.

Plans and escape routes tumble through my head. The problem is, I’m in a foreign country and Pierce knows every trick in my book. Hell, he wrote half the bloody chapters.

Bastard probably has my entire decision tree mapped out on a whiteboard somewhere.

“They’ll be monitoring every exit point,” I mutter, more to myself than Nicholas. “Airports, hotels, rental cars. And there will be an alert on us by now.”

“Charming. So we’ve achieved maximum wanted status, being hunted by both terrorists and law enforcement. That’s impressive for a Tuesday.” Nicholas sounds like he’s discussing dinner plans rather than imminent capture.

“That’s about the size of it. And we can’t underestimate the terrorist group.

These people have resources, connections, and absolute conviction in their cause.

” I work my shoulders, trying to unknot muscles that have apparently decided to become one with my spine.

“I need to find out about Malachy. Whether he’s really… ” The words stick like broken glass.

Nicholas pins me with that look that sees too much. “So why don’t you call him?”

The old me would clam up now. But I don’t want to. If I want to rebuild Nicholas’s trust in me, I need to be prepared to be completely honest with him, even if it chokes me to say it.

“I’m scared.” The words fall out like pulled teeth. “Scared it’s true about Malachy. He’s all I’ve got left for family.”

“I know something about betrayal by those you trust,” Nicholas says quietly. “I could write the definitive guide. Maybe a bestseller: Backstabbing for Beginners: A Royal Perspective .” He pauses, and then quietly adds, “Apparently, I need to add a new chapter.”

The words land like a punch. I grip the steering wheel tighter, sending a glance at him. This impossible man, who hides old wounds under Savile Row tailoring and deflects pain with posh sarcasm.

Who trusted me despite all his instincts, and then I proved those instincts right.

Yet here he is, sitting in a stolen car wearing tourist shop finery, trusting the man sent to deliver him to his enemies to keep him safe. If that’s not pure brass-balls bravery, I don’t know what is.

That settles it then. I have to be equally brave.

“I’ll need to find somewhere safe to pull over so I can make the call,” I say.

“Or novel idea. You could pull over, we switch seats, and I drive while you call your brother,” Nicholas says.

His suggestion catches me off guard. The idea of Nicholas driving hadn’t even entered my mental calculations. In my mind, he’s still filed under Asset to Protect , not Active Participant in Escape Plan .

Nicholas reads my expression perfectly, one eyebrow climbing toward his hairline. “We’re in this together, remember? Or do you think I’ll just sit here looking decorative while you do all the work?”

He’s right, of course.

Time to rewire my thinking before it gets us killed. This protective instinct isn’t just due to my training anymore. It’s something messier and more personal. Something that makes me want to pull him close and never let go, even as he’s pushing me away.

But treating Nicholas like he’s made of spun glass instead of steel is exactly what Pierce expects. The only way we’ll survive is by ripping up the playbook.

Which means accepting that my privileged prince might be of more use than simply knowing the proper forms of address for minor European royalty.

“As soon as I talk to him, the phone will be compromised. We’ll be down to one phone between us,” I point out.

“Then we stick together like we’re glued. Shouldn’t be too difficult.” His voice catches slightly on the last word.

Still, I hesitate. This goes against every protocol I’ve ever learned.

“You need to know about Malachy,” Nicholas says. He checks his phone, suddenly all business. “There is a roundabout ahead that splits three ways. It would be the perfect place to ditch the phone and leave them playing guess-the-getaway-route.”

Why does Nicholas’s strategic thinking still catch me off guard? My expression must be doing something stupid because he deploys the eye roll.

“We’ll discuss your underestimation of me at some future point. Right now, you need to call your brother.”

He’s right. Every tactical reason says this is stupid: burning a secure phone, potentially revealing our location, stopping when we should be moving. But my hands are already steering us to the verge, gravel popping under the tires like tiny firecrackers.

I get out of the car, and Nicholas and I swap seats.

Once I’m in the passenger seat, I turn to face him. Nicholas must be able to read my face like it has subtitles because he cuts me off before I can say anything.

“You won’t be able to function properly until you know the truth.” His voice softens before it returns to the polite tone that cuts worse than his anger did. “You can’t process that level of betrayal until you know all the facts.”

His words are a direct hit, proving he knows me better than anyone.

It’s like he’s picked the lock on my brain and read the instruction manual inside.

I swallow the desperate need to reach across the space between us, to prove with touch what my words can’t seem to convey. That, while everything else was a lie, the way I feel about him never was.

But he’s right. Right now, I need to talk to my brother.

“I can’t stay on long,” I say. “Every second gives them more of a chance to triangulate. Basic tracking 101. Warn me when I’ve hit two minutes.”

“I will,” Nicholas promises as he pulls back into the flow of traffic. His hands are steady on the wheel, but there’s tension in his shoulders. I don’t know if it’s due to driving on foreign roads or because of me.

Probably the latter.

I wrench my eyes away from him so I can dial Malachy’s number.

This number’s been my lifeline through every assignment, every promotion that took me farther from Belfast, every night when London felt like wearing someone else’s coat.

Happy drunk calls, miserable drunk calls, stone-cold sober calls at three a.m., when the job went sideways. My anchor to something real.

Funny how anchors can also drag you under.

“Hello?”