Page 62 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Nicholas

Of all the times to have unexpected guests, now is rather unfortunate timing.

The warehouse erupts into absolute bedlam as smoke grenades transform visibility into a suggestion rather than a reality. Through the haze, I catch glimpses of Pierce’s men scattering like startled pigeons at a wedding. Well, if pigeons carried automatic weapons and revolutionary manifestos.

Through the smoke, figures in dark tactical gear surge through every entrance simultaneously, their movements coordinated with the precision of a choreographed assault.

“Police! Armed Offenders Squad! Everyone on the ground now!”

“Get down!” Eoin tries to push me behind a crate.

“You get down,” I counter, attempting to shield him with my body, which, given our respective sizes, is rather like trying to hide a bear behind a lamppost.

“For fuck’s sake, Nicholas. I’m the protection officer!”

“Actually, currently, you’re an accused kidnapper, which makes you the one in danger.”

We’re essentially wrestling for the coveted position of human shield, each trying to out-martyr the other in what must be the world’s most dysfunctional game of Twister.

“Move!” Eoin grabs my arm, finally dragging me toward better cover as a bullet sparks off the concrete where we’d been standing. I have no idea whether it’s from the force arriving to rescue me or Pierce’s men, and now is not the time for extended questions.

Pierce’s men are running in every direction, some returning fire while backing toward exits, others diving behind whatever cover they can find.

We duck behind an overturned table as the New Zealand authorities demonstrate why their rugby team’s intimidation tactics translate surprisingly well to law enforcement.

“Stop trying to protect me,” Eoin growls as I attempt to position myself between him and the nearest armed officer.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “You’re being remarkably ungrateful. Shall I add unappreciative of heroic gestures to your performance review?”

The smoke begins to clear, revealing a warehouse floor littered with terrorists being efficiently zip-tied by officers. Some of Pierce’s men are still trying to escape through various exits, creating a rather undignified game of uniformed whack-a-mole.

Then I spot Singh, Davis, and MacLeod, emerging from the smoke like avenging angels. Their weapons are drawn, and their eyes lock onto Eoin.

“Drop any weapons and step away from the prince,” Singh commands.

“He’s on our side. He’s been keeping me safe, and his gun is out of bullets,” I say quickly. “He doesn’t have any other weapons. Well, unless you count his personality.”

Meanwhile, Eoin’s got his hands up in a surrender position, stepping away from me.

Something about seeing him vulnerable like that, watching Singh move in with his handcuffs while Davis keeps his weapon trained on Eoin, makes something primal, protective, and possessive surge through me.

“If you hurt him, I will ensure that all your next performance reviews include a detailed account of how you mistook a rescue for a kidnapping. I will ensure that every cup of tea in the security office mysteriously becomes decaf for the rest of your natural lives, and I will insist you present all future threat assessments in the form of Broadway musical numbers.”

The protection officers freeze, clearly unprepared for their supposedly kidnapped principal to threaten them.

But hey, at least I’m not threatening them with the eternal vengeance I promised Pierce’s men.

Singh’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. Davis actually lowers his weapon slightly, confusion replacing his determined expression. MacLeod’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water that’s trying to explain its tax returns.

But they are gravely mistaken if they think that when I’ve finally, impossibly, improbably found someone who loves me, I’m just going to let them separate us and take him away like he’s a common criminal.

Because this love I have for Eoin isn’t a polite, appropriate affection. It’s not the carefully managed emotions that fit neatly into my royal schedule.

It’s messy and desperate and all-consuming. It’s me finally understanding why people write poetry and start wars and do impossibly stupid things. Because when you find someone who has seen your worst and still looks at you like you’re worth dying for, you don’t let them go.

Not for protocol. Not for propriety. Not for anything.

“With respect, sir,” Davis interjects, his face earnest, “Stockholm syndrome is common in these situations. You’ve been under extreme stress?—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I cross the distance between Singh and myself with three precise steps. Then, in a moment of either inspiration or insanity, I snatch the handcuffs and keys out of his hand before he can react.

Singh’s too surprised to stop me, his hand still suspended in the air where the cuffs used to be. The metal is cold and heavy in my palm, and my hands are surprisingly steady as I move. This is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and considering my track record, that’s saying something.

But that knowledge doesn’t stop me from snapping one cuff around my wrist and the other around Eoin’s.

The click of metal on metal sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence. The cold steel against my skin feels like a point of no return.

With my free hand, I throw the key down the nearby grate, where it clatters through the metal bars and disappears into god knows what below.

Eoin looks down at our joined wrists with an expression caught between exasperation and something softer. “Did you seriously just handcuff yourself to me?”

“Sometimes actions speak louder than words,” I inform him.

The protection officers stare at me like I’ve just announced my intention to step down from my role and become a street performer.

“Your Royal Highness,” Singh says slowly, “what are you doing?”

“Ensuring you can’t separate us. Rather clever, don’t you think?”

“It’s definitely something,” MacLeod says.

“I go where he goes.”

The words feel like a vow.

MacLeod shakes her head. “This is the most fucked-up case of Stockholm syndrome I’ve ever seen.”

“Actually, I think it’s more the most fucked-up case of love you’ve ever seen,” Singh mutters.

The unexpected understanding in Singh’s voice makes my throat tight. Despite the insanity of the situation, he sees what this is.

Not Stockholm syndrome. Not trauma bonding.

Just two people who found each other in the worst possible circumstances and decided to hold on anyway.

In the silence that follows, there’s the sound of more vehicles approaching—heavy engines, multiple units. It could be Pierce’s people regrouping, could be local police, could be anyone.

The tension ratchets up again. Everyone’s hands move to weapons. Even handcuffed to me, Eoin automatically moves to shield me from the door.

“We need to move,” MacLeod says quickly. “We’ll sort this out somewhere secure. Sir, will you come willingly if we don’t separate you from O’Connell?”

I lift our cuffed hands. “I think I’ve made my position clear.”

Singh almost smiles. “The car’s this way. And, O’Connell? No sudden moves. I’d rather not have to explain to Cavendish how Prince Nicholas got shot while handcuffed to his protection officer-slash-kidnapper-slash?—”

He pauses, clearly searching for the right word. I decide to help him out.

“Boyfriend,” I supply helpfully. “Do keep up, Singh.”

The word feels strange and wonderful in my mouth. Boyfriend. Such an ordinary word for something that feels anything but ordinary.

But there it is, out in the open, no taking it back now.

As we’re led to their vehicle, Eoin leans close. “You realize this complicates everything?”

“Darling,” I murmur back, “when has anything between us been uncomplicated?”

“Fair point.”

Walking while handcuffed to someone requires a peculiar synchronization. We have to match our strides, negotiate doorways sideways, constantly aware of the pull of metal between us. Every step requires cooperation, communication. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and somehow perfect.

Rather like whatever this relationship is, actually.

Behind us, sirens wail as more law enforcement descends on Pierce’s warehouse. Through the car window, I catch a glimpse of Pierce being led out in restraints.

Ahead awaits the fallout of everything that has happened and probably a media crisis of epic proportions.

But for now, sitting handcuffed to the man who was sent to betray me and chose to risk everything to save me instead, I can’t help but smile.

We’re alive. We’re together.

Everything else is just details.