“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 occupation 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 to come. 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.
Chapter 9
The first thing Jamil saw as he left his bedroom next morning was Rohan di’Lehr. He stood leaning against the opposite wall.
Jamil stopped, taking in Rohan’s tall form clad in his new uniform. All members of royal households wore black suits with the accents of the House they served. Since Jamil’s family colors were white and blue, Rohan was wearing a well-tailored black suit that hugged his shoulders and his arms, a white shirt, a blue vest, and a simple white cravat.
It was just a uniform.
Tearing his gaze away from that tanned neck above the white cravat, Jamil licked his lips and clasped his hands behind his back. “I see you were successful at ‘convincing’ the Master of the Household.”
Rohan gave a clipped nod. “It wasn’t difficult. You need to tighten your security. I’m not the only high-level telepath in the galaxy. You’re lucky I’m not interested in causing you harm.”
Making a mental note to find a solution for that security weakness, Jamil strode out of his rooms. He felt… awkward having Rohan anywhere near them, considering that he’d spent half of the night tossing and turning in his bed, too agitated to sleep because of the illegal merge he’d engaged in with a man who wasn’t his husband—so agitated that for the first time in months, he’d had to masturbate to get rid of the tension. Twice.
Jamil felt his face burn at the memory. He cleared his throat as Rohan fell into step beside him. “Walk like a servant, for heaven’s sake.”
“Like a servant?” The impossible man had the nerve to sound amused.
“You should walk half a step behind me. Keep your head slightly down. Don’t meet anyone’s eyes unless you are addressed.”
Although Rohan followed his instructions, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. Although he was careful to stay half a step behind him, Jamil could tell he was unaccustomed to showing such deference. His bearing was still wrong. Too proud, too self-assured.
Jamil frowned, unsure how to fix it. It wasn’t that servants couldn’t be confident—quite the contrary—but good servants were meant to not be seen. Jamil had trouble believing anyone would fail to notice this man.
Or maybe it was just him. He was so damn aware of Rohan’s presence that he could hardly be an impartial judge on whether he was noticeable or not.
“What about your other job?” Jamil said, looking straight ahead. “Who’s going to train that zywern?”
“I already did the hardest part—got him to accept a rider. Any semi-decent trainer should be able to take it from there. Where are we going?”