The corridors swallowed him.
Buckingham Palace at night was not empty so much as held—lamps turned low beneath mourning cloth, footsteps absorbed by distance, marble breathing sound back like a patient animal. Oskar moved through it alone, his broad shoulders brushing shadow, the echo of the banquet thinning with every step until there was nothing left but the weight of his own pulse.
He did not look back.
At the end of the hall he unlocked the door and stepped into the suite prepared for him—quiet, heavy with polished wood and faintly scented linen. He closed the door and turned the lock with a final, metallic click.
Silence.
He stripped without ceremony. Shirt off. Trousers folded once and dropped over the chair. Boots kicked aside. He owned no nightclothes and never had. He slid beneath the covers, pulled them to his chest, set the pillow beneath his head, and stared at the ceiling.
Sleep, he told himself.
A second passed.
Then another.
The handle rattled.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Oskar closed his eyes.
The handle moved again—up, down, hesitant, then more insistent.
He exhaled slowly, voice carrying through the door.
"Go to sleep, Princess Patricia. The door is locked."
Silence.
Then, softly: "Oskar."
He turned onto his side, back to the door.
"No," he said. "I'm not opening it. I'm not starting a diplomatic crisis because you can't control yourself. Please—leave."
"I'm not trying to start anything," her voice answered, just as soft. "I only want to talk."
"Not happening."
A pause.
"You don't get to decide that," she said lightly. "You're a guest here."
That earned her nothing.
"Good night," Oskar said. "Go. Away."
Footsteps retreated.
He exhaled.
Finally.
Minutes passed.
He was just drifting a sleep, when suddenly, a soft scraping sound came from the door.
The sound of metal against metal, a key sliding into place and turning.
His eyes opened.
The lock unlocked.
The door eased inward without a sound.
Patricia slipped inside.
She moved carefully, one hand on the door, the other holding the key—taken from a maid who now stood frozen at the far end of the corridor, hand over her mouth, staring at the impossible sight of a British princess entering the German Crown Prince's bedchamber.
The door closed.
Patricia turned the key again—quiet, decisive—and set it on the sideboard.
Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, silvering the room. She stood there for a moment, simply watching.
Oskar lay on his side, back to her, breathing slow and even. If he was pretending to sleep, he was doing it well. The pale curve of his shoulder caught the light; the heavy line of muscle down his back made the sheets seem inadequate, stretched thin over something too large to be contained. He was utterly unlike any man she had ever known.
A victorious smile touched her lips.
She stepped forward.
Slowly.
Silently.
Every movement chosen.
The bed was enormous—built for a body that did not belong to ordinary furniture. The mattress barely shifted as she climbed onto it, careful, deliberate. She knelt there for a moment, looking down at him: the breadth of his back, the heat radiating through the linen, the sense of restrained force even in stillness.
Her hand hovered.
Then drifted closer.
Her fingers brushed his shoulder.
Bare skin. Solid. Warm. The power there was undeniable—not threatening, not violent, but present in a way that drew her in despite herself. She did not know why it affected her so strongly—only that it did. That she wanted him to notice. To turn. To see her not as a problem, not as a princess, but as one of the women who belonged at his side.
She leaned closer, her breath warm against the skin of his neck, careful—too careful—not to wake him.
"Oskar," she whispered again, the boldness gone, voice stripped bare of performance. "I just… I just want you to see me. Like you did when we first met. I've been thinking about it ever since." A pause. A swallow. "I think I'm ready now. I really do like you."
The confession hung there, fragile and exposed.
She blushed, waiting for something—anything.
His breathing did not change.
Whether he slept—or just chose not to answer her—she could not tell.
Then his voice rose into the room, deep and controlled, a low growl that cut through the darkness.
"Princess Patricia," Oskar said quietly, without turning, "why are you so damn stubborn? Please. Accept a simple no. Go to sleep."
She froze.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why are you pushing me away?"
Her fingers tightened in the sheets.
"You told me yourself about Cecilie," she continued, voice trembling now. "And who knows how many other women. Lovers. Children. Those are just… arrangements, aren't they? Friends. So why can't I be like them to you as well? Why not me?"
He exhaled—long, tired, restrained.
"Because," he said, "your family—and the entire British royal house—would never invite me anywhere again." A beat. "And because you would be disinherited. Exiled. Quietly erased."
She shook her head.
"We have different religions," he went on. "Different nations. Families that despise one another. For your sake and mine—leave. And no, I am not some tool to be used simply because you want something."
Her voice broke.
"No. You don't understand." She pressed closer, desperation bleeding through control. "Every day it's the same—who I should marry, how I should stand, what I should say. I've been performing my whole life. Since I was a child." Her breath hitched. "I'm tired. I don't care what they say anymore. I just want to be free."
She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his shoulder, arms pressing against his back. Her body felt light—almost weightless—but the implication of allowing her this close, that felt heavier than anything he'd ever lifted.
