Their talk had been…unexpected.

Kamar caught his reflection in the car window, his pinched brows and thin, grave mouth. Pensive didn’t sum up the storm that was his mind. It was dizzying and just too much to sort through in the car ride back from the inn Mikhail called home.

“Mikhail,” Kamar tested the name. It sounded weighty and foreign on his tongue. How was he supposed to get used to his Merchant Malik being Mikhail, former King of Djanna? Groaning, Kamar slid down his soft leather seat. Folding his arms, he ignored the pout teasing his mouth.

As petulant as he felt, it was justified. Mikhail had lied to him, kept him in the dark. Sure, he was apologetic. And, yes, Kamar knew he’d forgiven him. His head was ready to move on, but his heart clung on to a seed of doubt Mikhail’s alias had planted.

Kamar nursed his anxious worry all the way home.

When he walked through the front door, regarding the family’s butler with a quick nod, Kamar had every intention to sneak off to his room. His father had other plans apparently. Bursting out from the lounge room, he called Kamar from the foot of the staircase.

“There you are. Why were you out so early? Never mind. Follow me.” He didn’t let Kamar get a word in edgewise. Turning on the heels of his polished black shoes, he moved back into the living room, expecting Kamar to be following him.

With a heavy sigh, Kamar did just that. If only because he knew from experience ignoring his dad never worked. The Prime Minister didn’t get to his position because he was a push-over. Something he fondly liked to remind Kamar of, and it might have worked, if Kamar cared what his dear, old dad thought of him.

“Yes?” Kamar kept his tone even, void of any hint to the black clouds of anxiety rolling over his mind as he sat across from his father.

The older man didn’t glance up from his laptop, his eyes briefly touching the papers scattered over the coffee table by his computer. For a moment, he looked positively absorbed in whatever he’d been doing before he called Kamar over.

Kamar couldn’t help it. Fidgeting was his go-to whenever he had to sit across from his father for too long. There was a reason they skipped out on father-son bonding time. All of that silence couldn’t be healthy.

“Well?” His father looked up from his work, pinning him with a stare. When Kamar didn’t answer, his father’s frown deepened. Worse, the extra flesh around his cheekbones, jaw, and under his chin gave the expression of disappointment that extra punch in the gut.

Kamar fought to keep his head level. The last thing he wanted to do was show his father the weakness he perceived in his son. Odd, because Kamar would usually try to do whatever it took to get away.

Maybe a certain merchant-slash-ex-king has something to do with your change of heart? Kamar tucked that thought away to be dissected later, in the privacy of his bedroom.

“Do you know why we’re sitting here, son of mine?” Mustafa sighed loudly, dramatically when Kamar remained silent. “We’re here because it’s time I talked to you about family duties.”

“Family duties?” Kamar echoed.

Elbows balancing on his knees, Mustafa leaned in, his jowls shuddering with the sharp movement. “Marriage, boy,” he snapped. Then with another put-upon sigh, he added, “You haven’t been able to woo the King of Djanna.”

Kamar thought it ironic. He’d technically wooed a Djannian king…Just not the one his father knew about.

“That marriage would have been a great coup. A union with the neighboring nation, a kingdom that sits on a healthy oil reserve; it would have done wonders for Zhebair.”

Kamar controlled the urge to roll his eyes as his father spread the guilt on nice and thick. As he droned on and on about how he’d set up his hopes on Kamar’s shoulders, how he’d envisioned a rejuvenated Zhebair, Kamar turned to face the movement in his peripherals. He jolted, more than a little surprised. A black-cloaked figure was standing in the far corner of the room, in front of the French doors overlooking their backyard.

Kamar could make out the bath house in the background, but he couldn’t tell if that’s what had this stranger’s attention. Judging by the broad shoulders, boxy build, and impressive height, the stranger was a man.

Catching on that Kamar had stopped listening, and following the direction of his gaze, his father said, “Ah, so you’ve noticed our guest.”

“Guest?” Kamar parroted.

“Yes, I’ve been meaning for you two to meet. I have a feeling you’ll get along well,” Mustafa told him, his narrowing gaze promising Kamar great discomfort if he chose to go against his intuition.

As if summoned, the figure turned from the view and moved to them, his gait upright with confidence. Towering didn’t describe where Kamar stood to this tall man–and, yes, he was most definitely a man. Masculinity oozed off him as he focused his bright brown eyes on Kamar.

Since he couldn’t accept his handshake sitting down, Kamar pushed off the sofa. His was a powerful grip, his light brown gaze glinting with what could be a decision to not crush Kamar’s hand.

Kamar flexed his fingers as discreetly as possible once his hand was his own again.

Clearing his throat, the Prime Minister traded introductions. “Son, this is Kofi Abd Al-Kareem, the vice-chair of the ministry of defense and second hand to General Ishmael, whom you seemed close to at last week’s party.”

Ignoring his quip, Kamar smiled at Kofi while his father prattled on, Kamar’s introduction decidedly less enthusiastic.

“It’s a pleasure,” Kofi said, his voice deep and accented. When he smiled, it was more of a quick kick of his lips before his face resumed its passiveness.

Black hair shorn in a militaristic buzz cut made his brows darker and sharper on his warm, honeyed caramel skin tone. Everything about the man was…hard. From his angular cheekbones, his thin lips, and his powerfully square jaw. But it was his body that dried out Kamar’s mouth. Even under the diaphanous black robe, Kamar noticed how he held himself. Like a man ready to strike, his body a tight coil of muscled energy itching to overtake his enemy.

Right now, his sights were set firmly on Kamar.

Kamar gulped.

Afraid he delayed in answering his father’s question, and then not remembering what he asked, Kamar blurted, “Will you be staying for lunch, Mr. Abdul?”

Kofi did that little kick of his lips, a semblance really of what a genuine smile should have been. “I hope so,” he said, his intense gaze not easing off of Kamar. Not even when he asked the Prime Minister, “If our host agrees, that is?”

“Your host most certainly agrees,” the Prime Minister said, a small laugh following. Then he did something most shocking, he clapped a hand over Kamar’s shoulder. “But first, Kofi, let Kamar show you around.”

Kamar gulped again, realizing he had trapped himself. Not once, but twice. Now he’d have to endure a dinner with Kofi and a tour of the property.

As if reading his thoughts, Kofi said, “I’d like that, so long as you’re free.”

“Oh, he’s free,” his father answered for him. The hand on Kamar’s shoulder gave him a sharp squeeze, Mustafa’s way of warning him against arguing. With a smile stretched far too tightly, the Prime Minister continued, “In fact, you should start at the bath house. It’s Kamar’s favorite spot these days.”

Kofi nodded, his disconcerting stare zeroed in on Kamar. “Yes,” he said, lengthening that one syllable and sending an uncomfortable, sparking shudder up and down Kamar’s spine. Another too-small smile, and he said, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”