Page 13 of The Unlikely Spare
The prince’s Aunt Cordelia, a woman who looks like she’s permanently smelling something unpleasant, sidles up to him. “Not shooting today, Nicholas? Your father never missed a hunt.”
His shoulders tense slightly.
“I prefer to enjoy nature without perforating it, Aunt Cordelia,” he replies with a smile. “Besides, someone needs to keep count of how many birds Uncle Rupert claims versus how many he actually hits.”
Cordelia is distracted from her conversation with Nicholas by the head gamekeeper calling attention to everyone to start the hunt.
The whole thing unfolds with the rigid precision you’d expect from people who’ve been shooting birds for centuries. Beaters line up at the woodland edge like soldiers, getting ready to drive the pheasants toward their doom.
The toffs are assigned their pegs—a fancy word for where they stand to shoot—arranged in an arc across the field where the birds will fly.
Because Nicholas isn’t shooting, he’s been given the task of handling the retrieving dogs, who are stationed off to the side of the shooting line.
I watch as Nicholas moves among the retrievers, then crouches to their level. A chocolate Labrador bounds over to him.
“Hello, you magnificent beast,” he murmurs, scratching behind her ears. The dog practically melts against him. “Ready for some work today?”
The dog responds with a soft whine.
Nicholas looks up and catches me watching him, those icy eyes narrowing.
I’m distracted from his stare by the sound of a whistle blast. It’s apparently the sign for the beaters to begin walking forward to flush the birds.
It’s like watching some ancient tribal ritual. The beaters’ sticks tap rhythmically against the bushes, causing pheasants to burst upward in panicked explosions against the pale November sky.
The first shot tears through the stillness and my muscles instinctively tense. I have to stop myself from dropping into a defensive crouch and reaching for my weapon.
My jaw clenches as more shots crack across the estate, each one setting my teeth on edge.
Some birds drop like stones. Others fight it, wings working frantically even as gravity wins, their bodies hitting the ground with soft thuds.
I watch a wounded bird drag itself through the undergrowth, leaving a trail of feathers that catch on the frozen grass.
“You don’t approve, O’Connell.” Nicholas’s voice carries over the gunfire.
I flick a quick glance at him. “Sorry, Your Royal Highness?”
“I can tell by your expression. You’re obviously not a hunting enthusiast.” Those cool eyes scan up and down my body in a way that causes a prickle along my spine. “I wouldn’t have thought you fit the profile of the typical animal rights activist.”
I shrug. “I have no problem with people hunting when they need the food.”
The unspoken words hang between us.
Not this choreographed slaughter that serves no purpose besides entertainment.
Nicholas’s mouth twitches upward like I’ve spoken aloud.
“What counts as ‘needing’ the food? Does one have to be starving or merely hungry? Where does your moral line in the sand get drawn?”
I blink at him. Somehow, it’s not what I expected him to ask.
Nicholas watches me with detached amusement, like a cat that’s discovered a particularly interesting mouse.
“I have to admit, I haven’t spent time contemplating my exact stance.” I scan the perimeter, keeping my voice neutral despite the acid bubbling beneath. “I’m a practical man, not a philosophical one. But I do believe that killing should serve a purpose beyond simply amusing people.”
When I’m undercover, I’m usually playing someone so different from who I actually am that it’s easy to bury my own reactions beneath layers of fabricated personality.
But my protection officer persona is just an extension of my usual role in law enforcement, so it’s difficult to separate the real me from the role I’m playing.
