Oskar stared at the door, then slowly looked back down at Zofia, and for several long seconds the Crown Prince of Germany seemed genuinely torn between duty and the woman beneath him.
She remained sprawled across his desk exactly where he had left her, dark hair scattered over the polished wood and cheeks burning with colour. Tears still clung to those beautiful grey-blue eyes, making them shine as she stared up at him, while her breathing came quick and uneven from everything that had just passed between them. The front of that ridiculous maid's uniform had been dragged down almost completely, leaving her heavy breasts exposed beneath him, her little pink nipples hardened by the charged intimacy of the moment. One of Oskar's hands still cupped a breast almost possessively, the softness yielding beneath his enormous palm like freshly kneaded dough.
The sight nearly destroyed what remained of his good sense.
Her legs were still spread around him, the scandalously short skirt having ridden so far upward that there was scarcely any pretence of modesty left. The white lace of her panties was completely visible between her thighs, and pressed insistently against them through the front of Oskar's coffee-stained trousers was the unmistakable evidence of precisely how badly he wanted her.
He was painfully hard.
His erection strained against the confines of his trousers with enough force to make the fabric uncomfortable, trapped between his own clothing and the soft heat of Zofia beneath him. Every slight movement brought another maddening pressure against her, and judging by the way her breath caught whenever he shifted, she was acutely aware of it as well.
Zofia could feel the size and hardness of him pressing against her through those few remaining layers of cloth.
Yet she did not close her legs.
She did not cover herself.
She did not tell him to stop.
Instead she simply looked at him.
There was still grief in those enormous eyes, still anger and confusion and all the wounds neither of them had begun to understand, but beneath them burned something considerably simpler now. Want. Naked, unmistakable want. Zofia seemed almost entranced by the enormous man standing between her thighs, her lips parted and swollen from his kisses, her body soft beneath his hands as though she were waiting for only one thing.
For him to move.
For him to claim her.
Only moments earlier he had spoken of giving her another son, and the words seemed to have reached somewhere painfully deep within her. Tomasz had left a wound no man could simply fill, yet beneath the grief existed another longing—the desperate desire to be wanted again, to belong somewhere again, perhaps even to create something new after war had taken so much from her.
Oskar could still taste her upon his lips.
Zofia could undoubtedly taste him upon hers.
The memory of her tongue, the warmth of her mouth and those little breathless sounds she had made beneath him remained maddeningly fresh. His thumb moved almost unconsciously over the softness of her breast, and Zofia shivered.
Her teeth caught her lower lip.
The movement drew Oskar's eyes immediately.
For one suspended moment neither of them seemed capable of remembering that Russia existed, that there was a war outside these walls, or that hundreds of thousands of men depended upon decisions made in this room. There was only the desk, Zofia beneath him and the painful pressure in his trousers demanding that he stop thinking altogether.
Then another sharp knock struck the door.
"Your Highness?"
Oskar's jaw clenched, and he shut his eyes and drew a long, frustrated breath, attempting with remarkably limited success to recover the composure expected of the Crown Prince of Germany.
Of all the bloody moments.
"Just a moment!"
The words came considerably more sharply than he intended. He looked down at Zofia once more and immediately regretted doing so.
She was still staring at him, waiting.
Good God.
Oskar reluctantly released her breast, and the soft weight of it slipped from his hand. Zofia's expression changed almost imperceptibly at the loss of his touch. Then his other hand left her as well.
He stepped away before what remained of his self-control abandoned him entirely.
The absence was immediate.
Zofia lay motionless for a heartbeat, stunned by the sudden emptiness where his enormous body had been. Only moments before she had been surrounded by him—his warmth above her, his hands upon her, his mouth against hers, his erection pressing insistently between her open thighs. Now cool air touched skin that had been covered by him, leaving her feeling strangely hollow and terribly exposed upon the enormous desk.
Oskar dropped heavily into his chair and dragged one hand across his face.
His erection had not received the message that matters of state had resumed. It remained trapped painfully against the front of his trousers, creating a considerable problem beneath the desk that he had neither the time nor patience to address.
"Zofia," he said, somewhat hoarsely. "Go."
She remained where she was for another moment. Then she slowly pushed herself upright.
Oskar expected embarrassment finally to reclaim her. Perhaps she would hurriedly restore her dress, straighten her skirt and flee before Helena entered.
Instead Zofia looked at him and smiled. It was a small smile, far too pleased with itself.
Oskar narrowed his eyes.
"Zofia—"
Before he understood what she intended, she slipped from the edge of the desk, dropped lightly to her knees and disappeared beneath it.
Oskar stared downward.
"What the hell are you doing, woman?"
Zofia had settled comfortably into the shadowed space between the cabinets, directly between his legs. From there those enormous grey-blue eyes looked up at him with a mischievous brightness that immediately made him suspicious.
She raised the handkerchief. Then pointed innocently toward the coffee staining his trousers.
Oskar stared at her.
"You cannot possibly be serious."
Her smile widened, just as another knock sounded.
"Your Highness? Is everything all right?"
