Page 61 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Eoin

The back of the van smells like old motor oil and rust.

My shoulders burn from having my arms wrenched behind me and my wrists bound. The gag in my mouth tastes of dirty cotton and defeat.

Nicholas sits across from me, his ridiculously bleached hair catching what little light filters through the van’s reinforced windows as we bounce over what feels like every pothole in New Zealand.

Dirt is smudged across his cheekbones, and his T-shirt is torn at the shoulder, revealing a glimpse of pale skin.

Nicholas is fearless. Or maybe that’s incorrect. I’m sure he gets scared, but he’s also brave. He’s got the kind of courage that you can’t teach, that comes from somewhere innate.

The words he screamed at Pierce and his men echo in my head. If you hurt a hair on his head, I will hunt you down to the ends of this earth and make sure you suffer.

The van hits another rut, throwing us both sideways. Nicholas catches himself, then meets my eyes in the dim light. He gives an eye roll that clearly says, “Honestly, the service on this kidnapping is subpar.”

Christ. Even bound and gagged in the back of a terrorist’s van, he’s still the most maddeningly beautiful person I’ve ever met.

I’m so fucking in love with this man.

The realization hits like a punch to my guts, stealing what little breath the gag allows.

I’ve suspected I was falling for him, but I had no idea that I’d already hit the ground, and there’s no getting back up from this. There’s no extraction plan that would ever work to remove me from the spell this man has cast over me.

While I’m having this little revelation, Nicholas has been working at freeing his hands from the rope.

He’s noticed what I should have seen immediately—they’ve tied us with climbing rope, smooth and prone to loosening with the right technique.

He wiggles his fingers, using the van’s movement to his advantage. Every bump and jolt works the knots looser. When one of his hands slips free, he immediately reaches up to pull down his gag before reaching over to remove mine.

I work my jaw, the sudden freedom to breathe properly hitting like a shock.

“I love you,” I blurt out.

Nicholas has already turned his attention to freeing his other hand, but at my words, his head jerks up, his eyebrows shooting toward his disaster of a hairline. He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a particularly puzzling piece of modern art.

I don’t say anything. I just stare into that cool blue gaze.

“I can’t help feeling like the timing and setting of your romantic declaration leave something to be desired,” he says finally.

I choke out a laugh because, of course, that would be his response. Not shock, not rejection, just criticism of my romantic timing.

He looks back down at his hands. “I’m inclined to share your affections.

” His fingers fumble the knot for a second before resuming.

“But I feel I should point out that we’re in the custody of people who want to use me as a political bargaining chip.

Perhaps we could revisit this conversation when fewer people are trying to kidnap or kill us? ”

I lean forward and press a hard kiss to his lips.

Nicholas responds, returning my kiss desperately, his one hand coming up to fist my shirt, anchoring me to him. I can taste blood from where he’s bitten his lip, feel the slight tremor in his fingers against my chest.

He kisses me like it’s the last kiss he’s ever going to have.

Which it very much might be.

When he pulls back, he swallows once before quirking an eyebrow. “Danger seems to be an aphrodisiac for us. Perhaps something else to investigate in the future?”

“Sure. Let’s schedule that in sometime,” I manage, my voice rough.

Nicholas glances toward the front, where our captors are separated by a metal partition.

“We need a plan,” he says as he finishes untying his hands and reaches over to untie mine. “How long until the announcement?”

I shake out my newly freed hand to get the blood circulating again, pins and needles shooting up my arm, then check my watch. “Twenty minutes, maybe less.”

“Then we simply need to stall for time,” Nicholas says. “Once the announcement goes public, they’ll have what they want without actually having to ransom me.”

“Pierce won’t just let us go,” I warn. “He’s not the type to leave loose ends.”

“No, but he’ll need time to figure out his next move once he realizes we’ve cut the moral high ground from under him.

” Nicholas meets my eyes. “And hopefully, British Intelligence will soon have the manpower to find us. Callum and Oliver would have arranged tracking on my phone. We just need to delay for as long as we can.”

It’s not much of a plan, but it’s all we have.

And it looks like we’re going to have to put our plan into action soon because the van is starting to slow.

We quickly replace the gags and retie the ropes just loose enough to slip out if needed.

When the doors open, Pierce stands waiting, looking every inch the distinguished Scotland Yard commander I once looked up to. Behind him is a warehouse. Of course it’s a feckin’ warehouse.

“Bring them inside,” Pierce orders.

They march us into an abandoned industrial space, all concrete and rust stains. Other figures emerge from the shadows—I count at least eight, clocking their positions. There’s no way we’re going to be able to fight our way out of here.

Pierce signals for our gags to be removed.

“Eoin,” he says, and his voice carries that mentoring tone that once meant everything to me. “I’m disappointed it came to this.”

“Funny,” I spit back. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“I thought you’d be able to recognize which side you belonged on. I thought you would never forget where you came from.”

