Page 104 of The Unlikely Spare
Chapter Twenty-Five
Eoin
I’d lingered in Nicholas’s suite after everyone else had scarpered because I wanted to tell him I’m going to ask for a reassignment, how this assignment is destroying every principle I’ve built my career on. How it’s turning me into the kind of eejit who puts personal wants above professional obligations.
How I’m compromising his safety with every glance, every touch, every moment I spend imagining his body instead of scanning for threats.
Instead, we had the most intimate conversations I’ve ever had, and then I bent him over the bathroom counter and claimed him like a man possessed.
And now it appears I can’t stop kissing him. Soft, sweet kisses where I claim his beautiful, sarcastic mouth. The little sigh he makes when I kiss the pulse point at his throat feels almost like a confession.
Nicholas. This brave, reckless, haughty, compassionate, infuriating, brilliant, broken, fragile, fierce man.
All his contradictions, his multitudes. I want the whole bleeding lot.
I don’t understand this fascination with a man whose world couldn’t be further from mine, whose life is dictated by centuries of tradition I’ve spent my life resenting.
This impossible situation where every moment of joy comes tangled with the certainty of eventual pain.
Yet I can’t make myself walk away.
Even though I know I have to.
A noise at the suite’s entrance causes ice to flow through my veins. The electronic click of a security keycard followed by footsteps too measured to be hotel staff. Shite.
I freeze, my hands still cupping Nicholas’s face, before instinct takes over.
I pull away from him, cursing under my breath as I fumble to pull my trousers up and exit the bathroom with my service weapon already half-drawn. Singh freezes mid-step when he sees me, his gaze flicking up and down my disheveled appearance, his eyes narrowing.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I was just helping the prince clean up from the party.”
“Right.” Singh’s face is a polite mask that doesn’t quite conceal the skepticism beneath.
The bathroom door opens with the worst possible timing. Nicholas appears in the doorway, shirt half-untucked, his lips still visibly swollen from my kisses. He freezes for a second before his royal training kicks in, that practiced smile sliding into place like armor.
“Ah, Officer Singh. Lovely of you to join us. Officer O’Connell stayed behind to explain the security protocols for post-party debris removal. Fascinating stuff.”
Singh’s gaze shifts from Nicholas’s disheveled appearance to my flushed face, a look of resignation settling in his eyes. “I’m sure it was most educational, sir.”
“Why are you here?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Thought Davis had the evening rotation.”
Singh’s expression remains neutral. “Davis is down with food poisoning. Something about suspect seafood.”
Nicholas steps forward, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Oh dear, was it the prawns? I did warn the hotel staff about serving seafood on Christmas Day. Heat and shellfish make such treacherous bedfellows.” He pauses, a hint of his usual sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Speaking of dangers, perhaps you could suggest to Cavendish that I wish to go through the revised security procedures at some point?”
“Of course, sir. Your security is our primary concern,” Singh says flatly.
Fuck.
“I should get back outside. Update the night rotation on the situation with Davis,” Singh says.
Nicholas shoots me a glance I can’t quite interpret. “I’m just heading to bed. Christmas festivities and all that, it’s quite exhausting being joyful on command.” He flashes that practiced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you gentlemen don’t mind?”
“Of course,” Singh and I answer in unison, our voices overlapping awkwardly.
I follow Singh to the door, hyperaware of Nicholas watching us leave.