Oskar looked toward the door, then immediately back down at the troublesome Polish woman hiding beneath his desk.
He raised one finger in unmistakable warning.
Zofia pressed her lips together with exaggerated obedience.
"Yes!" Oskar called. "Everything is perfectly fine."
A brief silence followed from the corridor, and Oskar used it to push his chair back into place, an action that unfortunately left Zofia tucked rather neatly beneath the desk between his legs. If the arrangement inconvenienced her in the slightest, she gave no sign of it. Quite the opposite: from the mischievous light in her grey-blue eyes, she seemed thoroughly pleased with where she had ended up.
Then, with all the solemn diligence of a maid merely carrying out another perfectly ordinary household duty, Zofia unfolded her handkerchief and resumed dabbing at the coffee staining the front of his trousers.
Oskar immediately stiffened.
The handkerchief moved carefully over the damp fabric at first, almost convincingly innocent, until her hand travelled lower and brushed deliberately along the full length of the erection straining beneath his trousers. Every muscle in Oskar's body seemed to lock at once.
His gaze dropped beneath the desk.
Zofia was already looking up at him.
There was not the faintest trace of innocence in her expression now. Her eyes practically sparkled with wicked amusement, and the little smile threatening the corners of her mouth made it perfectly clear that the contact had been no accident.
Oskar pointed a warning finger down at her.
Behave.
Zofia answered with the sweetest, most angelic smile imaginable, as though she had absolutely no idea what he could possibly mean, then lowered her eyes and returned to the supposedly urgent business of cleaning his trousers.
Oskar leaned back in his chair and stared toward the ceiling for a long moment, breathing slowly through his nose as he attempted to recover some measure of composure. He needed to think about the Russian First Army. He needed to hear Helena's report, understand whatever new disaster or opportunity had emerged at the front, make whatever decision was required of him, and dismiss her as quickly as possible.
After that—God willing—he could turn his attention back to the considerably more immediate problem of the infuriating little Polish woman currently hidden between his knees.
The thought did very little to calm him.
Nevertheless, against every instinct warning him that allowing anyone into the room under present circumstances was an extraordinarily poor idea, Oskar straightened in his chair. He adjusted his posture, settled his hands upon the desk and arranged his face into what he hoped resembled the calm dignity expected of the Crown Prince of Germany rather than that of a man whose self-control was presently being tested beneath the furniture.
Then Oskar fixed his attention upon the door and answered in German.
"Enter."
The handle turned, and the door opened with almost hesitant slowness.
Helena stepped inside.
For several seconds Oskar forgot both what was happening beneath his desk and why Helena had come to see him.
Apparently Zofia had not been the only victim of whatever scandalous conspiracy had overtaken the women of the Royal Castle. Helena wore much the same outrageous interpretation of a maid's uniform, yet upon her it produced an entirely different—and perhaps even more dangerous—effect.
She was slightly taller than Zofia, her figure all long, graceful lines and generous feminine curves. Immaculate white stockings embraced her shapely legs almost to the thighs, contrasting beautifully with skin so pale and smooth that it seemed almost luminous against the black of her dress. Her waist had been drawn tightly beneath a crisp white apron, emphasizing the sweep of her hips and the lush fullness above.
And there, Oskar's gaze stalled.
The bodice was scandalously low. Helena's ample breasts were gathered high and pressed close together by the fitted dress, leaving a deep valley of creamy cleavage framed by delicate white ruffles. The uniform seemed barely equal to the task of containing her, transforming every nervous breath into another subtle rise and fall that Oskar found increasingly difficult not to watch.
Above all of that was perhaps the most dangerous part of her.
Her face.
Soft blonde hair had been arranged beneath the little white maid's cap, with loose golden strands curling around delicate features and rosy cheeks. Her bright blue eyes seemed enormous behind her spectacles, lending her an almost scholarly sweetness utterly at odds with the provocative uniform below. She looked simultaneously voluptuous and painfully innocent, as though someone had dressed a shy librarian according to the fantasies of a particularly shameless man and neglected to explain the effect to her afterward.
And Helena's manner only made it worse.
She stood just inside the doorway clutching the report against her apron with both hands, knees almost touching, shoulders drawn inward with characteristic shyness. The pose made her appear smaller and sweeter while doing absolutely nothing to conceal her figure. If anything, drawing her arms together only pressed her breasts more tightly against one another.
Oskar stared.
"Helena…"
Colour immediately flooded her cheeks.
"What in God's name is this?"
The door clicked softly shut behind her. Helena adjusted her spectacles with one finger and looked down at herself before giving him an embarrassed little smile.
"Well… some of us thought that, since Your Highness has been working so terribly hard, perhaps something pleasant might cheer you up. And the other men as well. With all the hardship and ugliness outside…"
She shifted her weight, one stocking-clad leg moving slightly before the other.
Her voice became softer.
"Don't you like it, Your Highness?"
Oskar found himself confronted by the remarkable possibility that Helena genuinely had no idea how devastating she looked.
"Like it?"
His eyes travelled over her again: from those long white-clad legs to the narrow waist, the generous curves straining against black and white fabric, and finally back to that sweet, blushing face framed by blonde hair.
