Page 53 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

“Mal.” His name barely makes it past the construction site in my throat.

“Hi, Eoin.” And I know immediately it’s true from those two words. No surprise in his voice. No confusion. Just the careful tone of someone expecting this call.

My internal organs rearrange themselves.

“How could you?” It comes out strangled, like the words are fighting me.

“How could I join people wanting payback from the leeches who got rich destroying half the world? How could I join in with other people from countries around the world who are finally demanding accountability for centuries of exploitation? Who’ve had their resources stripped, their cultures decimated, their people exploited by British aristocrats getting fat on colonial blood money?

” His voice gains heat with each word. “The same ruling class who owned our tenement? Who counted their insurance payout while I learned to piss in a bag? You should be asking how I could not join them in demanding justice.”

“And you expected me to just…go along?” The question scrapes my throat raw.

“I thought you were committed to justice, yes.”

Justice. There’s that word again.

“Nicholas hasn’t done anything. He doesn’t deserve to be kidnapped.”

“The three million Bengalis who starved during World War II while Britain exported their grain didn’t deserve that either.

Nor did the millions sold into slavery, or the thousands massacred at Amritsar.

Or the African miners worked to death so some inbred could have another palace.

” He takes a breath like he’s loading another clip.

“Prince Nicholas lives in castles built on corpses, Eoin, and his relatives continue to refuse any kind of accountability. Spare me the violin about what he deserves.”

Fuck.

“And I don’t get why you’re suddenly playing white knight for him. The prince wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

The words hit like a punch to my guts. I can’t help glancing at Nicholas, and I see him flinch. He heard that. Of course he heard it.

Because here’s the thing: if I hadn’t gone and caught feelings like some tragic romance novel hero, would I be on Malachy’s side right now?

The question burns worse than that shite whiskey we used to nick from Da’s stash.

That rage Malachy’s spitting is in my DNA too. Inherited like the O’Connell stubborn streak and tendency to hold grudges till death.

Every memory plays like a greatest hits album of aristocratic neglect: our ceiling leaking so badly that we had to keep buckets in the sitting room; Da’s hands cracked and bleeding from construction work while Lord Whatever sunbathed in Monaco; me clawing through rubble with my bare hands, concrete dust coating my lungs, screaming for Malachy.

That posh doctor explaining my brother’s legs were fucked forever while our landlord’s lawyers made sure he’d never see consequences.

I’d channeled that rage into becoming a cop. Thought I could fix things from inside, like some naive eejit in a cop drama.

Nicholas didn’t directly hurt anyone. Yet he benefits from the system that did. Sleeps in palaces built with colonial wealth. Wears ceremonial medals commemorating imperial conquests. Represents an institution that has historically crushed people like Malachy and me beneath its jeweled boot.

Without knowing him, without seeing past the crown to the complicated, contradictory man underneath… Would I be helping kidnap him right now? Would he be a symbol worth trading for justice?

My stomach churns like I’ve swallowed battery acid.

But Nicholas has taught me that symbols are also human beings. That systems can trap even those who benefit from them. That collective guilt doesn’t erase individual innocence.

The irony’s thick enough to choke on. Falling for Nicholas hasn’t cured my anger at what his world represents. It’s just shown me that torching a palace with him inside isn’t justice.

It’s just more tragedy.

Nicholas catches my eye, taps his wrist. My time is nearly up. The roundabout is just ahead, and Nicholas pulls the car over.

When our eyes meet, there’s something in his expression I can’t read. Understanding? Resignation?

“Still time to do the right thing, Eoin,” Malachy says, switching tactics. “Hand him over, and we’ll set you up anywhere. New name, new life. And we won’t hurt him, I promise. We just need him for leverage.”

“Leverage?” My voice comes out in a growl. “He’s a person, not a bargaining chip.”

“Jaysus Christ,” Malachy hisses, and I can picture him running a hand through his hair, that gesture we share. “I never thought I’d see the day when an O’Connell would side with the fucking British crown.”

I refuse to react to those words, let them slice me open like he intends.

“And I never thought I’d see you planning to kidnap an innocent person,” I shoot back.

“Innocent? Fuck me sideways, don’t tell me you’ve actually fallen for Prince Charming?” His voice drips scorn like a leaky tap.

I flinch. Can’t help it. Beside me, Nicholas goes very still.

Malachy laughs, but it’s a low noise that contains not a shred of humor. “Oh, now it makes sense. You’re letting your cock overrule your duty to your own people. Da would be fucking ashamed of you.”

I can’t answer my brother. My words sit in my throat in a congealed mess.

“He’ll bin you the second you’re no longer useful,” Malachy continues, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

“You think he sees you as anything more than hired help with benefits? To him, you’re just a novelty.

An exotic bit of rough to pass the time with while he’s slumming it.

When this is over, he’ll go back to his palace and his pretty, aristocratic life, and you’ll be left with nothing but the memory of how you betrayed your own blood.

You’ll be nothing but an embarrassing story he tells at dinner parties.

‘Oh, you’ll never guess who I had to pretend to fancy to save my royal arse?—’”

I kill the call, my hands trembling.

“Two minutes were up,” I say roughly as I wind down the window and throw the phone into the grass verge.

Nicholas sits there staring at me, his eyes wide. I stare back into the ice-blue eyes that initially fooled me into thinking they were cold. Now they give nothing away as he scans my face.

I’m not sure what he’s looking for in my expression. I’m not sure what he’s seeing either. My head is a mess of competing emotions. Irish history versus personal loyalty, professional duty colliding with family ties that now feel like chains dragging me toward a darkness I can’t accept.

Plus that poisonous whisper: what if Malachy’s right about what I am to him?

Did Nicholas only see me as a temporary diversion, a working-class novelty to be discarded when I’m no longer convenient? Did he ever feel anything beyond the thrill of breaking rules? Was I just another way to rebel against the life mapped out for him?

Is his anger simply because he doesn’t like to be deceived? Or does it go deeper than that?

Is the distance he’s trying to put between us now just his way of protecting himself, or is it relief that he has an excuse to end whatever this was before it gets too complicated?

I mean, it’s not like he envisioned a future for us, did he?

But it doesn’t matter. I’m not protecting Nicholas because he owes me anything.

I’m protecting him because it’s the right thing to do.

Nicholas suddenly rips his gaze away from mine, swallowing hard. He jerks the steering wheel and pulls out into the traffic.

“So, your brother and his friends want to kidnap me so they can ransom me off, try to get my family to pay, plus bring attention to the historic atrocities committed by the British aristocracy that we all still benefit from.”

“That’s the general idea.” I try to keep my voice even.

“Well, that just sounds like it could be distinctly uncomfortable,” he says in a lazy, arrogant drawl. But I hear the slight tremor underneath, the way he’s using that royal persona like armor. Just like I watched him do with everyone else.

Now I’m back to being everyone else too.

“It probably wouldn’t be a five-star experience,” I manage to reply.

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, elegant fingers moving in unconscious rhythm. Even dressed like a tourist, he can’t quite hide the grace trained into him since birth. And I can’t help remembering the feel of those fingers in my hair, on my skin.

The drumming stops. He pins me with that stare again.

“So, what if we simply give them what they want?”