Morning light spilled through the tall windows of Buckingham Palace—pale, golden, filtered through high glass and drifting curtains that softened even the weight of stone.
Oskar yawned and rubbed at his eyes, pulling himself upright at the edge of the bed. He faced the double doors to his chamber, reassured to find them still closed—blocked by a chair and the heavy wardrobe he had dragged there the night before. His massive frame was loose, unguarded, feet planted on the carpet, shoulders relaxed for the first time in days.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
No footsteps. No whispered plotting. No midnight disasters.
He glanced at the antique wall clock mounted between the windows—English make, barometer and thermometer included, impressive but not antique by the simple fact that it was still 1910. The hour told him Elise would arrive soon to prepare his bath and begin the day's routine.
Good.
With a long stretch, he stood, moved the wardrobe aside as if it weighed nothing, then returned to the bed, pulling on simple underwear before lying back again. He allowed himself a rare indulgence: stillness.
For the first time since arriving in Britain, he felt finished.
London had been… impressive. More than impressive. The city's weight, its history, the sheer density of memory in its streets and halls—it had been worth the journey. Seeing George V in the flesh, witnessing the naval display with his own eyes—real history, not books or documentaries—had stirred the part of him that had once loved history simply for what it was.
Even the arrogance had been instructive.
Even the warning had been fair.
So yes—worth it.
He yawned again, rolling his neck until the joints cracked softly.
Bath, he thought. Then Elise would dress him. Breakfast. Polite farewells. And then Germany.
Home.
He was half-deciding between a hot bath with bubbles or without when voices reached him.
From behind the doors came a frantic protest.
"Princess—please—that's my key. Give it back. You can't go in there. His Highness is still resting!"
Elise's voice carried into the room—small, breathless, pleading—like a frightened little animal arguing with something far larger than herself. The words tripped over one another, thin with panic.
Oskar blinked, dragged from half-sleep, and sat upright at the edge of the bed just as the handle rattled and the lock turned.
"Please, Princess, I'll announce you, I promise, but you can't—!"
The doors flew open.
Princess Patricia burst into the room like a storm finally breaking.
Her hair hung loose and half-tangled, as if she had dragged her fingers through it all night. Her white nightdress—expensive, beautiful—was rumpled and careless, the neckline sitting lower than propriety allowed, the fabric clinging in a way that made it painfully clear she had not slept. Most striking of all were her eyes: bright blue, wet with tears, burning with panic and determination as she crossed the room toward him.
She looked wild. Striking. Utterly undone.
And pitiful in a way that made something in Oskar's chest tighten despite himself.
Behind her stumbled Elise, smaller and neat to the point of absurdity, her maid's uniform perfectly in place, hair braided, cap straight. She looked like order chasing chaos and losing badly.
"Princess, please," Elise begged, almost squeaking now. "You can't keep taking my keys—"
Patricia didn't slow.
She crossed the room in quick, unsteady steps and dropped to her knees in front of Oskar.
The sound—soft but final—echoed through the sunlit chamber.
Oskar froze.
He sat there dressed only in his underwear, the sheer scale of him filling the edge of the bed, and the woman before him suddenly seemed impossibly small by comparison. Patricia crawled the last distance without hesitation, her hands landing on his knee as if by instinct, fingers curling into the fabric as though it were an anchor. She was close—far too close—nestled between his massive legs, looking up at him with raw, pleading eyes.
Her tears were not delicate. They were real—angry, desperate, unslept—sliding down flushed cheeks, catching on lashes, staining the front of her nightdress. Her lips trembled, parted as she tried to find words, her breath uneven, her whole body radiating a reckless urgency that Oskar felt far more keenly than he wanted to.
She was beautiful.
And she knew it.
And worse—she needed him.
"Don't leave," she said, voice breaking.
"Please. Don't leave without me."
Elise gasped softly behind her, hands clasped tight at her chest, eyes flicking between them as if she expected the room itself to rupture. She didn't know whether to flee or stay, whether she was already in trouble for being here or too deep in it to retreat.
Oskar stared down at Patricia, stunned.
At the disheveled beauty of her. The exposed line of her collarbone. The way she clung to him like a lifeline, fingers digging into his leg as though he were the only solid thing left in her world. Desperation had stripped all courtly polish from her face, leaving something raw and unguarded beneath.
It made his chest tighten.