"You look stunning."
Helena's lips parted, and the colour in her cheeks deepened until her entire face had turned brilliantly red.
At precisely that moment, Zofia—still concealed beneath the desk—apparently decided that she had been neglected for quite long enough. Rather than continue dabbing innocently at the coffee staining Oskar's trousers, her fingers slipped upward, found the top button and worked it loose. A moment later the zipper followed.
Oskar's breath caught.
Freed from the painful confinement of his trousers, his erection sprang forward with enough force to strike Zofia lightly across the face. She froze beneath the desk, momentarily stunned more by the sheer size of what had appeared in front of her than by the impact itself. Then, almost instinctively, both of her soft hands closed around him, though her fingers could scarcely meet.
Oskar dragged in a sharp breath and tightened his grip upon the arms of his chair.
Helena's shy smile vanished at once.
"Your Highness?"
Concern immediately overwhelmed whatever embarrassment had occupied her only seconds earlier. She hurried toward him as quickly as her heels allowed, crossing the room with the report still clutched in one hand.
Only when she reached the opposite side of the desk did she notice the devastation spread across its surface.
"Oh!"
Coffee had soaked through half the papers before Oskar. Reports were stained a miserable brown, ink had bled through handwritten annotations, and several documents bearing his royal seal had curled pathetically at their edges as they dried.
Helena stared at the ruin in genuine dismay.
"Your Highness, what happened? The coffee—was something wrong with it? Did Zofia make it badly?"
Her expression became so sincerely distressed on Zofia's behalf that Oskar nearly laughed.
"No. No, Helena. The coffee was perfectly good."
He paused as movement beneath the desk sent another wave of tension through him.
"There was merely an… accident."
Underneath the desk, Zofia seemed to have forgotten the coffee entirely.
She stared at Oskar's manhood with the fascinated concentration of an archaeologist discovering some impossible relic. One hand remained wrapped around the base while the other explored higher, and then she leaned forward, testing him first with a slow kiss, then another, before dragging her tongue deliberately along him as though the task of cleaning coffee from the Crown Prince had suddenly become one she intended to perform with exceptional thoroughness.
Oskar's jaw tightened.
Helena, still completely unaware of what was happening only a few inches beneath the desk, glanced around the room with faint confusion.
"Where is Zofia?"
Oskar's eyes flicked downward before returning almost immediately to Helena.
"You worry too much," he managed, his voice considerably steadier than he felt. "Now, please. The report."
Helena hesitated, plainly unconvinced that everything was quite as normal as her prince insisted, but professional discipline eventually overcame curiosity. She pushed her spectacles higher upon her nose, straightened the pages in her hands and drew herself upright.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Then she began.
Fortunately, Helena was already proving herself a remarkably capable secretary. Rather than burden Oskar with every detail contained in the original dispatches, she had reduced the matter to those points that actually required his attention.
General von Seeckt believed Rennenkampf's proposal genuine. The Russian general's intermediary had remained consistent throughout interrogation, and what XVII Corps knew of the deteriorating situation within First Army broadly supported his account. Rennenkampf was apparently prepared to defect with his family and a small circle of trusted officers, while his German ancestry and connections throughout the Baltic provinces might make him valuable well beyond the immediate military situation. If handled carefully, a Russian army commander of Baltic German birth could become an extraordinarily useful figure among the region's German population and perhaps even among other officers whose loyalty to the Russian Empire had begun to weaken.
Oskar listened.
Or, at least, he made a determined attempt to.
Zofia seemed equally determined to make that increasingly difficult.
Whenever his attention finally settled upon Helena's report, some fresh piece of mischief beneath the desk caused the muscles in his jaw to tighten. Yet Helena continued in that sweet, careful voice of hers, entirely oblivious to the private struggle being waged on the other side of the polished wood, while Oskar sat with almost unnatural rigidity, occasionally answering with a curt nod or clipped acknowledgment and silently willing the troublesome Polish woman hidden below him to behave herself.
She did not.
Helena proceeded to the operational implications. Seeckt recommended accepting the surrender and exploiting the resulting confusion immediately. XVII Corps could increase its pressure upon the Russian First Army while German aircraft struck headquarters, communications and whatever formations attempted to interfere. The 1st Armoured Division could then drive through any gaps that opened, transforming Rennenkampf's defection from a private arrangement into the apparent collapse of the Russian position before Saint Petersburg had time to understand what had happened.
At the same time, Tirpitz and Prince Heinrich could use the confusion to attempt something Germany had not yet seriously tested during the war: a coordinated amphibious operation along the Baltic coast. Marines could seize Ventspils as an initial foothold, supported by light naval forces, while submarines undertook the considerably more discreet task of extracting Rennenkampf and his immediate family from the Russian-held coast.
It was audacious.
Complicated.
Dangerous.
Oskar liked it immediately.
Unfortunately, by then he was also finding it increasingly difficult to remember the individual sentences Helena had spoken only moments earlier. He forced himself to concentrate upon the essentials—Rennenkampf, First Army, Ventspils, submarines, XVII Corps—and trusted that anything else could be reconstructed later from the report presently clutched between Helena's hands.
