No, there was something else; he was sure of it.
Jamil was also pretty sure Rohan hadn’t told him the full truth.
“You’re probably right,” Jamil said. “I know you’re right, but it’s—it’s not easy. I still would like to read those old reports. Even if I don’t find anything, I’ll feel better knowing that I’ve done everything I could to avenge my husband.”
Dalatteya nodded and stood. “Very well, Your Highness. I’ll send you the reports once my assistant finds them.”
Jamil stood and gave her a shallow bow. “Thank you.”
He walked out of her office, feeling more than a little uneasy. He had hoped she would alleviate his suspicions, making Rohan’s claims sound ridiculous, but if anything, her behavior indirectly confirmed everything Rohan had said.
Now he had one more reason to talk to Rohan di’Lehr instead of just sating his curiosity and moving on.
Dammit.
Chapter 8
He ended up in front of Rohan’s door later that night.
Glancing around self-consciously, Jamil lifted his hand and knocked, trying not to think about what the servants would think if they saw him here.
Finally, the door was yanked open, and Rohan glared at him, bare-chested and annoyed, rubbing his hooded eyes with the backs of his hands, clearly just awoken.
Jamil licked his dry lips, trying to keep his eyes on the rebel’s face and ignore his state of undress, but it was frustratingly, embarrassingly difficult. Rohan di’Lehr exuded raw maleness in a way that was completely foreign to Jamil, who was used to well-mannered, impeccably dressed and proper aristocrats. Seeing those chiseled muscles and strange tattoos all over that brown skin was—jarring. Vulgar. Completely inappropriate. Jamil was embarrassed that he even noticed that—that he kept noticing it.
“What are you doing here?”
Jamil drew himself to his full height, hating how off-balance and powerless he felt. It was silly. He was the Crown Prince. This man was his employee, his subject, an outlaw he could have arrested at a moment’s notice.
“Your Highness,” Jamil said.
Rohan let out a laugh that made something warm curl in the pit of Jamil’s stomach.
“Seriously?” Rohan said. “Are you really insisting on proper address when you’re in my room at one in the morning?”
“I’m not in your room yet.”
Rohan raised his eyebrows and stepped aside to let him in. “Please come on in, then. Your Highness.”
He didn’t have to make the honorific sound like a mocking.
Jamil strode inside the room. Ignoring the unmade bed, he turned around just as Rohan closed the door and leaned against it like a big cat.
Watching him with those inscrutable, creepily intense dark eyes, Rohan murmured, “Since no one has tried to arrest me, I presume you haven’t told anyone about me.”
Jamil rubbed the back of his neck. “No,” he said, trying to keep his gaze on Rohan’s face without actually meeting his eyes. Even brief eye contact made the strange pull between them more intense, something inside him needing. He knew it was just their natural compatibility, something he couldn’t help, but it still felt so wrong to need such things from a man who wasn’t his husband.
It wasn’t that Jamil was prudish. He had been a married man. He had been married for eight years and had very much enjoyed intimacy with his husband. But he’d never just looked at a man and wanted him inside, now. It was obscene. Although Rohan had claimed that this… compatibility didn’t cause physical attraction, Jamil found it hard to separate the need to be one from a very physical act that he normally associated with it.
Heavens, it was so degrading. It made him feel dirty. Mehmer had been gone for just five months. Biological compatibility or not, he wasn’t supposed to want another man’s touch, be it mental or physical.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Jamil hesitated before pulling out a holochip from his pocket. “This is all we have on Mehmer’s death. It isn’t much. His aircraft was disintegrated, so obviously there wouldn’t be—there wouldn’t be much.” He averted his gaze. “Apparently there’s no actual proof that the rebels were the ones who did it. It’s all conjecture. The only piece of evidence we have is a pro-rebellion leaflet found in the area. That’s all.”
He felt rather than heard Rohan step closer. He took the holochip from Jamil.
Their fingers brushed.
Jamil shivered, his mind emptying of all thoughts. His gaze snapped up to Rohan’s face, meeting those black eyes. The intensity of them was terrifying. He felt like he was drowning in them, unable to see anything but black.
Their hands grabbed each other, squeezing tightly, so damn tightly it was nearly painful. Someone whimpered, and it took Jamil a moment to realize it was him.
“Fucking hell,” Rohan growled, yanking him forward. Strong, bare arms wrapped around Jamil in a deathly grip, bringing him flush against that bare chest. Jamil’s eyes slipped shut. He made another small sound, his senses going on overload. He couldn’t think. There were no thoughts. He could just soak up this closeness, needing this like he needed air, his mind blissfully empty. He was distantly aware of strong fingers traveling up his spine, to his face, until they pressed just below his ear, where Jamil’s telepathic core pulsed under the skin, calling to him, craving. He wanted—he wanted—