He hated seeing women cry. Always had.
And she was crying for him.
"Patricia," he said slowly, incredulous despite himself, "we have talked about this. I can't take you."
She shook her head fiercely, hair falling into her face.
"No—please, Oskar, you don't understand." Her words tumbled out in a rush. "My parents forbade me. They hated me being near you—showing you the city, laughing with you. They said I humiliated the family."
Her grip tightened.
"They're done with me. After the farewell breakfast, they'll send me away. They talked about marrying me off to some cavalry officer I've never met." A bitter laugh tore through her tears. "And if I refuse, they'll disinherit me. Exile me. Send me somewhere far away and forget I exist."
The words landed harder than Oskar expected.
He didn't know how much was truth and how much was panic—but he could feel his defenses thinning all the same. Sympathy crept in where it didn't belong.
She swallowed and leaned closer, her hands sliding—unthinking, instinctive—over the firm planes of his abdomen as if reaching for reassurance she couldn't find anywhere else.
"Please," she whispered. "You're my last chance. If you leave today… I'm trapped."
Oskar closed his eyes for a brief, dangerous heartbeat.
Gods, he was annoyed. She was reckless. Pushy. A walking disaster wrapped in silk and tears. Acting as if she could simply tear through his carefully built life because she wanted something badly enough.
And yet—
She was crying.
Actually crying.
And that had always been his weakness.
He dragged a hand down his face and let out a long, exhausted breath.
"Oh, for God's sake…"
Elise stood frozen barely a meter away, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, keys clenched in trembling hands. She looked like someone who had stepped into a moment far too intimate for her station and didn't know how to escape it.
Oskar didn't answer Patricia right away.
Instead—against his better judgment—he reached down and took her face in one large hand.
She leaned into the touch instantly, as if she'd been waiting for permission. His thumb brushed the wet track of her tears away, slow and deliberate, grounding both of them in the moment. Her breath hitched at the contact, eyes fluttering closed for a second before opening again, glassy and hopeful.
For a fleeting moment, the room seemed to narrow to just the two of them.
Oskar looked at Patricia and couldn't help thinking how absurd all of this was.
Tempting, too—in the way life sometimes mocked him.
A lifetime ago, in another world, he had struggled just to be noticed by women at all. Anonymous. Invisible. Unremarkable.
Now here he was—twenty-one years old, half-dressed in Buckingham Palace, with a royal woman on her knees begging him to take her away, and another woman trembling behind her like a caught thief.
The sheer ridiculousness of it almost made him laugh.
Almost.
He held Patricia's face as she spoke again, her warmth grounding him even as the situation spiraled.
"Please, Oskar," she said, voice breaking anew. "Don't go without me. If you leave now, I fear we'll never see each other again. I don't have anything here." Her eyes searched his desperately. "I won't inherit anything of significance. I don't matter to them. I'm just… another princess without purpose. No one will care if I disappear."
Her hands slid up, grasping his forearm—the massive arm cupping her face—as if clinging to something solid.
"But I could matter to you," she pressed on, panic edging her words. "I'll be whatever you wish. I'll change my name. Serve in your household if you want. I don't care—just take me. Hide me on your ship. I'll write a letter and let them think I ran. Please—just don't leave me here."
Behind her, Elise stood rigid, fingers twisted in her apron, eyes darting between them.
"The farewell breakfast is in less than an hour," she whispered. "Princess, please—if anyone finds you here…"
Oskar exhaled sharply. For a moment he rested his hand on Patricia's head, fingers brushing through her disordered hair—a gesture that might have been comfort, or might have been habit.
Then his grip tightened—not painful, but firm.
His icy blue eyes locked onto hers.
"Your words sound innocent enough, Patricia," he said flatly. "But you need to understand something."
She looked up at him—hope flickering, fear close behind.
"What you did that night," he continued, voice low and controlled, "when you came into my room—after I had already thrown you out—crossed a line. You knew it. You came back anyway. You entered my chamber without permission, didn't you?"
Her breath caught.
"You touched me while I slept," he went on, the words sharp now. "After that, how do you expect me to trust you? To bring you into my home? Near my family? Near my children?"
"You are not worthy of me," he said, without raising his voice. "No matter how beautiful you are."
Her face drained of color.