At last she reached the final page and lowered it.
"That is everything presently confirmed, Your Highness."
"Good."
The answer came perhaps a fraction too quickly.
Oskar cleared his throat and forced his thoughts firmly back toward matters of war.
"Tell Seeckt that I accept Rennenkampf's surrender in principle. He is to maintain contact and make whatever arrangements are necessary to prevent the Russians from discovering what their general intends before we are ready."
Helena nodded and immediately began making a notation in the margin.
"XVII Corps is to prepare for a full offensive," Oskar continued. "The moment Rennenkampf begins moving, I want enough pressure upon First Army that nobody within the Russian command can determine where surrender ends and defeat begins. Rommel's division will support the advance and exploit whatever opening appears."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"As for the Baltic…" Oskar paused briefly, assembling the operation in his head. "Inform Tirpitz and my uncle that I want the Marines prepared for Ventspils. Light naval forces will support the landing. If we intend to conduct larger amphibious operations later in this war, then we may as well begin learning the necessary lessons now, while the objective remains manageable."
Helena's pen moved rapidly.
"And General Rennenkampf himself?"
"Extract him separately. I don't want him travelling through his own collapsing front if it can possibly be avoided. Use the submarines to bring him and his immediate family out, along with whichever trusted officers we decide are worth taking."
Oskar's expression hardened slightly.
"And make it clear that he comes to me. I want to hear from Rennenkampf himself exactly why a commander of the Russian First Army has suddenly decided that his future lies beneath the German eagle."
Helena finished writing and looked up through her spectacles.
"Yes, Your Highness."
That should have concluded the matter. Instead, Helena remained exactly where she was.
Oskar watched her for several seconds before raising an eyebrow.
"Was there something else?"
Helena hesitated. Then, as though afraid her courage might desert her if she allowed herself another moment to think, she hurried around the desk.
Oskar's eyes widened fractionally.
That was not a direction he particularly wanted her travelling at present.
Helena stopped beside his chair and gently took one of his enormous hands between hers. For an instant she merely held it, gathering herself, before drawing it against her chest and pressing his palm into that milky-white softness. Beneath his hand, Oskar could feel her heart beating frantically as she looked down at him through those delicate spectacles. Her enormous blue eyes were wide and earnest, her cheeks already beginning to colour.
"Please, Your Highness…" she said softly. "If there is anything else I can do for you—anything at all—you need only ask. My body and soul are yours to use as you please. Please, Your Highness… simply command me. It would be my honour to serve you, and to please you in whatever way you desire."
Oskar stared at her.
There were several possible interpretations of such a declaration, and the fact that Helena was presently holding his hand against the warm softness of her breast did very little to encourage the innocent ones.
Whatever she might originally have intended, the expression upon her face made one thing unmistakable: she meant the offer sincerely.
Despite himself, a faint smile tugged at Oskar's lips. Maintaining even that much composure, however, was becoming increasingly difficult considering what Zofia was doing to him at that very moment.
Quickly, he moved the hand Helena had pressed against herself and instead closed his enormous fingers gently around her delicate ones. Then he drew her nearer until scarcely a breath remained between their faces.
Helena's breath caught.
"Well, aren't you a bold one, Helena?" Oskar murmured, gazing up into those enormous blue eyes. "You should remember that I am a married man. Patricia and Elise will both be here tomorrow."
The colour in her cheeks deepened immediately.
Whatever courage had carried her around the desk began evaporating beneath the full weight of his attention. For all the determination it had taken to say those words, Helena suddenly looked as though she had only now realised that Oskar might actually accept her offer.
Unfortunately, Oskar had another reason for wanting her attention focused anywhere except beneath the desk.
Zofia remained hidden below, and at that moment she was trying very hard indeed to swallow his German sausage whole, eagerly kissing and sucking at the thick head of his cock while taking as much of him as she could. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Oskar to maintain anything resembling princely composure, particularly when the faint slurping and muffled little moans coming from beneath the desk seemed, to his ears at least, catastrophically loud.
He kept his expression remarkably composed, although barely.
The last thing he needed was Helena innocently glancing downward and discovering precisely why the Crown Prince had been sitting so unnaturally still throughout her report.
So Oskar made a decision.
His arm swept around Helena's waist, and before she could so much as ask what he intended, he lifted her bodily onto his lap as though she weighed nothing at all.
Helena gasped.
"Your Highness, I—"
The words died upon her lips.
Suddenly she found herself perched upon the enormous Crown Prince, her knees settling to either side of one of his thighs as his arms encircled her waist and drew her firmly against him. Almost instinctively, Helena's hands came to rest upon his massive shoulders.
Then Oskar leaned in and kissed her neck.
The tenderness of it caught her completely by surprise. A shudder travelled through Helena's body, stealing whatever words she might have found. His lips lingered against the pale softness of her neck before wandering lower, tracing the line of her collarbone and descending to the generous swell of her breasts.
