Page 84 of The Unlikely Spare
A sharp knock shatters the moment.
“Your Royal Highness?” It’s James. “My apologies, but I’ve just received additional information about tomorrow’s schedule changes.”
Eoin steps back so quickly he nearly collides with the coffee table, his professional mask slamming back into place.
By the time James enters, folder in hand, I’m standing by the window and Eoin’s near the door.
James seems to pick up on the lingering tension. He stops a few steps into the room. “Should I come back?”
“No,” Eoin says before I can respond. “I was just completing the security check. I’ll be outside if you need anything, sir.”
The door shuts behind Eoin, taking all the oxygen in the room with him.
James launches into his briefing immediately. “The weather forecast for tomorrow shows potential storms, so we may need to consider moving the outdoor ceremony indoors. The advance team is scouting alternative venues…”
I nod at what seems like appropriate intervals, but my mind is elsewhere. James could be telling me that Parliament has decided to abolish the monarchy, and I’d still be thinking about the precise shade of gray in Eoin’s eyes.
I want him to touch me, to kiss me, to fuck me. I want to be the sole focus of his attention, see what he looks like when he unleashes, when all that control shatters.
I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I’ve never before had this craving to consume someone, and to be consumed in return.
I get the feeling he could take me apart, and I would not be the same when he put me back together.
The wanting terrifies me more than any assassination or kidnapping attempt could. Opening myself up like this, practically begging to be eviscerated again. Because that’s what happens when you let people see the soft parts—they find the exact pressure points that hurt most.
Daniel taught me that lesson with brutal efficiency. Beautiful Daniel with his poet’s mouth and accountant’s soul.
And now I’m faced with another man who sees too much, yet I want him to see even more. Apparently, I’m incapable of learning from spectacular failure.
“Will there be anything else tonight, sir?” James asks, closing his folder.
“No, thank you, James.”
He leaves, and I’m alone with the echo of everything I cannot have. Outside my door, Eoin maintains his watch—close enough to save my life, too far away to touch.
I pour another whisky and raise it in a mock toast to my own stupidity. Here’s to wanting what will destroy you.
After all, I am my father’s son.
Chapter Twenty-One
Eoin
There should be a special circle of hell for protection officers who’ve tasted their principal. Somewhere between Dante’s second circle of Lust and the seventh circle of Violence, where you spend eternity watching the person you’re meant to protect while your professionalism burns away like paper in a fucking furnace.
The Government House ballroom isn’t hell, but it’s close enough.
New Zealand’s political and cultural elite are mingling under the chandeliers for this Christmas Eve function, their laughter and conversation creating a gentle hum beneath the string quartet playing in the corner. A massive Christmas tree dominates the far corner, and someone’s gone slightly mad with the tinsel, so it looks like it’s covered in silver entrails.
I survey the room from my position near one of the ornate doorways. Blake and Singh circulate through the crowd while Malcolm monitors the security feeds from the control room. Davis stands near the main entrance, looking like an overawed kid at his first school dance.
And Nicholas—Prince Nicholas—holds court near the center of the room, effortlessly charming all of his admirers.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, one stubborn curl at his nape the only sign he’s human and not some posh portrait stepped out of its frame.
Christ. When did I start noticing individual curls?
You’d never know he’d headbutted a terrorist two days ago.
