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result remained the same. She evaded him at every turn. And he was running out of time.
    He needed the Amulet of Orm to wear the crown of Transylvania, for King Charles of Hungary to deliver a decree and make his title official. Until then, he was naught more than the interim lord, a circumstance subject to change.
    If only Ylenia, former high priestess, had done as instructed. Had she lied and told the people the amulet had accepted him—glowed as it always did when handed to the true ruler of Transylvania—then she would still be alive...and he would already be king.
    He curled his hands into fists. Stupid wench. She’d ruined everything.
    Without the sacred talisman, he lacked the leverage to force King Charles’s hand. Superstitious to the point of obsession, the royal jackass refused to ignore ancient lore—the tradition of the amulet—and anoint him voivode. He must find the trinket and fake its glow. If he didn’t, he would never sit his arse on thethrone and do what Wallachia had done a year ago: sever all ties with the Hungarian monarch and create a country and kingdom of his own.
    Damnation, where in the hell was Afina?
    He needed her...for more than just the power she would provide him. He wanted her under him, over him, in whatever position he could get her as long as it involved his bed. He would settle for Bianca, but ’twas Afina he craved. She wore the mark, the crown of the goddess stamped on her skin, the symbol marking the next High Priestess of Orm. Without her support, the king would never accept him. And without his blessing, the coffers, the treasures of Transylvania, remained out of reach.
    His nostrils flared as he imagined what he would do to her—with her—when he found her. An eye for an eye. He suffered, and when he finally got his hands on her, she would too.
    He growled. Where the devil was Henrik?
    He’d ridden all the way from the marketplace to meet the bastard. If he wasn’t—
    A soft sound caught his attention.
    Scanning the chamber again, Vladimir caught a flash of movement in his periphery. Bare-chested, a man came through from the alcove, silhouette haloed by the sun flooding through the high windows. Another outline followed, shapely, much smaller than the first. The pair paused, heads aligned and close together.
    Vladimir sighed and pivoted. His back to them, he crossed to the other side of the room, his progress muted by the thick Turkish rug underfoot. Grabbing a bejeweled cup from the exquisitely carved sideboard, he tipped the matching pitcher, pouring a tumbler full of red wine. Goblet in hand, he turned to lean on the lip of the cabinet.
    Legs crossed at the ankles, he sipped the wine and watched them. A cloud passed overhead and the sunlight faded, giving him a clear view of the man’s face.
    Hazel-gold eyes trained on Vladimir, Henrik fastened the ties on his trews then bent to kiss the curve of the wench’s bare shoulder. “My thanks, sweet.”
    Vladimir raised the goblet in silent salute. Christ, the warrior had no shame, didn’t care that he’d been caught tupping a servant by the lord who employed him.
    A rosy hue in her cheeks, she peeked at Henrik from beneath her lashes. “Tonight?”
    Vladimir’s hand tightened around the tankard, jealousy rolling like wildfire through his veins. If only Afina had looked at him that way. If only she’d wanted him with the same intensity, the crown would be his, and so would she.
    His mind on how best to punish her, he observed Henrik with the wench and almost snorted. The warrior’s patience was laughable. He’d already tupped her, for Christ’s sake. Why be so gentle? But then, he guessed the man wasn’t renowned for his skill with the lasses for naught. Vladimir shook his head. Gentleness. Such an abysmal waste of time.
    With a nudge, Henrik pushed her toward the exit. “Off you go, lass.”
    Eyes bright, the maid scurried toward the exit, her fingers busy lacing the front of her gown. She paused on the