A helpless little moan escaped her.
Helena wrapped her arms around his head and held him close, and at such intimate range the difference between them became almost ridiculous. She seemed positively delicate in his embrace. Oskar could practically envelop her with his body, as though this beautiful blonde scholar were something small and precious that had somehow found her way into the arms of a giant.
Then, just as Helena was beginning to lose herself in the sensation, he stopped.
Oskar drew back and looked directly into her eyes.
"Helena, ever since I found you," he said quietly, "it has felt as though I discovered some precious jewel—something rare that I wanted to treasure, to hold dear and keep close to me. That is why I made you my secretary."
Helena went still.
Oskar's expression softened.
"But if you wish to remain simply Helena—my secretary, my troublesome little scholar, and one of the women under my protection—then that is what you shall be."
He paused, studying her.
"If you want something more…"
His gaze remained fixed upon hers.
"…then tell me when you are certain. Not because you believe you owe me some debt. Not because you think gratitude demands it. Tell me because you want it. Because you truly wish to become one of my women, to share the wonders of this world with me…and, perhaps one day, to bear my children."
At those final words, his great hand settled affectionately over her stomach, his thumb brushing gently across the fabric, while his other hand remained possessively curved around her backside.
For several seconds Helena seemed incapable of answering.
Everything had happened far too quickly. Only minutes earlier she had been standing before his desk delivering a military report. Now she was sitting upon the Crown Prince's lap while the man she had practically worshipped since her rescue—the distant, almost impossible figure she had watched from afar since she was but a girl—calmly told her that the choice she had imagined already belonged to him was, and always had been, hers.
That seemed somehow more overwhelming than if he had simply accepted her offer.
Oskar saw the uncertainty flickering behind those enormous blue eyes and gave her backside a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
"And yes, I know," he murmured. "It is rather a lot to swallow, so please do take your time."
Under the circumstances, the phrasing very nearly made him grimace.
Helena, mercifully oblivious to the private joke occurring beneath the desk, merely stared at him while Zofia continued her enthusiastic work below, taking as much of him as she could and making Oskar increasingly regret his unfortunate choice of words.
Then his composure finally began to crack, and Oskar abruptly pulled Helena into a tight embrace as a deep, involuntary groan escaped him, followed by several muttered German curses beneath his breath.
Helena blinked in confusion.
Then, apparently reaching entirely the wrong conclusion, her expression softened.
He was embarrassed. At least, that was what she thought. And somehow the idea that this colossal, terrifyingly powerful man could be shy about admitting his feelings struck Helena as unbearably adorable.
She hugged him back.
Her cheek came to rest against his head, and one hand began gently brushing through his hair in a soothing rhythm while Oskar clung to her and fought desperately to preserve the last shreds of his princely dignity. Beneath the desk, Zofia's efforts finally overwhelmed him, leaving him tense and trembling in Helena's embrace as his release came hard.
Helena merely held him tighter.
She smiled softly, completely unaware of what was actually happening, continuing to stroke his hair while his groans gradually subsided and the tension drained from his enormous frame.
Only then did Oskar finally manage to speak.
"But if you truly insist upon helping me tonight," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice strained despite his best efforts, "then I would appreciate something considerably simpler."
Helena's heart hammered against her ribs. There was something strangely endearing about this colossal man clinging to her as though he were the one seeking comfort.
Perhaps the war weighed upon him more heavily than she realised.
Her nervousness softened, and she tightened her arms around him.
"Why, yes, Your Highness," she whispered with a gentle smile. "Whatever you require."
Oskar had barely been freed from Zofia's eager attentions before his body betrayed him again.
Perhaps it was Helena herself. Perhaps it was the way she had so earnestly pledged herself to him, apparently without the slightest comprehension of just how dangerously broad an invitation she had given. Or perhaps Zofia had simply left him so thoroughly aroused—and so maddeningly frustrated at having been brought to the brink without ever actually burying himself inside a woman—that restraint was becoming increasingly difficult.
Whatever the reason, he hardened rapidly beneath her.
Helena, perched innocently upon his lap, noticed the change before she had the faintest idea what it meant.
Something long and thick had risen beneath her, hot even through the layers separating them, until it pressed firmly against the soft curve of her backside.
She flinched.
Her eyes widened behind her delicate spectacles.
"Your Highness…?"
Yet even as confusion crossed her face, her body reacted in a way she understood even less.
She had already been feeling strangely warm. The room seemed saturated with an unfamiliar, intimate musk that made her thoughts feel pleasantly muddled whenever she breathed too deeply. She had tried very hard not to dwell upon where it might have come from, but apparently her body possessed considerably less discipline than her mind.
An unfamiliar ache had settled low in her belly.
Worse, there was an embarrassing dampness between her thighs that seemed only to intensify now that something so undeniably hard was pressing against her.
Helena shifted uncertainly, but the movement only made her more aware of it, and she went very still.
Oskar looked up at her.
The innocent bewilderment upon her face nearly destroyed what little restraint remained to him.
"This may be a little sudden," he murmured, one enormous hand settling reassuringly around her waist, "but I think I could use a massage."
