27 Chapter 13

It was strange that no one else seemed to notice Rohan’s absence. The zywern had a new trainer, and no one seemed to wonder where Jamil’s new manservant was—if anyone in the palace had even noticed that he’d had a manservant for a brief time. Rationally, he knew that Rohan must have changed memories of those who remembered him, but it still seemed surreal that no one had noticed his sudden disappearance.

It was like he had never even existed.

Sometimes, when he couldn’t sleep, Jamil wondered if he’d just hallucinated everything.

But no, the thin golden thread around his telepathic core was very real, no matter how raw and stretched it felt.

Seventeen days.

A little over half a month. It seemed so ridiculous to be so affected by Rohan’s absence when he’d known him for half a month. Ridiculous and embarrassing. It wasn’t as though he’d fallen in love with Rohan or something. He’d just gotten… a little attached. Or more than a little. Jamil couldn’t even look at Mehmer’s portrait anymore, shame and guilt twisting his stomach every time. He had to remind himself that he hadn’t betrayed Mehmer’s memory—that nothing had really happened, that he hadn’t wanted anything to happen—but it was futile.

The fact of the matter was, no matter how he dressed it up, Jamil missed the man he’d known for seventeen days more than he missed the husband he’d shared years of his life with.

It made him feel so dirty.

That was how Jamil found himself watching holovid after holovid of Mehmer, trying to remember how much he loved his husband, how much he missed him. He did remember, of course. He remembered how much he had adored Mehmer’s soft laugh and slightly inappropriate sense of humor. He remembered how much he had loved Mehmer’s optimism and easy-going nature. Mehmer had been beautiful, wonderful, and easy to love.

Mehmer still wasn’t the man Jamil thought about all the damn time.

He wasn’t the man Jamil wanted back, badly.

It felt like the worst sort of betrayal, even though nothing had really happened between Rohan and him.

Nothing? What about a dozen illegal merges you’ve engaged in with him? Or the fact that you masturbated in his presence, like a shameless harlot? Or the fact that sometimes you dream of a thick, dark cock that definitely doesn’t belong to your late husband?

Flushing, Jamil pushed the thought away. He wasn’t responsible for his dreams. He refused to feel guilty about his dreams.

“Your Highness?”

Jamil flinched at the sound of the AI’s voice. “Yes, Omer?”

“The Queen is asking you to join her at the Eipent’tak Gic Center, Your Highness.”

Jamil’s heart jumped into his throat. He had to force himself to move. “I’ll be there momentarily.”

His thoughts racing, he found the nearest t-chamber.

The few moments it took for the transport to arrive at his destination seemed like the longest in his life.

Finally, he was walking through the green corridors of the Eipent’tak Gic Center. Barely aware of people bowing to him, Jamil strode in the direction he could vaguely sense his mother, thanks to the familial bond that they shared.

He found her as she was leaving Doctor Tuvok’s office.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she was saying, smiling genially at the distinguished older man Jamil recognized as one of the most famous gicists on the pl.

Tuvok bowed slightly. “You don’t have to thank me, Your Majesty. I live to serve you and your family.” Noticing Jamil, he bowed to him, too. “Your Highness.” Something flickered in his eyes. He seemed to hesitate before saying, “I believe Her Majesty will tell you the details, so all I can offer is my congratulations.”

Jamil’s stomach clenched. “Thank you,” he said with numb lips.

“Oh, darling,” Queen Janesh said quietly, taking one look at his face. She took his arm and gently led him away. “I know that’s not how you imagined this, but this is good news, my son.”

“News,” Jamil said faintly as the Queen led them into the gestation room.

There were rows upon rows of gestation cubes—or artificial wombs, as people called them. But Jamil’s gaze didn’t wander.

He knew where to look, where to walk. He felt the very faint echo of the baby’s mind, still tiny and uncertain, but unmistakably familiar.

He stopped in front of the gestation cube and stared at what looked like a bundle of cells in it.

He felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder. She squeezed it.

“You are going to have a daughter,” she said softly.

Jamil felt like something lodged into his throat, something thick and painful. He forced himself to tear his gaze away from the rapidly growing cells. His fingers were unsteady as he touched the datapad on the gestation cube. Most of the stuff about the embryo was too technical for him to understand. All he could understand was that the embryo was healthy and well developed—and that its biological parents were Prince Jamil’ngh’veighli of the Third Grand Clan and Prince-Consort Mehmer’ver’veighli.

“Does Doctor Tuvok know?” Jamil said, finally finding his voice.

“Yes, but he is sworn to silence,” the Queen said.

“Who?” Jamil whispered.

His mother squeezed his shoulder again. “The donor is a healthy young man. That’s all you need to know, Jamil. Think of this child as yours and Mehmer’s.”

“Who, Mother?” Jamil said.

He could feel his mother’s difort through their familial bond. “His name is Serdn Vewyr. He’s twenty-nine. He’s married with two healthy children. He’s an engineer, with above average intelligence. He also looks a little like Mehmer—not that it matters much, since the child was gically engineered to inherit your physical appearance, mostly. Obviously Serdn Vewyr wasn’t told what childless family would use his generous donation.”

Jamil nodded faintly, staring at the embryo.

At his daughter.

“I already arranged the transfer of the gestation cube to the palace,” his mother said, as efficient as ever, even though there was something like uncertainly in the air around her.

“Thank you,” Jamil said, breaking the somewhat awkward silence. “For everything.”

He felt her relief, nearly overwhelming in its strength. “Of course, my darling,” she said softly, giving him a telepathic hug.

Her mental touch was warm and loving, but Jamil almost flinched, his mind instinctively shying away from the contact. His telepathic core felt like a raw wound these days and even the gentle touch of his mother’s mind seemed too much—wrong.

“You need to move on, love,” the Queen said, probably interpreting the state of his mind as his grief for Mehmer. “You’ve been given a wonderful chance to be happy. This child is a gift. I know you wanted Mehmer’s children, but as far as everyone is concerned, she’s yours and Mehmer’s. Her other biological father doesn’t matter.”

Jamil didn’t look at his mother. Couldn’t. He wasn’t sure his face wouldn’t betray him.

Because his mother couldn’t be more wrong. This tiny life in the gestation cube, this baby… it wasn’t Mehmer’s or Serdn Vewyr’s. Jamil didn’t know how Rohan had managed to trick Doctor Tuvok, but he had. Jamil couldn’t explain how he knew it, why he was so confident that Rohan had kept his word.

Or rather, he tried not to think about it—about the fact that something about this baby felt right. Something about this tiny life soothed the dull ache of his weakening bond to Rohan, not enough to make it stop aching, but enough to anchor it a little.

Jamil pressed his hand against the gestation cube and murmured, “Hi there.” His voice cracked slightly, but he smiled.

His mother was right about one thing: this child was a gift.

The last gift her other father had given him.