“Kamar,” Mikhail weighed the name in his mouth, balanced it over his tongue. Aware of Kamar’s eyes on him, he gazed back.

“You must now understand why I didn’t give you my real name,” Kamar said. “It’s not so easy to travel around as myself.”

“I understand.” And Mikhail did. He had no reason to feel the prick of betrayal. Not when he continued to parade around as Malik the merchant.

As if to remind him, Kamar breathed his fake name. “Malik, you do forgive me, don’t you?”

“There is no slight felt on my part, so there’s nothing to forgive.” Mikhail spoke the truth, yet Kamar shrunk from his response. He even moved to break the contact of their thighs. The warmth stolen from Mikahil was akin to dumping a bucket of ice water over his head. It was a wake-up call.

Only he had no clue how to respond.

Was that not what Kamar wanted to hear?

Apparently not because the rest of the ride was silent, unpleasantly so, and which couldn’t bode well for their dinner plans.

The car climbed a hill before stopping in front of a large gate at the steep incline. The iron barricade shuddered open. With the privacy screen up on the driver’s end, Mikhail had no way of knowing what was going on until he could make out that they had passed through the gates slowly and were now in the courtyard of a large enclosure.

It wasn’t until the car stopped and Kamar gave him the signal by slipping out first could Mikhail appreciate his new surroundings.

If this was Kamar’s home–and he suspected it was–Mikhail understood why Kamar concealed his identity.

It seemed ludicrous that anyone who had such a home would want to venture out in normal garb to mingle with locals. And it seemed even less likely that same person would risk his life to help those whose backs he’d have to continue to tread over to keep this magical place under his thumb.

Styled like an honest-to-God miniature castle, the local red brick appeared enflamed in the evening sun and the turret roofing inspired awe. The porch jutted out on two stone columns, the front doors carved from endangered, brittle African blackwood, and the immaculate lawn and shrubbery maintained by a steady stream of filtered water.

It was no less disgustingly luxurious inside.

The opulence sat like a hard stone in Mikhail’s gut. Like the light switch being turned on, he realized the disparity in wealth between Zhebair’s leader and the nation’s people. It legitimized the rebellion aflutter underground.

No one should stand for this.

Suddenly, Mikhail had such a longing to reclaim his throne. It passed as quickly as it roosted over his mind. But, in that moment, he wondered if he’d been too hasty to escape. Though he hated every second of it, and he imagined if given the opportunity to return he’d hate it just as much, Mikhail also knew the good he might have been able to do in that position.

Kamar and his friends thought he had power now. What would they think if he told them he had all of Djanna backing him once, and not too long ago either?

Since Kamar just confessed his real identity, Mikhail imagined it wouldn’t probably go down too well.

“Sir,” the old man who had greeted them at the door returned. The household butler, by the looks of it, he bowed. “I’ve been informed dinner is ready whenever you and your guest shall present themselves.”

Kamar smiled, nodding. “We’ll be in soon, thank you.”

Alone now, Mikhail was caught staring. He didn’t turn away though.

“Dinner is ready,” Kamar repeated, his smile gone, his brows slowly turning down. “If you’d like to freshen up—”

“No, let’s go.” Mikhail didn’t add, ‘let’s get this over with’.

He had lived through his share of business dinners as King.

But this isn’t a business dinner, Mikhail reminded himself. At least, that hadn’t been the plan. Though they hadn’t talked about rough fucking, Mikhail had been wired tight with the anticipation of acting out lewd fantasy after lewd fantasy with Kamar.

Now he’d be lucky if they kissed.

The dining room could easily rival the several rooms for hosting guests inside the Djannian palace. Short-lived as his days were as a King of Djanna, Mikhail hadn’t had the time to make a political trip to Zhebair. And neither had the new king set foot in this crippled, so-called modern nation to their east.

Mikhail would certainly remember visiting a place like this, with or without Kamar facing him across the dinner table. They were alone here too, once their plates for the main course had been set following their appetizers.

“Is your father joining us?” Mikhail wondered, his hands meticulously slicing through the Western-styled plate of steak. He wasn’t a fan of the dish. At least the appetizers had been traditional bites of pancake-like bread enclosed with flavored beef cubes.

Mikhail noticed how Kamar licked the beef’s juices from his fingers. His pink tongue darting out to stroke his soaked digits, cleaning them up nicely and leading Mikhail to imagining how Kamar could work that tongue over his cock…

If they were talking, that is.

Kamar’s iciness was not lost on him. He had smiles for his staff, but his face sobered up when the need for presentation was gone–when he was left alone with Mikhail. Mikhail anticipated radio silence to his question.

With some surprise, he looked up from his steak when Kamar cleared his throat.

“My father is hosting his own guests,” Kamar spoke that last word with a cute wrinkle to his nose. He rolled his eyes then. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for an audience. He rarely has time for his own family.”

“That’s right, you have a brother,” Mikhail noted. He might not have visited Zhebair as a politician before, but he had been briefed as king about Prime Minister Mustafa’s family. His two sons, his long-deceased wife, and the legacy of tyrannical blood that plagued generation after generation it seemed from the great-great grandfather.

“My younger brother is studying in London.” Kamar smiled then, his eyes lowering to his plate, his fork still. “He’s happier there. It’s good for him even if my father would tell you otherwise.”

Mikhail knew it was an intimate thing, this sharing of information. That was twice now he felt lower than dirt. Like a vulture picking away at Kamar’s kindness and leaving him with nothing meaningful.

Mikhail swallowed the chewy bit of steak in his mouth. Tasteless. That’s how the rest of his finely prepared meal would be enjoyed.

“Do you have siblings?” Kamar’s fork pressed between his lips. He chewed, watching, waiting for Mikhail to answer.

“I do.” Mikhail chose his words carefully. Settling on what he’d safely share, he said, “We don’t have the luxury of communicating anymore.”

Kamar’s question was in his open expression.

“We live far apart, and…it wasn’t a mutual parting,” Mikhail admitted.

Idris had been heartbroken in the fortress that day, having followed his lover, Aaron, down there. Aaron had patched Mikhail’s arm up. Even now, though the stitching held and the wound grew less noticeable every day, Mikhail discreetly touched his arm under the dinner table. In a way, it had been his last connection to Idris.

His brother had turned his back on him. And why not? Mikhail had faked his death, and he’d left Idris in the dark about it–left him to salvage the Djannian throne. Considering Mikhail hated being a king, he had assumed Idris might take his place. He hadn’t stopped to ask his younger brother if he would like to replace him.

For all he knew, Idris hated his life as king as much as Mikhail. It was a thought that plagued Mikhail, haunted him all the way back to Zhebair after his latest excursion across the border into and from Djanna.

“I’m sorry,” was Kamar’s only response.

Mikhail was grateful for it nevertheless. He didn’t want to think about Idris and his failure at being an older brother. What he did want was Kamar. That much was too obviously painful.