Helena blinked.
"A… massage?"
"Just a little one."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"But I'll need you to relax for me, Helena." His hand remained steady at her waist. "Just breathe."
She stared at him.
Plainly, Helena had absolutely no idea what sort of massage he had in mind. Nevertheless, this was Oskar. Her prince, the man to whom she had solemnly promised anything he required. So despite the strange heat in her cheeks, the unfamiliar ache between her thighs, and the decidedly inexplicable object pressing against her backside, Helena drew a careful breath.
Then she gave him a small, trusting nod.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Oskar's hand slipped beneath the hem of her maid's dress.
Helena stiffened.
Before she could form another question, his fingers caught her undergarments and dragged them aside. Cool air brushed suddenly against intimate flesh already embarrassingly wet, and Helena gave a tiny, startled gasp.
"Your Highness—!"
Oskar lifted her effortlessly, and for one bewildering instant Helena found herself suspended against him, her hands flying instinctively to his shoulders as he shifted her into position.
Then he began to lower her.
She felt the heat between her thighs first—the firm pressure of him against her—and her breath caught as understanding came a heartbeat too late.
"Osk—"
He brought her down onto him.
Helena's unfinished word dissolved into a breathless cry as her body stretched around his thick length. The sudden intrusion swept every coherent thought from her mind, leaving her clinging helplessly to his shoulders as he pushed deeper. Her nails dug into him, her spectacles slipping precariously down her nose as a violent shudder ran through her entire body.
Oskar immediately tightened his arms around her, holding her securely against him.
"Easy," he murmured.
Helena could scarcely hear him over the blood roaring in her ears. Her body felt impossibly full; he seemed enormous inside her, stretching her until she was certain she could take no more, and yet the pressure continued to build until a frightened little whimper escaped her and she buried her face against him.
Oskar immediately stopped.
For several long seconds he simply held her there, one arm securely around her while her trembling body slowly adjusted to the unfamiliar sensation.
"That's it," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. "Just hold on to me."
Helena needed no encouragement. Her arms tightened desperately around his neck as she pressed herself against him and tried to remember how breathing was supposed to work.
"Good girl," Oskar whispered. "You're doing wonderfully."
His mouth found hers, and the kiss was so unexpectedly gentle—almost apologetic—that Helena clung to it as though it were the only familiar thing left in the world. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the terrible initial shock began to recede. The overwhelming fullness remained, but little by little it ceased to be quite so frightening, replaced instead by a strange, spreading warmth that left her trembling for an entirely different reason.
Oskar seemed to notice the change. His hands moved slowly over her back and waist before settling beneath her skirt upon the soft curves of her backside. Helena shivered beneath his touch, but when he carefully lifted her a little and eased her back down again, the helpless sound that escaped her was swallowed by his kiss.
"Oskar…"
That stopped him.
He drew back and stared at her.
Something about the way she had spoken his name—the tremor in her voice, the dazed expression behind her crooked spectacles, the way her body still seemed unable to decide whether it wanted to tense against him or simply melt into his embrace—finally made something click.
"Helena," he said slowly.
She blinked at him.
His brow furrowed as understanding dawned.
"Wait. Was this your first time?"
For a moment there was only silence.
Then Helena's cheeks turned scarlet.
Her gaze dropped between them and, with almost painful shyness, she gave the smallest of nods.
"Yes."
Oskar stared at her for a heartbeat before his expression softened into a smile. He leaned forward and kissed her again, slowly and affectionately.
"Then," he murmured against her lips, "let's make certain it is a memorable first time."
Helena managed a tiny, thoroughly embarrassed smile.
"Yes, Your Highness."
When Oskar began moving her again, there was nothing hurried about it. He took his time, lifting her only a little before carefully easing her back down, allowing Helena to become accustomed to the rhythm rather than overwhelming her with it.
At first she whimpered with every movement, her fingers tightening against his massive shoulders. Gradually, however, those frightened little sounds softened into breathier ones. The rigid tension began leaving her body, her grip becoming less desperate as she settled against him and surrendered herself to the unfamiliar warmth spreading through her.
By then her maid's dress had become hopelessly disordered. Oskar tugged the bodice lower, baring the milky white curves of her breasts to him.
Helena gasped, her face turning red as a tomato.
"Oskar…"
He answered by lowering his head and covering her exposed skin with kisses.
Whatever remained of Helena's composure dissolved completely. She clung to him, caught somewhere between mortification and mounting pleasure, and might actually have laughed at the absurdity of it all had another kiss not stolen the thought from her entirely.
Instead, Helena arched against him and cried his name.
"Oskar!"
Her fingers buried themselves in his hair as she melted against him, surrendering herself to sensations she scarcely understood. With every passing moment she felt herself becoming more accustomed to him, until it seemed she might simply dissolve into his embrace and become one with the man she adored.
And somewhere within that warmth, the ugly memories of those vile men began to wash away. Their hands, her fear, the horror of what they had almost done to her—all of it seemed to fade beneath the affection of the man who had saved her. Her protector. Her hero.
