Page 25 of The Unlikely Spare
But the state dinner? Christ. That took the absolute biscuit. He told the French ambassador I was writing a romance novel in my spare time. Then he spent ten minutes spinning this elaborate shite about a brooding bodyguard and a lonely duchess while I stood there like a statue, professional mask locked in place, while internally planning exactly where I’d hide his body.
The worst part is the way his eyes light up when he suspects he’s managed to get under my skin. The satisfaction in his voice when he lands a particularly good dig. And the bastard has the audacity to look good while doing it, which somehow makes it worse.
The posh git wields his royal privilege like a schoolboy with a magnifying glass, and I’m the feckin’ ant getting fried for his amusement.
I’m actually surprised there are not more people trying to murder him, to be honest.
My general dislike of the British Monarchy has now crystallized into an intense dislike of one specific member.
“I haven’t observed anyone suspicious in the Prince’s inner circle,” I say.
“Does the Prince comply with security protocols?” Pierce asks, his voice carrying that subtle edge I’ve learned means he isn’t entirely satisfied with my answer.
I think of Nicholas’s eye rolls when I suggest safer routes, his sighs when we conduct room sweeps before he enters. He’s got that whole carefree prince playboy act down pat. Except sometimes his eyes tell a different story.
“I believe he finds security measures restrictive,” I say. “But he complies with essential protocols.”
Thornton snorts. “That’s generous. Reports suggest he treats security as an inconvenience at best.”
I hold my tongue, though fuck knows why I feel the need to defend the prick.
Maybe it’s because I suspect the truth is more complicated than Thornton understands. Nicholas performs exactly what’s expected of him—royal duties, public appearances, the charming prince act—but he maintains his rebellion in small, deliberately chosen battles. Like a man in a cage, rattling the bars just enough to remind himself that he can, but never enough to actually break free.
I understand it because I’ve occasionally felt something similar, the exhaustion of being what everyone needs you to be instead of who you actually are.
“The security arrangements for Australia and New Zealand will be complex,” Thornton continues, pulling up a map on the screen. “Sydney, Cairns, Alice Springs, Darwin, Auckland, Wellington—twenty-six official engagements over four weeks.”
“The Australian and New Zealand police forces will handle outer perimeter security,” Pierce adds. “But close protection remains our responsibility, and after what happened withHargrove infiltrating Matheson’s team, we can’t afford any missteps.”
I nod. I know exactly what’s riding on this. This case could make or break my career trajectory. But the implications if I fail also have wider repercussions for RaSP, for Scotland Yard, for the country.
And for Prince Nicholas, of course.
“It’s a pity you’ll have to be away for Christmas, but at least you’ll get a break from this weather,” Pierce remarks.
Christmas. The other officers had reacted to the tour announcement with quiet resignation and discussions about having to reschedule plans.
I hadn’t reacted at all.
My big Christmas plans involved a frozen pizza and whatever Netflix had on offer. There were no Christmas dinner reservations to cancel, no disappointed partner, no family traditions to put on hold.
Being undercover hasn’t left time to focus on relationships. My last attempt—some bloke named Dave who worked at a garage in Southwark—went south after I missed three dinners running because of a drug bust that dragged on.
It’s become easier not to bother.
The briefing continues with logistics, contingency plans, and coordination protocols. I absorb every detail, building mental maps of vulnerabilities and response strategies. This is what I’m good at. This is what makes sense.
Not the knot in my gut that tightens every time Prince Nicholas walks into a room.
I don’t understand why he gets under my skin so much. I’ve worked undercover with hard bastards—dealers who’d gut you for looking at them wrong, gang bosses who kept pliers in their desk drawers for more than fixing things.
I’d managed to keep my cool through all of it. But Nicholas, with his posh accent and cutting remarks?
Christ. My jaw aches from grinding my teeth whenever he opens his mouth.
After five minutes with him, I’m always one sarcastic comment away from saying something that’ll end up in my disciplinary file.
And, unfortunately, “Told royal spare to get his head out of his arse” would not be career-enhancing, even if it would be deeply satisfying.