"No," she said at once, shaking her head violently. "No, Oskar, I didn't. I swear—I didn't come back that night. I didn't." Tears spilled freely now. "I would never do that. Not without your consent. Never."
He studied her in silence.
Then frowned.
"You expect me to believe that?" he asked coldly. "Do you take me for a fool? Who else would dare enter my locked chamber while I slept?"
His gaze hardened.
"I remember hands. A presence. Soft lips. Someone small. Someone like you."
Patricia recoiled, horror overtaking her expression.
"I didn't," she whispered. "I swear it wasn't me."
Oskar's hand slipped from her hair.
And then he saw it.
Movement.
Elise had taken half a step backward.
Her shoulders were trembling. Her face had gone pale—drained of all color—as if the blood had fled her entirely.
When Oskar's eyes fell on her, she looked as though she might collapse.
"Elise?" he said—low, questioning, the word edged like a warning.
The maid flinched as if struck.
Her breath hitched once. Then her legs gave way and she sank to her knees on the carpet, hands flying up as though she could shield herself from his gaze.
"I—I'm sorry," she whispered. "Your Highness, I swear—I never meant for it to happen."
Patricia stared, confusion snapping instantly into disbelief.
"Elise…?" she said.
The maid's voice trembled as she spoke, words spilling out too fast, too honest to be rehearsed.
"I was only supposed to prepare the room," she said. "The bath. The towels. I went to get the spare key, because the Princess took mine, and I—I thought I should prepare the room before you woke."
She swallowed hard.
"You were asleep," she continued, eyes fixed on the floor. "And you… you weren't covered. I tried not to look. I truly did. But then you frowned, like you were uncomfortable, and I thought—stupidly—that you might be in pain."
Her hands clenched in her apron.
"I only meant to help," she said, voice breaking. "Just for a moment. I didn't think. I didn't understand what I was doing until it was already… until it was too late."
Silence fell like a dropped blade.
Oskar's grip loosened, his hand falling away from Patricia at once.
Patricia turned slowly toward the kneeling maid, her face draining of color as comprehension finally struck.
"What…?" she breathed.
The word wasn't angry.
It wasn't seductive either.
It was confused.
Oskar closed his eyes.
For half a second, just half a second, his hand came up and pressed against his face—slow, deliberate—thumb and fingers digging into his brow like he was physically trying to hold his thoughts in place.
Oh, hell no.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled, but inside his head the words were much less polite.
No. No. I really hope she doesn't mean what I think she means.
A tight knot formed in his stomach.
Ah—shit.
His jaw clenched.
Why couldn't they just let me bring my guards?
The thought hit harder than the situation itself.
Damn it.
For years—years—he had slept surrounded by certainty.
Guards outside the door.
Women beside him.
Children breathing softly in nearby rooms.
Safety had become a constant background noise.
So constant he'd stopped hearing it.
And here—here in Buckingham Palace—they'd stripped it all away.
No Eternal Guard.
No Tanya.
No Anna.
No Gundelinda.
No familiar weight beside him in the dark.
Just a foreign palace, foreign rules, and one young maid standing between him and the rest of the world.
I should've known better, he thought grimly.
His body had relaxed the way it always did—too much.
Used to peace. Used to warmth. Used to nothing bad ever happening while he slept.
Used to being protected.
And that was on him.
Not on Elise—young, nervous, clearly infatuated, barely old enough to understand what she was risking by even being here.
Not on Patricia—reckless, desperate, raised in a court that taught people to grab what they wanted before someone else did.
I'm the man here, he told himself flatly.
I'm the one who should've been alert.
He swallowed, irritation burning hot under his ribs.
Sleeping naked in a foreign palace. Brilliant, Oskar. Truly brilliant.
He could practically hear Tanya's voice in his head already—dry, merciless, completely justified.
"You did what?"
Yeah.
That one was going to hurt.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the door, then back to the two women in front of him.
This wasn't a scandal yet, as it wasn't public.
But it was damn close.
And he had no intention of letting it happen again.
Next time, he thought coldly, if I don't get my guards—or my wives—with me on a foreign visit…
…then there is no foreign visit.
Period.
He straightened slowly, shoulders settling, expression hardening back into something controlled and unmistakably his.
No panic.
Just resolve.
Get a grip, he told himself.
Fix this. Now.
Because whatever this was—
It was a mistake.
And Oskar von Hohenzollern did not repeat mistakes.