Her Oskar.
Meanwhile, beneath the desk, however, Zofia had arrived at a very different—and considerably more irritating—conclusion.
The man she had come intending to bed had somehow been stolen from directly under her nose by that smart-mouthed German bitch, Helena.
Still kneeling between Oskar's legs, she stared upward in stunned disbelief while attempting, with increasingly little success, to restore some semblance of dignity with a handkerchief. It was a hopeless endeavour. Her maid's uniform was thoroughly dishevelled, her face remained flushed, and the evidence of Oskar's earlier, extraordinarily generous release still marked both her skin and clothing despite her increasingly frantic attempts to clean herself.
Eventually, Zofia simply gave up.
Instead, she found herself watching Helena above her, listening to the German woman's increasingly breathless cries mingling with Oskar's groans as though neither of them knew that there was another woman kneeling scarcely a foot away. Helena was becoming an incoherent, trembling mess in his arms, and Oskar seemed entirely preoccupied with accomplishing precisely that.
Zofia's eyes narrowed.
She had tolerated this long enough.
If Helena intended to steal His Highness's complete attention, then Zofia would simply have to remind them both that she was still there.
She leaned forward beneath the desk and planted an unexpected kiss upon Oskar's most sensitive royal possessions.
The effect was immediate.
Oskar shuddered violently, his entire body tightening as the surprise pushed him suddenly over the edge. Helena felt the change in him an instant later, followed by an overwhelming rush of warmth that sent another wave of sensation crashing through her. Whatever composure she still possessed vanished completely; she cried out and collapsed against him, trembling helplessly as pleasure overwhelmed her senses and left her scarcely conscious in his arms.
For several moments, Oskar could do little more than hold her.
Beneath them, Zofia withdrew with an expression of considerable satisfaction.
Helena had enjoyed her turn. Now Zofia intended to have hers.
And so the night stretched on inside Oskar's office, its occupants growing increasingly oblivious to the world beyond its doors as that most primitive act of life's creation continued between one enormous man and two eager women. Helena and Zofia shared no common language, yet by then they scarcely needed one; breathless gasps, laughter, whispered words neither understood, and the occasional jealous glare proved more than sufficient.
By the time Oskar had finally exhausted both women into blissful sleep, even the boundaries of the evening had begun to blur. Somewhere amid that heated confusion, Maria had wandered unsuspectingly into the office and discovered her mother and the Crown Prince together. Oskar, thoroughly distracted by then, scarcely registered her arrival at first and momentarily mistook daughter for mother amid the disorder. The startled young woman was swept into the night's chaos almost before she understood what she had walked in upon, until the office became an increasingly tangled affair of embraces, discarded clothing, breathless voices, and three women competing for the attention of a prince who seemed determined to find enough stamina for all of them.
Nor was Oskar's office the only room in the palace where restraint had been abandoned.
Throughout the corridors and chambers, maids still dressed in the deliberately provocative uniforms chosen for the celebration had found themselves clinging rather enthusiastically to the Eternal Guards they regarded as their saviours. Behind one closed door after another, the festivities had taken a decidedly more intimate turn, until much of the palace seemed caught up in the same feverish celebration. Through it all, old soldiers such as Hindenburg and Ludendorff slept peacefully in their rooms, blissfully unaware of the passions unfolding only a few corridors away.
Beyond the palace walls, the men of the Black Legion were discovering that occupation could place them in circumstances rather different from anything their training had prepared them for.
Along the banks of the Vistula, beneath a clear summer sky scattered thickly with stars, Noah lay beside the dying embers of a small campfire and contemplated what had become, by some considerable margin, the strangest development of his war thus far.
He was not alone.
Curled peacefully against his side was a young Polish woman, sleeping beneath the black jacket he had draped over her earlier that evening. Her head rested comfortably against his chest, one arm folded loosely across him, while soft blonde hair spilled over his shoulder and caught the faint orange glow of the remaining embers.
Noah still did not know her name.
He had first noticed her only a few days earlier, among the enormous crowds gathered after the Crown Prince's speech. There had been hundreds of thousands of people around them, families clinging desperately together amid the confusion, yet somehow she had seemed completely alone. No father stood beside her, no mother called after her, no brother or sweetheart appeared when the crowds began moving. She had simply stood there looking frightened and terribly lost, those enormous blue eyes searching a city that suddenly seemed to contain nobody she knew.
Noah had watched her longer than he probably should have. Then something in him had made the decision before his mind could properly argue with it.
At the first opportunity, he had approached her, offered his hand and, through a mixture of gestures, fragments of language and what he hoped was a sufficiently reassuring expression, made it clear that she could come with him if she wished.
She had taken his hand, and somehow, she had never really let go. Even now, several days later she was still with him.
They could scarcely hold a conversation. Noah's Polish amounted to a pathetic collection of words gathered during the advance, while whatever German she possessed was hardly better. Yet he had gradually discovered that there were things for which language was unnecessary. He understood the relief that entered those beautiful blue eyes whenever he returned from duty. He understood the shy little smiles she gave him when he brought her food, the way she instinctively moved nearer whenever unfamiliar soldiers approached, and the extraordinary trust contained in the simple fact that she could now fall asleep in his arms without the slightest fear of what he might do to her.
