“Yes, Your Majesty?” he said, standing up as well. It took an incredible effort not to look at the man to her right.
I’m married, married, married.
“Darling, make sure Lord Tai’Lehr and his people are comfortable, will you?”
Clearing his throat, Jamil said, looking in front of him, “Please follow me.” He headed toward Weyrn, their Master of the Household, without looking back but knowing that Rohan and the three people he’d brought with him were following him. Weyrn had met Rohan when Rohan was a zywern trainer, but he looked at Rohan as if he was seeing him for the first time in his life. It made Jamil question his sanity again. It didn’t seem real.
None of it seemed real.
He spoke to Weyrn and asked him to find appropriate apartments for Rohan’s retinue. Weyrn said something. Jamil said something back. It all sounded vaguely sensible, but he wouldn’t be able to repeat what they were saying if his life depended on it.
It was all so surreal.
Jamil’s knees felt unsteady. His body felt like it didn’t even belong to him anymore, doing things on autopilot, independent from his brain. His brain seemed to be independent from his heart, too. No matter how many times he told himself that he was married, that nothing could happen between them, his heart ached. Ached and hurt. He wanted to turn around, cling to Rohan, and beg him to take him away, his duty and his husband be damned.
But of course he couldn’t. He was the Crown Prince. He had a husband, and it wasn’t the man who was walking a few steps behind him. Rohan was his lord-vassal. Mehmer was his husband.
Jamil repeated it like a mantra, like a spell, like it was everything he had to keep himself sane, as he accompanied the guests to their apartments. Normally, he wouldn’t bother. It was hardly the Crown Prince’s job. Weyrn could have managed to do it perfectly fine on his own. But Jamil couldn’t bring himself to leave, not yet. Even the knowledge that there could never be anything between them didn’t completely kill the primitive joy he was feeling from Rohan’s mere proximity. He felt more alive than he’d felt in ages, as if everything was finally right with the world.
Nothing was fucking right with the world.
At last, they reached the apartments. Jamil struggled to keep a polite expression on his face as Weyrn showed Rohan’s people their rooms.
Rohan stayed back.
Jamil did, too.
The moment they were alone in the apartment’s living room, Rohan cleared his throat.
“How are you?” Rohan said tersely, without looking at him, his mind like an impenetrable fortress.
“Good,” Jamil lied, looking down.
He could see Rohan’s hand clench into a fist. “Congratulations on the prince-consort’s return.”
Jamil nodded.
“You must be ecstatic.”
His gaze snapped up to Rohan.
Their eyes locked, and everything just… fell away. It wasn’t their bond or the Fit—their mental compatibility still seemed curiously gone—just Rohan’s eyes locked with his.
Jamil didn’t know what was in his eyes, but Rohan’s were a bottomless pit of anger and want. A black abyss. So easily captivating they were. So easy to fall into.
Jamil’s mind surged toward him, brushing against Rohan’s shields desperately. Let me in, touch me, touch me, why can’t I feel you?
Rohan’s jaw clenched. He glared at Jamil.
“Sorry,” Jamil murmured, flushing and looking down, absolutely mortified.
He could feel Rohan’s gaze on his face, intense and heavy. Jamil bit his bottom lip, and looked up at him from under his eyelashes.
Rohan’s stony expression shattered.
In two long strides, he was in front of Jamil. His hands were reaching out to Jamil’s face when Jamil managed, “I’m married.”
Rohan flinched back, like a zywern reined back in.
And it was a good thing that he did, because at that moment, Weyrn returned, and his eyes were far too curious for Jamil’s liking.
Recovering, Rohan gave him a formal bow. “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Highness,” he said. He hesitated before he picked up Jamil’s hand and clasped it with his own.
Jamil barely managed to keep his polite smile.
There was nothing wrong or inappropriate about Rohan’s gesture. It was a little old-fashioned but still a perfectly acceptable way to show gratitude and respect.
What was inappropriate was the way Jamil’s pale fingers trembled and clung to Rohan’s darker ones, unable to let go.
Rohan’s nostrils flared, his jaw tightening.
For a fraction of a moment, Rohan’s fingers squeezed Jamil’s before slowly dragging back. Jamil almost whined when they did.
Not trusting his face anymore, he walked away quickly.
He had no idea how he got to his rooms.
Once the door was closed behind him, Jamil fell back against it and looked at his hand. His fingers were still trembling. He was trembling, all over, like a substance addict who was allowed to see his favorite drug before it was cruelly taken away again.
With a small sound, Jamil brought his shaking hand to his face, breathing in deeply, greedily. Rohan’s scent, so familiar and good, still clung to it, or maybe he was desperate enough to imagine that it did. Jamil pressed his quivering lips to his hand, kissing and nuzzling it as he shoved his other hand into his pants, stroking his erection with fast, desperate strokes, Rohan’s black eyes imprinted behind his eyelids.