Once Upon a Time (Calluvia's Royalty 3)

“You just ignored at least a dozen safety protocols,” Jamil said, almost glad for the opportunity to dress someone down. His head was throbbing, the headache from his torn bond almost unbearable at this time of the night, and the frustration in him was building, wanting an outlet.

“I said get the fuck out of here,” the man said, irritation creeping into his voice. “You’re making him agitated.”

Jamil’s concern and mild annoyance turned into anger. “Do you even know who you are talking to?”

“I can put two and two together,” the man said, his large, brown hand still stroking the zywern’s quivering belly. “Such a posh voice can’t belong to a lowly servant—not to mention that a servant would have more fucking sense than to interrupt me while I’m working.”

Jamil flushed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been reprimanded by anyone in such a way. He glowered at the man’s back, searching for something to say, something that wouldn’t sound petulant. Jamil didn’t do petulant, dammit. His younger brother was the one prone to throwing a fit like a spoiled brat if he didn’t get his way. Jamil was the responsible one.

Except at the moment, he didn’t feel like being responsible. He wanted to put that man in his place. How dare this brute speak to him that way?

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” Jamil ordered, straightening himself to his full height. He usually didn’t like using his height to intimidate someone, but something in him itched to make sure this man knew that Jamil was his better. It was a ridiculous feeling, something primitive and territorial, but he couldn’t quite control it.

Slowly, the man got to his feet.

Jamil felt a little disappointed, because the other man was about the same height as him, which wasn’t an easy feat. There wasn’t a hint of fat in the man’s body, his shoulders wide and his body rippling with muscle. Unlike Jamil’s gym-toned physique, this man’s muscles were clearly the result of hard manual work—there was a restrained strength about him, something lethal, precise, and perfectly in control.

The man enabled the gravitational bindings on the zywern again before finally turning around.

The harsh reprimand died on Jamil’s lips the moment his gaze met the man’s black eyes. They were sharp and unnaturally intense, impossible to look away from. Something at the back of Jamil’s mind lurched, craving, his breath leaving his lungs in a gasp.

The man’s gaze darkened, his nostrils flaring.

As though in a trance, Jamil felt the man approach him—he literally felt it, the heady, hungry feeling at the back of his mind increasing the closer the man got.

“What the…?” the man bit out, glaring at him with wild, half-crazed eyes, before shoving his face against Jamil’s bare throat and breathing.

Jamil shuddered, a whine leaving his lips as the stranger’s nose pressed below his ear, against his telepathic point. The touch made his telepathy go wild, a weird kind of pleasure, unlike anything he’d ever felt, spreading through his mind. He felt intoxicated, gasping for breath as the stranger shoved his face tighter against his skin, breathing shakily.

“What the fuck?” the man gritted out before ripping himself away.

They stared at each other, wide-eyed, bewildered, and angry.

Jamil tried to speak, but nothing came out. He was shaking so badly he didn’t know what he was feeling: a weird mix of revulsion, need, and something else.

So he did the responsible, princely thing: he turned and fled.

Chapter 2

“Is something the matter, Your Highness?”

Jamil flinched and looked at his Master of the Household. “No, Weyrn. Please continue.”

Weyrn shot him an uncertain look and resumed giving his monthly report.

Jamil tried to keep his expression attentive. He didn’t try to be attentive—he knew it was futile—but he couldn’t give his employees a reason to think there was anything amiss about his behavior. Gossip spread among the servants very fast, especially when it came to the royals’ affairs.

It was just… He couldn’t get that man—that incident—out of his mind. Everything about it was so bizarre. Only after returning to his room from the stables had Jamil realized that the persistent headache caused by his torn marriage bond was miraculously absent. Instead, his mind—his entire being—ached with yearning so strong that Jamil shook with it for a long while. Of course, the headache returned a few hours later, and returned with a vengeance, as if punishing him for feeling good. Jamil had hardly needed the extra punishment besides the guilt churning his stomach. How could he feel good with some stranger—some rude, low-bred brute—touching his telepathic point? The mere memory made him cringe, his mortification and self-disgust making it hard to breathe. His husband had been gone for five months. He had no business feeling anything but pain.

And yet, no matter what he told himself, his mind kept going back to that weird, crippling pleasure-need-right feeling that he’d felt for a few sick, blissful moments.