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He did not bother closing the door behind him. He slowly pulled out the chair at the elaborate wood desk, the top of which was inlaid with patterns of lighter wood and whorls of pearl. What did he think he would find, anyhow? None of it mattered. He really should look for a book on the Prophet, peace be upon him. God was the only thing left to Radu. The only thing he could not lose.
The only thing Lada could not take from him.
He pushed to stand up, knee jerking awkwardly beneath the desk, slamming against it. A curse stopped halfway from his lips. Something had shifted. He got down on the floor and looked up at the bottom of the desk. A false panel, jarred loose by his knee, hinted at something within.
Radu eased it free and pulled out a thick sheaf of parchments. They were written in Latin, dense script neatly marching down each page. He scanned as quickly as he could, his despair forgotten. Most of the top letter was about a man named Orhan, a claim, an allowance. It meant nothing to Radu, but he tucked the information away. He flipped through the pages, stopping with a shock at the end of a short missive. It was signed on behalf of Constantine XI.
The emperor of Constantinople.
Footsteps from down the hall set him panicking. He shoved the letters back into the hidden compartment, then slid the panel into place. It failed to line up exactly, but he was out of time. He threw himself across the room and stood in front of one of the book displays, trying to hide his guilty countenance.
The heavy door swung shut, and he did not dare turn around. If he never turned around, he would never have to see that he had been discovered.
A hand came onto his shoulder, not heavy and violent, but gentle.
“Radu,” Salih said, his voice as tentative as his touch.
Radu turned around with a shaking breath and a falsely bright smile painted on his face. Salih was standing close, too close, only one of those trembling breaths away.
Before Radu could form a question, his mouth was covered by Salih’s.
Radu tensed, shocked and confused by this attack. Salih’s hands gripped his waist, pulling him closer, mouth desperate and hungry against his own. Finally, Radu’s panic-soaked brain processed what was happening. He lifted his own hands, unsure what to do with them. He put them on Salih’s shoulders and pushed him back.
Salih met his eyes with a desperation Radu felt to his core. The desire there was raw and so obvious it hurt.
This was what Lazar had seen when Radu looked at Mehmed. A wave of humiliation and despair washed over him. Everyone had to know. If Radu was this obvious, surely Mehmed knew how he felt, knew what he was, even before Radu had.
Lada must know, too.
Rage flared up, eating away at his humiliation. He narrowed his eyes, refocusing on Salih in front of him. Sad, lonely Salih. Salih, who wanted him.
He brought his lips to Salih’s with a ferocity that bruised his mouth against Salih’s teeth. Salih opened his lips with a gasp as Radu grabbed the back of his head, sliding his fingers beneath Salih’s turban to knot them in his hair. Salih pawed at Radu’s tunic, tugging on the sash around his waist. He pulled Radu’s tunic up, and ran his hand from Radu’s stomach to his chest.
Radu did not know if this was desire or anger or disgust, or some combination of the three. He hated Salih for wanting him, hated himself for liking it, hated Mehmed and most of all Lada.
He kissed Salih harder.
The handle to the door clicked, and Salih jumped away from Radu, terror on his face. Radu turned to the shelf behind him and pulled out a book at random, opening to the middle. An illuminated page in artful Arabic script, the edges leafed with gold, blurred in front of him.
“Salih?” a deep voice lined with disapproval asked. “What are you doing in here?”
Radu glanced back to see Halil Pasha. The older man was out of breath and sweating. He glanced once toward the desk reflexively, then looked back at his son.
“We were looking for a book,” Salih said.
Halil Pasha finally noticed Radu. He took in everything, realization moving slowly across his face as his lip curled in disgust. Radu’s out-of-place tunic. Salih’s raw and red mouth. Radu felt as dirty as he ever had, the evidence of his manipulation of Salih written all over both of them.
“This is my private study,” Halil Pasha growled.
“I know! I am sorry. I thought— You were at the garden reception. Is it over so early?”
Halil Pasha waved a hand dismissively, but his tone was strained. “There was a murder. Some whore of Mehmed’s killed one of the guests.”
Radu dropped the book. Halil Pasha glared at him, but Radu could not react how he was supposed to. There could be no other woman there who would kill someone. No one but Lada.
“Wait. I know you.” Halil Pasha’s eyes narrowed as he finally looked at Radu’s face instead of merely registering his guilt. “You have grown. You were Mehmed’s friend, when he was sultan.” The realization finished clicking into place. “Your sister. I remember her now.”
Radu swallowed. “I must go. My apologies for interrupting your night.” Radu dipped his head, not looking at Salih, and fled.