Noah looked down at her and slowly ran his fingers through her hair. It was astonishingly soft, almost silken beneath his roughened hand.
She stirred faintly at the touch but did not wake. Instead she nestled a little closer, cheek settling more comfortably against his chest while the faintest contented smile touched her sleeping face.
Noah found himself smiling as well.
Their evening wash in the river had become considerably more affectionate than either of them had apparently intended, leaving them both flushed and awkward afterward, and now the sheer absurdity of his circumstances was becoming impossible to ignore.
He had gone to war expecting mud, marching, bullets and Russians.
He had found all four.
He had watched Felix die. He had killed men himself and discovered, to his horror, that after enough killing the act became easier. He had stood before the Crown Prince, fought his way to Warsaw and received a medal for conduct that sometimes returned to him at night in memories he would rather have forgotten.
Yet somehow, amid all of that, he had also acquired a beautiful Polish woman whose name he did not know, who apparently trusted him enough to sleep half-covered by his uniform with her body curled comfortably against his own.
Felix would have found the entire situation hilarious. The thought brought an ache with it all the same.
Noah's smile faded slightly as he stared into the embers.
He could almost hear his friend's voice making some crude observation about the girl in his arms, followed by the inevitable demand that Noah stop looking terrified and enjoy his extraordinary good fortune. Before Soldau they had joked about women often enough—girls they had met at Pumpworld, girls they hoped to meet afterward, wives they might someday have once soldiering and war had ceased interfering with more important things.
Felix would never have any of that now.
Noah's fingers continued moving slowly through the woman's hair. And he realised that perhaps that was partly why holding her felt so strange.
Not long ago his hands had been wrapped around Felix's machine gun. Tonight one of them rested gently against the back of a sleeping woman's head.
The world seemed capable of changing too quickly.
She shifted again, murmuring something quietly in Polish that Noah could not understand, then settled deeper beneath his jacket.
He looked down at her.
"You know," he whispered in German, "eventually you're going to have to tell me your name."
No answer came, yet Noah waited. Her breathing remained slow and peaceful.
"Very helpful."
The corner of his mouth lifted again.
For several minutes he simply lay there listening to the Vistula moving through the darkness. Warsaw rose behind them, quieter now than it had been during the fighting, while somewhere farther away came the occasional rumble of a German vehicle travelling through streets that only days earlier had belonged securely to Russia.
Then a considerably less amusing thought occurred to him.
The Legion would move again. Perhaps not tomorrow. Perhaps not even the day after. But eventually the orders would come, trucks would be loaded, rifles checked, engines started, and Noah would march east with everyone else.
His eyes returned to the woman sleeping against him.
What exactly was he supposed to do with her then? Leave her in Warsaw? Take her to whatever authorities now administered the city? Find the family she might or might not still possess? Or simply bring her along until someone considerably more senior noticed that one newly promoted Legionary had somehow added a Polish woman to his personal equipment?
Noah stared toward the stars.
For perhaps the first time since taking her hand in that enormous crowd, the full weight of the question settled upon him.
He had protected her because she had needed someone. Now she trusted him, and that made leaving considerably more complicated.
No answer presented itself beneath the stars, and after a while Noah stopped looking for one. The woman was warm against him, the fire still possessed enough life to keep the night comfortable, and morning remained some hours away. Whatever happened next could wait until then.
The war, unfortunately, had no intention of waiting with them.
Even while Noah lay awake beside the Vistula, messages were already passing through Warsaw's communications stations and racing north and east across the German lines. Staff officers bent over maps beneath electric lamps, telegraph operators translated decisions into bursts of current, and motorcycles carried sealed orders along roads that engineers had scarcely finished repairing.
As the last hours of darkness slipped away and 9 August 1914 began, General Hans von Seeckt received confirmation that the situation before him was about to change dramatically.
His XVII Corps had already crossed the Niemen and was pressing against the battered Russian First Army. Now additional strength was coming forward. Rommel's 1st Armoured Division had been ordered to reinforce the operation, giving Seeckt the mobile striking force he would need if Rennenkampf's defection opened the Russian position as Oskar hoped.
The surrender would be accepted. But Germany had no intention of merely waiting for Rennenkampf to walk across the lines.
The Russians would be attacked hard enough that confusion concealed betrayal, and when the cracks appeared, German armour would drive through them before anyone in Saint Petersburg could understand what had happened.
Nor was the coming operation confined to the land.
Far to the northwest, fresh orders reached the Baltic and High Seas fleets. Naval staffs were called from their beds, charts unrolled across tables, and officers began calculating distances, tides, transport requirements and the support necessary to put German Marines ashore against an enemy-held coast.
Their attention was turning toward Latvia. Toward Ventspils.
While Noah lay beneath the stars wondering what future awaited the nameless woman sleeping in his arms, thousands of other men were already being awakened to prepare for theirs.
The next phase of the eastern war was beginning.