Elise's voice finally, and utterly broke.
"I'm so sorry, Your Highness—please," she sobbed. "I'll do anything. Please don't kill me."
She bowed until her forehead touched the carpet, arms rigid at her sides, body folded as low as it would go—instinctive, absolute submission.
"I didn't mean to harm you," she whispered. "I didn't think. I'm stupid. I'm so sorry."
The room went dead still.
Even Patricia was silent now, staring at Elise as if the maid had transformed into something unrecognizable before her eyes.
Oskar exhaled sharply.
"God… damn it."
He dragged a heavy hand down his face, fingers pressing hard into his brow. His voice came out low, rough, edged with disbelief more than rage.
"Why does this kind of shit always happen to me?"
Patricia's silence lasted only a heartbeat.
Then something snapped.
Her head turned slowly, deliberately—like a blade being drawn. Her eyes locked onto Elise, and whatever aristocratic composure she'd been raised with shattered cleanly, replaced by naked fury.
"You," Patricia hissed. "You fucking traitor."
Elise flinched violently, her small frame curling inward, shoulders caving as if trying to disappear into the carpet.
"I—I'm sorry, Princess, I failed you—"
Patricia surged to her feet from between Oskar's legs, silk and lace flaring as she rose. Not a graceful movement—an eruption. A storm breaking loose, instinctively placing herself between Oskar and the kneeling maid as though shielding him from contamination.
"You dared," she spat. "You laid hands on what is mine."
She lunged.
Patricia dropped to her knees before Elise and seized a fistful of the maid's hair, yanking her head up with brutal force. Elise cried out, hands flying up defensively as Patricia's arm snapped upward, palm poised to strike, rage blazing unchecked across her face.
"I'm sorry—please, Princess—I didn't—!"
The blow never landed.
Oskar moved.
Not fast—instant.
His hand snapped shut around Patricia's wrist mid-swing, stopping her as if she'd struck iron. The grip was absolute. In the same motion his other hand closed around her waist, strength precise and unyielding, and he turned her away from Elise in one clean, practiced twist.
Patricia gasped, startled. Her heels left the floor as her balance vanished. For a heartbeat she was weightless, silk flaring, breath knocked from her lungs—
—and then Oskar released her.
Not violently.
Decisively.
She landed on the bed in a rush of fabric and sharp breath, the mattress absorbing the impact as she bounced once and came to rest, limbs loose and disordered, like a doll returned too roughly to its place.
Oskar stepped forward at once, placing himself between them.
Patricia lay where she had fallen, hair spilled, chest rising too fast. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him.
In the movement, her nightgown had ridden higher than intended—high enough for Oskar to register the pale strip of fabric beneath. White. A thong, delicate, almost absurdly so, trimmed with a tiny ribbon and a stitched bear's face.
An Angelworks piece.
He recognized it instantly.
Louise's work—his sister's. A concept once sketched and laughed over around a long table. Meant to be cute. Meant to sell innocence dressed up as indulgence. And damn it, it was cute—disarmingly so.
What was not cute was the faint, unmistakable darkening at the center.
Oskar felt a sharp, involuntary shudder climb his spine.
He did not step forward.
He did not retreat.
He simply stood there—caught between Patricia sprawled across the bed and Elise kneeling on the floor—while the space between them hardened into something brittle and dangerous, like a fault line ready to split.
Patricia lay where she had landed, hair in wild disarray, lips parted, eyes unfocused—caught between the urge to scream at Elise and the need to breathe. Her fingers were buried in the sheets, knuckles pale, gripping as though the bed were the only thing keeping her from unraveling completely.
And then the anger hit him.
Not only at them.
At himself.
This had gone too far—too fast—and he knew it. He had allowed it. Indulged it. These women were no longer testing boundaries; they were tearing through them. And even if he was leaving Britain within hours, he could not leave this behind.
He would not.
There had to be a line. A hard one. Something unmistakable. Desire did not excuse chaos, and chaos did not erase consequence.
Elise had not moved.
Still kneeling.
Still trembling.
Her head was bowed, breath shallow, hands clenched in the fabric of her skirt as if standing might shatter her entirely.
"That's it, I have had enough of you two," Oskar said.
His voice was not loud.
It did not need to be.
Both women stilled at once.
