Page 157 of The Unlikely Spare
“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.
