17 Chapter (3)

my husband and have them brought to justice.”

A strange expression flickered across Rohan’s face.

Jamil wished he knew what he was thinking. He wished he still had him inside him so that he wouldn’t have to guess.

Ugh, enough.

“Good,” Rohan said after a moment, averting his gaze. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He walked to the table by the window and poured himself a glass of water. He gulped it down and stared into the empty glass, his gaze faraway, deep in thought. His jaw was clenched and there was something agitated about him, his shoulders and the muscles of his back tense under his honey-brown skin.

Jamil couldn’t quite look away, his stomach squirming. Rohan might not be into men, but unfortunately, Jamil couldn’t say the same about himself. He told himself it was natural to admire a fine-looking specimen of a man. It wasn’t anything more than that. He was a widower, not dead.

“I need to get inside the Fifth Royal Palace,” Rohan said at last, setting the glass down. “Even if the regent doesn’t have anything to do with your husband’s death, she could be the one behind other attempts to discredit us. The anti-rebel campaign of the past few years started around the same time the assassination attempts on Warrehn did. I don’t believe in coincidences. I need to find out how she even knows where the rebels’ home is. It was our best-guarded secret. If there’s a leak, I need to find it. I need to find out who else knows that the rebels are based on Tai’Lehr.”

There were things Jamil could have asked about. Prince Warrehn’s fate, for one. How had he ended up on Tai’Lehr and why wasn’t heing home?

But Jamil still felt too shaken by their merge and wanted to leave as soon as possible, so that he could process everything in the privacy of his rooms, away from this man and the strange effect he had on him.

“It would be very difficult for you to get inside her palace,” Jamil said, clearing his throat. “The regent’s security measures are… somewhat extensive. The only people exempt from background checks are members of other royal houses and their entourage—because it would be considered insulting.”

“So I can just apany you?”

Jamil shook his head. “You can’t just apany me. You’ll have to be officially listed as a member of my personal staff first.” He wrinkled his forehead. “My household is full except for the position of my personal manservant. I’ve never seen the point of getting one. I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

“Are you suggesting that I be your manservant?”

Jamil looked at Rohan in bewilderment. There was something affronted and incredulous in Rohan’s tone, as if he couldn’t imagine being a prince’s manservant. Jamil felt a little offended, to be honest. “I’ll have you know it’s a very coveted position. Definitely more prestigious than being a dirty, sweaty zywern trainer.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Rohan’s face. “If you say so, Highness.”

Jamil narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re laughing at me?”

“Never,” Rohan deadpanned. “I’m… honored to ept such a coveted job position.”

Pretending he couldn’t hear the laughing undertones in Rohan’s voice, Jamil said, “It’s settled, then. I’ll officially reassign you to my personal staff.”

Rohan raised his eyebrows. “And the Master of the Household won’t find it strange that you’re appointing a zywern trainer to be your manservant?”

Jamil frowned. Rohan was right. Of course Weyrn would find it strange.

Rohan reached for the white shirt thrown over the chair’s back and shrugged into it, his muscles rippling. Dark fingers started buttoning up the shirt. “Let me talk to him. I’ll convince him that there’s nothing strange about it.”

“You mean mind-trick him,” Jamil said.

Rohan shrugged, smiling a little. “Same difference, Highness.”

Jamil pursed his lips, trying to pretend he hated the way Rohan said Highness. It didn’t sound mocking anymore. It sounded… almost affectionate. Like an endearment.

Ugh, he really wanted to slap himself. What the hell, seriously.

“Are you going to him now? It’s one in the morning.”

“Perfect time for some mischief,” Rohan said. “People’s shields are weaker while they’re sleepy—or sleeping.”

“You’re despicable,” Jamil said.

Smiling, Rohan leaned in and tapped him on the nose. “And you’re cute when you get all indignant and prickly.”

Jamil glared at him, hating how half-hearted his indignation was—and hating the fact that he was leaning into Rohan’s touch, into the hand that had moved from his nose to his cheek.

Rohan’s thumb brushed below his ear, making Jamil shudder.

Black eyes stared at that spot.

“You should use a dermal regenerator,” Rohan said, his expression very strange.

Jamil moistened his dry lips with his tongue. “You like it. You like that you left a mark on me.” It was a statement, not a question. With Rohan’s thumb against his telepathic point, the connection between them had flared up again. It was weaker than a true merge, but he could still feel some of Rohan’s emotions. And his emotions were very at odds with his words. Rohan felt satisfaction as he stared at the bite mark.

“Yes,” Rohan said with a grimace, removing his hand. “That’s why you need to get the mark healed.”

Jamil breathed evenly, suppressing the urge to grab Rohan’s hand and put it back on him.

“I will,” he said. Of course he would. He could hardly let anyone notice a bite mark so high on his neck. Even a cravat wouldn’t hide it unless he got really creative with it.

“Good,” Rohan said, avoiding his gaze. “I’m leaving. Go to your room before anyone notices you in this part of the palace.”

“You’re terribly high-handed for a zywern trainer,” Jamil said, cocking his head. “What’s your main upation on Tai’Lehr?”

A ghost of a smile touched Rohan’s lips. “Didn’t we establish that I’m just a mannerless, uncultured brute, Highness? Go.”

Shooting him a withering look, Jamil went, fuming that Rohan had refused to give him a straight answer.

He returned to his bedroom, still feeling agitated and vaguely frustrated.

He undressed and got into his bed, but sleep refused toe. He wanted…

He wanted.

For the first time since his husband’s death, Jamil found his hand slipping down his body and into his underwear. He was hard, for no damn reason at all. Hard and incredibly horny.

And although he didn’t think of anything or anyone as he stroked himself fast and hard, he still felt vaguely dirty afterward, as if he’d done something wrong.

Maybe he had.