Page 69 of The Unlikely Spare
He straightens, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “I’ll have you know that whales are highly intelligent creatures with complex communication patterns.”
“Regardless, I’m sure Greenpeace is currently mobilizing a rescue mission.”
“For me or the whales?”
“Both. That was absolutely banjaxed.”
Nicholas blinks. “I beg your pardon. Banjaxed?”
“Broken beyond repair. Like your relationship with musical instruments, apparently.”
He snorts, but then his fingers find the didgeridoo again, tracing the paintings with unexpected reverence.
The humor in his expression shifts to something more thoughtful.
“It’s generous, isn’t it? That they give me gifts despite what my ancestors did to their people. Invaded their country. Stole their children. Destroyed their sacred sites. And here they are, patiently teaching me their music.”
Christ. When he drops the act like this, lets his real thoughts slip through, it does something to my chest I don’t want to examine.
It’s almost more than I can bear, Nicholas ruffled and real, sitting on the sofa while wrestling with the weight of history in his silk pajamas.
“Maybe that’s the point,” I hear myself say. “They’re choosing what to share. That’s its own power.”
Nicholas stares at me, those blue eyes wide. The air between us goes thick, charged. Then his smirk slides back into place like armor.
“Look at you, getting all philosophical,” he says. “Did they teach you postcolonial theory at protection officer school, or is this wisdom you picked up between tackling innocent princes and disapproving of their choices?”
The whiplash from genuine to performative leaves me dizzy. One second, he’s this thoughtful, conflicted man wrestling withcolonial guilt, and the next, he’s Prince Prick again, wielding sarcasm like a fucking sword.
And yet, I’d rather have this—his cutting words and defensive snark—than the suffocating politeness he’s been drowning me in since Ulu?u.
I finally understand why his ignoring me over the last few days has bothered me so much. It appears part of melikedthe fact that Nicholas singled me out previously. The way he’d focus that sharp wit on me like I was worth the effort of irritating.
Christ, what does it say about me that I’d rather be the target of his verbal warfare than be treated like just another member of staff?
While I’ve been navel-gazing, Nicholas has turned his attention back to the didgeridoo.
He raises it to his lips again. “William said something about breathing continuously. Through your nose while your mouth?—”
The sound he produces is like someone trying to blow-dry a harmonica underwater. I actually step backward.
“Fecking Christ.”
“Come on then,” he challenges. “If you’re such an expert.”
“I never claimed?—”
“Scared, O’Connell?”
Shite. I know it’s bait. Know I should walk away. Instead, I find myself crouching next to the sofa.
Which is a bad idea.
Because we’re close now. Close enough that I can see his pupils dilate. My heart’s doing something irregular in my chest.
“Show me then,” he says in a low voice.
I should leave. Should remember I’m working. Should remember he’s a prince and I’m here to protect him, not to notice the way his throat moves when he swallows.