“I didn’t forget anything,” I say. “But I happen to believe in the principle of protecting the innocent, regardless of their last name or bank balance. And we have to apply that standard universally. You don’t fix injustice by creating more victims.”

Pierce sighs like I’m a particularly slow student. “One temporary inconvenience to someone who is the living embodiment of colonial wealth to bring the world’s attention to all the billions of people in countries still recovering from what his ancestors did to them.”

“Well, luckily, if it’s the world’s attention you want, you’re about to get it regardless of what you do to me,” Nicholas says.

Pierce turns to him. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Nicholas doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifts slightly against his restraints. I can see him studying Pierce like he’s a puzzle to solve, that sharp mind calculating exactly which pressure points to push.

“Check the news,” Nicholas says coolly. “The announcement should be going live any moment now.”

Pierce takes a step closer, his shadow falling across Nicholas’s face. “What announcement?”

“An announcement that the Royal Foundation for Colonial Reparations is being established with immediate effect.”

Pierce’s expression doesn’t change, but his hand moves unconsciously to the gun at his hip.

“It’s funded by seven billion pounds from the royal family’s personal fortune,” Nicholas continues, “with additional commitments from aristocratic families totaling twelve billion.”

The warehouse seems to hold its breath. Even the distant sound of traffic outside fades.

“There’s also going to be the establishment of a task force to look at the rest of the Crown Estate and what legislation needs to be introduced in Parliament so that the majority of that wealth can be redistributed to the victims of colonial exploitation.”

For a long moment, Pierce just stares at him.

“You’re lying,” Pierce says finally.

“I’m not. I happen to agree with the argument that if we accept that members of the royal family and other aristocratic families are allowed the privilege of enjoying wealth we didn’t create, then we should also accept any obligations around ill-gotten entitlements.”

Nicholas pauses, letting the words sink in.

“While I might not have done anything personally wrong, it can’t be denied that I benefit from the historic wrongs committed by my ancestors.” His voice softens slightly. “And my brother and Oliver Hartwell agree with me wholeheartedly.”

Pierce squints at Nicholas, who regards him with cool composure, like he’s merely debating over drinks at Oxford, not standing in a warehouse in New Zealand, looking like he robbed a lost property bin blindfolded.

The silence stretches until one of Pierce’s men finally breaks it by pulling out his phone, his fingers fumbling with the screen. His face cycles through expressions from suspicion to elation.

“It’s true,” he stammers. “Boss, you need to see this.”

He thrusts the screen in front of Pierce, and I hear Prince Callum’s American accent cutting through the warehouse’s stale air “…establishing the Royal Foundation for Colonial Reparations with an initial endowment of twelve billion pounds to be distributed to communities affected by historical injustices.”

Pierce’s hand drops from his gun as Callum’s voice continues, steady and clear.

“The Crown acknowledges its role in centuries of extraction, enslavement, and cultural destruction that enriched the aristocracy of the United Kingdom at a devastating cost to other countries around the world. And we acknowledge that the descendants of those we wronged continue to suffer the economic and social consequences.”

I watch Pierce’s face as he processes this. His certainty, so absolute moments ago, has faded, and now his face is filled with doubt.

The warehouse goes silent as Callum continues to outline the framework and commitment to transparency. Then Oliver Hartwell speaks, discussing the steps they will be taking to ensure accountability and systemic change.

When the broadcast ends, Nicholas straightens as much as his bonds allow. “There. You’ve won. The acknowledgment you wanted, the funds to begin addressing historical wrongs. All without having to actually go through with an actual ransom.”

Pierce stands frozen, with the dazed look of someone watching their enemy surrender before the battle even started.

The warehouse fills with an awkward silence.

Pierce’s men look at each other like actors who’ve forgotten their lines.

One shuffles his feet. Another clears his throat.

Apparently, there isn’t an established kidnapping protocol for when your hostages give you what you want before you’ve even made the demands.

“This is…” Pierce starts, then stops. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. “This is not how I expected this to go.”

Nicholas actually smiles at that. “Revolutionary change rarely follows the expected script.”

Another long pause. I can hear my own heartbeat, loud in the silence.

“So…what do we do now?” one of the men finally asks. He looks genuinely lost. “I mean, they’ve basically joined our side.”

Pierce opens his mouth to reply, his lips forming words that never come because just then, there’s a loud banging noise, like thunder but more metallic.

The warehouse door buckles inward like it’s been hit by a battering ram.

For a split second, nobody moves. Then smoke grenades roll across the concrete floor, spinning like deadly pinwheels, spewing thick clouds that turn the air opaque.

Nicholas meets my gaze through the rapidly thickening smoke, and for the first time, there is genuine fear on his face.

And I’m fairly sure it’s not fear for his own safety.

It’s fear for me.

Because there is a high probability that whoever is about to arrive believes I’m one of the bad guys.