"In the library. He wanted to know why I keep blushing every time you walk into a room." I lifted my head to look at him. "He asked if you were any good."
A surprised laugh escaped him. "What did you tell him?"
"That I had no idea what he was talking about."
"Liar."
"Complete liar," I agreed. "He didn't believe me for a second. He said, and I quote, 'Please tell Hakan that if he's going to debauch the princess, the least he can do is give me details so I can live vicariously.'"
Hakan snorted. "Sounds like Sarp."
"He also said that if you break my heart, he's going to tell everyone about the time you cried during a poetry recital."
"I was still only a child. And that poem was devastating."
"I'm sure it was." I traced my finger along his jaw. "He's not upset? About us?"
"Sarp?" Hakan shook his head. "He knew before I did, probably. Spent months telling me to stop being a coward and just make a fucking move, but I was doing everything I could so you would hate me." A shadow passed over his face. "He's a better friend than I deserve."
I heard the weight behind those words. The guilt. Because Sarp wasn't just Hakan's friend—he'd wanted me too, once. Had stepped aside gracefully when he saw the way Hakan looked at me. Had turned his own disappointment into jokes and support because that's who Sarp was.
"He cares about you," I said. "That's why he wants you to be happy."
"He's an idiot."
"He's loyal. There's a difference."
"Even my father says so," Hakan murmured, almost to himself. "When he visited last week, he told me I was the luckiest bastard alive and that if I ever hurt you, he'd personally ensure my body was never found." He said it with a half-smile, the way people smile when they're talking about someone they love completely. "He's my father, Ada. My mother told me when I was small. Before I could even hold a sword, he was there — teaching me, protecting us, moving us from village to village when the border got dangerous. He's the reason I'm alive. If even he approves, I suppose I must be doing something right."
Milan. Hakan's father. The charming wanderer with the crooked smile and warm grey eyes.
"He's a good man," I said.
"The best," Hakan agreed. "Better than me, certainly."
Hakan was quiet for a moment. Then his arms tightened around me, and he pressed his lips to my hair.
"What did I do to deserve you?"
The question was soft. Vulnerable. So different from the demanding, possessive man who'd had his fingers inside me minutes ago. Both versions were real. Both versions were him.
I thought about telling him the truth—that he hadn't done anything to deserve me, that in fact he'd done terrible thingsto drive me away, that some part of me still flinched when I remembered the worst of it.
Instead, I kissed his cheek and said, "You got lucky."
His laugh was warm against my skin. "Yeah. I really fucking did."
The afternoon bells chimed in the distance. I groaned and extracted myself from his lap, straightening my skirts and trying to make myself look like someone who hadn't just been thoroughly ravished. My hands were trembling slightly—not from nerves but from anticipation, from the knowledge that we were building toward something that felt inevitable now. I wanted him to be my first. I wasn't afraid anymore. My body ached with it, with the promise of him, and every time he touched me like this I felt the wanting grow deeper, more certain.
"I have to go. If I'm late for dinner, my handmaidens will ask questions."
"Let them ask."
"Hakan."
"I know, I know." He rose from the bench, stretching in a way that made his shirt pull across his shoulders. I tried not to stare. I failed. His smirk told me he'd noticed. "Same time tomorrow?"
"If I can get away."