"Oskar," she whispered, voice cracking, "I don't care if they disinherit me. I don't care about titles. I just want out." A weak, almost silent sound escaped her. "You can give me that. Take me with you. To Germany. Somewhere I don't have to smile on command. Please. I don't want to stay here anymore."
His jaw tightened. He turned his head just enough to acknowledge her presence without yielding to it.
"You're asking me to burn a bridge between nations because you're unhappy," he said. "I won't do that. I can't." His voice hardened. "And I won't let you destroy yourself either."
She pulled back slightly.
"No," she said suddenly. Flat. Final. "I'm not going back."
Before he could react, she grabbed the blanket and yanked.
The sheet slid halfway down his back.
"Stop," he warned.
She pulled again.
The fabric twisted, slipping further, exposing his bare back to the thin moonlight. He clutched the sheet instinctively, teeth grinding—not from fear, but from the sheer absurdity of it.
Outside in the corridor, all was quiet.
Too quiet.
The maid named Elise stood outside the door, back pressed to the corridor's cool stone wall. The key was still missing from her hand, and her thoughts circled the same useless question again and again.
When am I going to get it back?
Then she heard voices rise.
Muffled at first. Tense. Sharp.
"I'm warning you," Prince Oskar said—low and final, the kind of voice that did not repeat itself.
"I don't care!" Princess Patricia snapped back, breathless and furious. "I'm done caring!"
Elise's stomach tightened.
She shouldn't be listening. She knew that. Still, she inched herself closer to the door, heart hammering as the sounds inside the room shifted—footsteps, fabric, something heavy moving across the floor.
A startled gasp cut through the door.
Then another sound. Sudden. Decisive.
Words followed—too quick, too heated to catch clearly—tones rising and falling in ways that made Elise's face burn. It sounded scandalous. Intimate. Completely improper.
The voices broke into fragments—protest, indignation, something strained and breathless. Elise caught only pieces, each one worse than the last.
"Enough," Oskar said sharply.
Something thumped—furniture, perhaps. Or a body.
Elise's ears rang. She squeezed her eyes shut, telling herself not to imagine anything at all.
Then the door flew open.
Princess Patricia was suddenly there—hauled bodily into the corridor as if she weighed nothing, skirts disordered, cheeks flushed deep red. She stumbled as her feet hit the marble, landing hard with a sharp, undignified yelp.
Elise sucked in a silent breath.
Behind Princess Patricia stood Prince Oskar.
Totally bare of any clothing.
Framed by moonlight and shadow, broad shoulders filling the doorway, skin still flushed, posture utterly unashamed. He looked carved from something heavier than flesh—solid, immovable, as if the room itself had pushed him out whole.
"Off you go," he said flatly, pointing down the hall. "Go sleep, and be a good princess."
He stood there without covering himself, the open door behind him still breathing warmth into the corridor. His body was all hard lines and contained force, chest rising slowly, entirely unapologetic.
Patricia stared up at him from the floor—breathless, red-cheeked—her expression twisting between fury and something far more dangerous.
Then she got to her knees.
Her eyes lifted to meet his—blue, wide, defiant. Her gaze traveled downward, pausing as understanding struck.
She stared.
First stunned.
Then indignant.
Then—God help Oskar—she was smiling.
She bit her lip, reckless and unrepentant, and spoke softly, her voice trembling with meaning.
"I might not be experienced in these matters… but I'd try my best. If you'll just let me. I'm sure you'd like it."
Elise felt her heart lurch.
Oskar followed Patricia's gaze.
For a single, unbearable moment, he went rigid.
Then he stepped back as if struck.
He turned without a word and retreated into the room, face burning—not with embarrassment alone, but with fury at himself.
"You're impossible," he muttered.
The door slammed.
The lock clicked.
Patricia was left alone.
She remained there for a long moment, still on her knees in the moonlit corridor, lips parted, breath unsteady. Then she rose slowly, rubbing at her butt with an irritated wince as she gathered her skirts, her face still flushed, eyes glassy and bright.
"This isn't over," she whispered toward the closed door. "You can't just spank a princess and think you'll get away with it, Oskar. You'll fall for me. One way or another."
She turned sharply and stormed down the hall, the swish of her dress fading into the darkness.
She did not see the maid.
Pressed flat against the wall just beyond the doorframe, the young maid was frozen, eyes wide with shock, breath caught between awe and terror.
She had seen him.
The German Crown Prince.
Undressed and unmistakably aroused. Standing like a statue of some forgotten god—vast, unreal, terrifying. A man built like no man should be, too large for her imagination, too overwhelming for anything she had ever been taught about what men were or could be.
She was young. Unprepared. And now terribly, deliciously ruined.
A single thought looped in her head, echoing with helpless disbelief:
How could that possibly fit inside anyone?
Her legs gave way.
She slid down the wall, skirts pooling around her knees, one hand pressed hard against her chest as though she might physically restrain her heart from tearing free. Her breath came in short, uneven pulls. Whatever girl she had been an hour ago no longer existed.
She would never be the same again.