She pushed his chest, sending him stumbling, vase shards crunching beneath his boots. “I am not something to be kept! Next you will tell me you want to keep me behind walls, keep me in padded, perfumed rooms, keep me here. I am not your concubine, Mehmed!”

“That is not what I am asking!” He threw his hands up, pacing in a circle. “You are precious to me. What is so wrong with wanting to take care of you?”

“If I needed or wanted to be taken care of, I would be no better than the women in here! I am nothing like them.”

“No, you are not! I love you, Lada.” He closed his eyes and lowered his voice, trying to regain control. “Please allow me to love you. You are the most important person in my life. You and your brother are the only people who truly know me.”

Lada flinched, and Mehmed’s eyebrows raised as he noticed her reaction. He did not understand why, though. Lada had not told him about her last fight with Radu, nor that she had heard nothing from him since they parted. Mehmed remained blind to the true depths of Radu’s love—and to how much Lada missed her brother.

“Please,” Mehmed said. “I have already lost Radu to my father. He rarely writes, and when he does it is as though he addresses a stranger. I cannot afford to lose you, too.”

“You cannot lose something you do not own. Take me with you.”

With a frustrated growl, he tore the veil from her hair and threw it to the ground. “You look ridiculous. Armor suits you far more than silk.”

Lada put a hand to his cheek. His skin was soft and hot, always hot, as though he burned brighter than a normal person. Her voice came out a low purr, so like Huma’s she startled herself. “Take me with you, and I will wear armor the whole time.” She pulled his face down, kissing him, letting the fire he burned with ignite something inside her.

He grabbed her waist, pressing against her, matching her fierceness. She pushed her hip against his groin, where she could feel a hardness already formed. It terrified her, and also thrilled her that she had the power to make that happen. He groaned into her mouth, the kiss becoming deeper and more frantic.

“Lada,” he said, kissing her throat, her ear, her hair. “Lada, Lada.”

“Take me with you,” she whispered in his ear.

He buried his face in her hair, arms holding her so tightly she knew she had won. Then he shook his head. “No.”

With a scream, she pushed him away. He fell, his shoes soaked from the vase’s water. She pulled out a dagger, leaned down, and cut off his sash. Crumpling the silk in her fist, she stared down at him. “You need me safe? Who will keep you safe? I have killed you again under your guard’s very noses.”

He had the audacity to lie back on the floor and laugh. “Lada, no one in the world would ever be as devoted or ingenious in the pursuit of killing me as you are time and again.” He held out his arms, black eyes imploring. “Come, spend these few hours with me. I miss you.”

She leaned forward, just out of his reach. “You should become accustomed to that sensation.”

The way out was easier than the way in, the opposite of how a harem usually functioned for the women who crossed the threshold. As she left, she passed a startled Ilyas. She threw Mehmed’s sash at his feet. “We killed him again. You lose. Try to bring him back alive from Albania.”

Her own cruel words to Mehmed stung her as she nodded to a waiting Stefan, indicating their latest game had been a success. If Mehmed died, they would have parted with him declaring his love and her answering with cruelty. He would never know how she felt—that he tormented her, that he was a bright star in the black nighttime of her life.

It would be exactly what he deserved, to die without knowing, because he left her behind.

And she would never forgive herself.

1451: Kruje, Albania

RADU SUPPOSED THAT, with his new armor and weaponry, plus a personal servant, a tent, supplies, and a gorgeous horse, he was wealthier than he had ever been after years of owning nothing. He simply would have preferred this newfound prosperity to be the result of something other than marching to war at Murad’s side.

He knew, too, that somewhere among the tens of thousands of men around him, Mehmed moved toward the same goal.

Remaining in Edirne would have been lonely with the pashas, pashazadas, Janissaries, and various friends he had made all gone for the siege of Skanderberg’s Albanian holdings. He would have had far too much time to think when denied his daily scheming, spying, and socializing. He would have thought of nothing but Mehmed.

This was not a preferable scenario. He found himself scanning the endless sea of faces constantly—wondering, yearning, hoping for simply a glimpse of his friend.