"This ends now."
He turned toward Elise, and she flinched as if struck by the words alone.
"You," he said, pointing—not accusing, not shouting. Just deciding. "You crossed a line you do not get to pretend you didn't see."
Elise swallowed hard. "Mercy, Your Highness—please—"
He cut the plea off with a raised hand.
"Silence."
She obeyed instantly.
Oskar stepped closer, towering over her, the difference in scale making the power dynamic unmistakable. He did not touch her roughly. He did not need to.
He reached out, removed her maid's cap with a single, controlled motion, and tossed it aside. Her Honey-blonde hair fell loose over her shoulders, the neatness of service stripped away in a way that felt more exposing than any shout.
"Now it's time for punishment," he said. "And you will remember it well."
Patricia pushed herself upright on the bed, breath caught, eyes wide.
"Oskar—what are you doing?" she demanded, half outrage, half disbelief.
He didn't look at her.
"Stay where you are," he said, his voice level and unraised.
The command struck harder than a slap.
Patricia froze where she lay, breath caught halfway in her chest, as if even movement might invite punishment.
Oskar turned back to Elise.
She was still kneeling, small and rigid, eyes lifted just enough to track him as he approached. When he reached for her, she whimpered—a soft, helpless sound that echoed too loudly in the quiet room.
His hands closed around her waist.
It was narrow enough that his fingers met easily, thumbs pressing into her sides as if she were something made to be held. Without ceremony, without effort, he lifted her.
Elise squeaked—more startled than hurt. She did not struggle. She did not dare. Her eyes flicked up to his, lips trembling.
"Mercy, Your Highness… please…"
He offered none.
He turned her and set her stomach‑first against the edge of the bed. The breath left her in a sharp gasp as he bent her forward, guiding her down until her weight rested against the mattress and he stood firmly behind her.
She was too small for the height of the bed.
Her chest pressed into the sheets. Her arms slid forward, palms splayed, fingers curling into the fabric. Her legs dangled uselessly, toes barely grazing the floor as her body arched on instinct.
She trembled.
Oskar loomed behind her like a shadow given form, the air thick with the sound of his breathing. For a moment he said nothing at all.
Then he exhaled—slow, controlled.
"You have been a very disobedient maid," he said quietly, each word measured. "And disobedience has consequences."
His hand rose.
It came down hard.
The sound cracked through the room, sharp and unmistakable, rebounding off the high walls and gilded panels.
Elise cried out—a sharp, broken sound, humiliation burning into her voice. "I'm sorry—Your Highness—I swear—I won't—!"
The second strike came without warning.
Harder.
Her body jolted. Her thighs clenched reflexively, breath stuttering as she gasped.
Patricia watched from the bed, utterly still. Her legs remained spread where she had fallen, fingers digging into the sheets as though anchoring herself. Her expression wavered, something raw and conflicted twisting behind her eyes—fear tangled with fascination.
Another sharp crack.
Elise's cry climbed higher this time, strained, her back arching despite herself as she pressed helplessly into the mattress.
Oskar's jaw tightened. His hand curled slowly into a fist.
He stopped.
Three strikes.
Enough to teach. Enough to leave no doubt.
Not because the lesson was finished—but because he knew precisely how far he could go, and exactly what it meant to cross that line.
Patricia's cheeks burned. She could not look away. Her gaze followed every movement, every breath, as if committing the moment to memory.
Elise remained bent over the bed, breathing shallow and quick, cheeks flushed, head turned just enough to glance back at him.
There was something in her eyes then—something that surprised him.
Not defiance.
Anticipation.
And Oskar noticed it.
Seeing the look on her face—anticipation, unmistakable and unhidden—Oskar actually faltered.
He glanced to the side, toward Patricia.
She wasn't fearful. She wasn't apologetic. She was watching him the way one watched the final moments of a film already known to be scandalous, eyes intent, lips slightly parted, breath slow and heavy. Not a trace of shame in her posture. Only expectation.
For a heartbeat, a single, disbelieving one, Oskar wondered if the two women were mad.
Then irritation flared—hot, sharp—and he leaned back into it instead of away.
His left hand pressed more firmly against Elise's delicate back, forcing her deeper into the mattress. His voice dropped into a rough growl.
