Page 117 of The Unlikely Spare
“Unknown. Blake and Cavendish were there, but we got separated. Singh was—” I stop, realizing I don’t actually know where Singh disappeared to before the explosion. “I don’t know who to trust.”
“What’s your status?”
“I’ve got the prince. We’re in a stolen vehicle about twenty miles from the attack site. I need an extraction team I can trust. No local assets, no one from the current detail.”
“That’s not easy to arrange on short notice,” he says, his voice tight. “We’ve got limited resources in New Zealand. Pierce is on his way. He should be in Singapore soon. I’ll contact him on the plane, let him know what’s going on.”
“We need a secure location and transport. I can’t guarantee I can keep him safe by myself for long.”
“As soon as Pierce is on the ground, we’ll work out a strategy. But for now, you need to keep moving.”
“We will.”
“Keep in contact.”
“Yes, sir.”
I slide back into the driver’s seat, feeling Nicholas’s cold gaze on me. Without a word, I start the engine and pull back onto the road, the tightness in my chest having nothing to do with the terrorists hunting us.
Nicholas’s features have transformed into that perfect royal mask I’ve seen him wear at ceremonies and functions. It’s polite, distant, and reveals absolutely fucking nothing about what’s going through his head as he stares determinedly out the window.
But I know what lies beneath it now. I’ve seen him undone, vulnerable, laughing. I’ve tasted the salt on his skin. And watching him rebuild those walls, knowing I’m the reason he’s retreating behind them, carves something hollow beneath my ribs.
Is his level of hurt a sign he actually cares about me? That this hasn’t just been about the thrill of forbidden pleasure, or proving he could have what he shouldn’t? Maybe I’ve become more than just his bit of rough, his working-class rebellion against a lifetime of proper etiquette.
The possibility makes my chest constrict even tighter. Christ, what if I’ve wrecked something precious before it even had a chance to exist?
I want to reach across the center console and touch him, make him look at me. But I keep my hands locked on the steering wheel.
We’re coming to the edge of a town now. The sign tells us the name.
Rotorua.
I’m fairly sure it’s best for everyone if I don’t attempt to pronounce that aloud, as my Belfast tongue would make a right mess of it.
“We need to swap cars again,” I say.
“I’ll have to concede to your superior knowledge about getaway vehicles. Is car theft also part of the standard Scotland Yard curriculum, or was that a specialized elective?”
The disdain in his tone lands like a knife between my ribs, but underneath it, I hear something else.
Pain.
I’ve become fluent in Nicholas Alexander over these past weeks, learning to read the minute shifts in his expressions, the subtle changes in his voice. And right now, beneath the sarcasm, he’s bleeding.
I did that.
Me and my necessary lies.
I don’t reply to him. Getting into a verbal sparring match with Nicholas right now would be like stepping into the ring witha champion while blindfolded. He’s armed with royal wit and righteous anger.
I’ve got nothing but compromised principles and regret.
A flash of green catches my eye—a roadside sign forWai-O-Tapu Thermal Wonderland, 2km Ahead. Perfect. Tourist attractions mean rental cars, and rental cars mean generic vehicles with minimal security features. I signal and turn off the main road, following signs to a sprawling car park nestled amid a steaming, otherworldly landscape. Plumes of vapor rise from the ground, giving the whole place an apocalyptic feel that matches my current mood.
It’s the perfect hunting ground.
I navigate to the far corner where the security cameras won’t have eyes on us, pulling in beside a row of rental cars. The stench hits as soon as I climb out of the car. Rotten eggs and minerals, the smell of the earth’s insides.
