Jamil had to admit he had a point. Everything was too intense within the merge, every feeling amplified to an extreme. Talking to a near stranger so candidly should have felt strange, but it wasn’t. Being so intimate with a near stranger should have felt uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. It felt as natural as breathing, and the near stranger no longer felt like a stranger. It felt like he’d known Rohan di’Lehr all his life. It was… a little disconcerting, truth be told, this level of trust between them. This man was a rebel. Rebels were—
“We didn’t kill your husband,” Rohan reminded him.
Jamil breathed out, knowing that he was telling the truth. The last lingering doubts he’d had about it were gone now. Rohan couldn’t lie to him when their minds were so deeply connected. The rebels really hadn’t killed Mehmer.
Someone else had.
Jamil sighed, not really wanting to think or talk about it but well aware that he should. Mehmer’s death was something he had been just coming to terms with; talking about it was like scraping at a barely healed wound. He was scared it would start bleeding again—and scared that it wouldn’t. Grief, pain, and loss were emotions that couldn’t be farther from him at the moment; not when he felt so good, with this man’s mind wrapped tightly around his very being, making him feel wonderfully safe.
And it made him feel absolutely terrible. How could he lose himself in the pleasure and the feeling of security given to him by another man when he’d just learned that Mehmer wasn’t a victim of a political conflict? That he had been murdered, possibly murdered by someone Jamil saw every day, someone who walked the streets, free and unpunished, living off the fruits of their crime, while Jamil didn’t even have his husband’s body to say his goodbyes.
He owed it to Mehmer to find that person. Or at least to try.
Jamil forced his eyes open and fought disorientation as his mind struggled to pay attention to anything but the merge. “That enemy you mentioned… it’s the regent of the Fifth Grand Clan, isn’t it?”
Rohan’s eyelids lifted. His fingers were still pressed against Jamil’s telepathic point so the merge didn’t break. It was such a surreal feeling. Although Rohan’s gaze was inscrutable and largely indifferent, his mind was still touching him intimately, possessively, and Jamil could feel that although Rohan felt a little annoyed that he’d guessed the truth, he also felt almost proud that Jamil had. It made Jamil want to preen, which was so ridiculous that he wanted to slap himself.
“Yes,” Rohan said at last. “But I don’t think she has anything to do with your husband’s death. It doesn’t make any sense. She wouldn’t have risked killing a member of another royal house when her son is so close to finally ascending to the throne.”
Jamil was still having trouble believing that Dalatteya was capable of killing at all.
“She isn’t the harmless society lady she pretends to be,” Rohan said, as if reading his thoughts—which he probably was.
Jamil sighed. “The rebels didn’t really kidnap Dalatteya’s nephews, did they?”
“No.”
Although Jamil had been expecting that answer, the implications of it still disturbed him, or would have disturbed him if he were capable of feeling anything but good, safe, right.
“We should probably break the merge,” Jamil said, dropping his gaze. He hoped Rohan couldn’t feel his reluctance.
“We probably should,” Rohan agreed, but his mind wrapped tighter around him, something aggressive and greedy about it, his mental fingers stimulating Jamil’s pleasure centers.
A moan slipped out of Jamil’s mouth. Breathing unsteadily, he glared at Rohan. “Stop that. This is—indecent.”
Rohan’s lips twitched. “Indecent? You’re the most prudish person I’ve ever met, sweetheart.”
“Stop calling me that,” Jamil said, blushing. It was one thing to allow inappropriate endearments when they communicated telepathically; it was completely another to let it slide when Rohan used them aloud.
Rohan shrugged. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. A side effect of the merge.”
Jamil eyed him suspiciously—he didn’t look contrite at all—but let it go. “Break the merge,” he said instead.
“You can break it, too, you know,” Rohan said, looking amused, the bastard.
Jamil kind of wanted to punch him to wipe that cocky smile off his face. Asshole.
“Thanks,” Rohan said, his smile widening. “That’s practically a ringing endorsement coming from someone so uptight.”
“I’m a prince,” Jamil said, lifting his chin.
Rohan tapped him on the nose with his thumb. “It’s adorable that you think being a prince must be synonymous with being uptight.”
Jamil shot him a withering look, which Rohan just laughed off. The impossible man seemed to find him entertaining.
Supremely annoyed, Jamil stepped back, shaking Rohan’s fingers off. The merge snapped, almost painfully so, leaving him breathless and shaky.
Rohan grimaced, his fingers twitching toward Jamil before he curled them into a fist. “Some warning would have been nice,” he said testily.