"So," he said quietly, dangerously, "you want more. Is that it?"
Elise said nothing.
She turned her face away, burying it into the sheets, hands coming up to cover her cheeks as though she were a frightened animal seeking shelter. A rabbit retreating into a hole.
And yet—
Her hips trembled.
Not in fear. In anticipation.
The air was thick with it, unmistakable. Not panic. Not submission. Desire—raw and exposed—rolling off both women in waves strong enough that even he could not deny it.
Oskar's breath hitched.
As if refusing to believe his own senses, he pushed forward anyway. His right hand caught the fabric of Elise's dress, fingers curling tight, and with a single rough, impatient motion he yanked it up to her waist.
The gesture wasn't gentle.
It wasn't teasing.
It was forceful, abrupt—meant to assert control, meant to see.
And what he saw stopped him cold.
White thigh-high stockings hugged her legs, pristine against skin flushed with heat. Her long thighs were parted just enough under the strain of her position to give him a full, obscene view of the small white thong stretched tight across her full, perfect curves. The fabric clung desperately, soaked through at the center, darkened with need, marking her without mercy.
But it was the back that struck him like a blow.
A small cartoon bear, smiling, giving a ridiculous thumbs-up—paired with a cheery, almost mocking little phrase, as if encouragement itself had been stitched into the cloth.
You've got this, girl.
Oskar's heart slammed against his ribs.
For a moment, he forgot to breathe.
Elise gasped softly, her spine arching just enough to emphasize the view, and she turned her head to look back at him. Her lips were swollen and red, bitten raw. Her breath trembled. And her eyes—
They weren't afraid.
They were bright. Daring. Asking.
She wanted him.
Not subtly. Not coyly. Her body told the truth where her mouth did not.
Beside her, Patricia let out a small, helpless whimper.
She hadn't looked away for a second.
Her legs had parted without her noticing, her nightgown pushed up and forgotten, hands sliding over her own matching white thong—equally damp, equally marked with that same absurd bear, smiling as if in shared conspiracy.
She watched Oskar as though waiting for something unavoidable.
And in that taut, breathless stillness, it became clear—
This was not fear.
It was invitation.
Oskar stepped back at once, releasing Elise as if the moment itself had burned him. He looked from one woman to the other, disbelief hardening into focus.
"You," he said slowly, voice low. "You two." His gaze flicked down, then up again, sharp and incredulous. "Why are you wearing the same underthings?"
Patricia answered without thinking, the words tumbling out with careless honesty.
"Because we're friends, of course," she said. "We share everything."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Oskar felt it click into place—clean, sudden, unwelcome.
"Friends," he repeated. "So that's it." His jaw tightened. "I've had a spy in my room this entire time." His eyes narrowed. "It's both of you, isn't it? Night after night—testing locks, rattling doors. Just what do you think you're doing?"
His muscles went rigid. His fists clenched.
Elise, now seated on the edge of the bed, gathered herself and looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes darting before she spoke.
"It wasn't the Princess," she said quickly, almost tripping over the words. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, Your Highness—but it was me. I was the one behind the door."
Patricia turned on her at once, scandalized.
"What?" she snapped. "You did what, Elise?"
Elise shrank a little, shoulders curling inward.
"I wasn't trying to cause trouble," she said, voice small. "I just wanted to check on you. When the door wouldn't open, I panicked. I thought something might be wrong." She swallowed. "There isn't much to do at night as a maid. I worried. I shouldn't have. I know that now."
Oskar watched them—watched the confession unravel, the indignation, the excuses—and slowly pressed his palm to his face.
When he looked up again, his expression had changed.
Cold.
Sharp.
Controlled.
"…Forget it," he muttered, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
He stepped back from the bed as if both women had scorched him.
"Just—forget it," he said flatly. "You're both insane."
Oskar had finally had enough.
He stood there for a heartbeat longer, chest rising and falling, skin still bare, the cool air brushing against him as if to remind him just how exposed this entire night had been. Half-dressed, unguarded, and thoroughly done with whatever this had become.
He would dress.
He would pack.
And he would put as much distance between himself and this room as possible—immediately.
He turned away from the bed, from the women and the tangled sheets, and headed for the door without another glance.
"I'm leaving," he said flatly.
And this time, it wasn't a threat.
It was a decision.