By 9 PM the inn had quieted down—the last of the customers gone, the candles along the counter melting into short, flickering stubs. Oliver sat by the window in his room, the faint orange glow of the city lights spilling across the table. His shirt was half-open, his hair still damp from the bath. He was leaning back, eyes half-lidded, lost somewhere between fatigue and thought.

A soft knock came.

"Come in," he said, already guessing who it was.

The door creaked open, and Isolde stepped inside—dressed casually for once, her long white hair loose, a thin nightgown brushing just past her thighs. The moonlight from the window caught the smooth line of her skin, making her look almost unreal.

"You're not sleeping yet," she said, her voice calm but carrying that familiar tone—a mix of curiosity and quiet judgment.

Oliver gave a faint grin. "Couldn't sleep. My body's fine now, but my head's still buzzing."

Isolde walked closer, folding her arms lightly under her chest. "You're thinking about that girl, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Nah. I was thinking of those women whom I couldn't save yesterday. Do you know, apart from the women who were imprisoned, there were several corpses too. And I can't even recount in what condition they were."

For a moment, she didn't say anything. Then she sat on the edge of his bed, her tone softening. "You did what you could. You saved who you could. That's more than most would have done."

Oliver chuckled quietly. "That's what everyone keeps saying."

"Because it's true," she said simply.

They sat in silence for a bit, the sound of the wind faint through the shutters. Then Isolde tilted her head. "So… this 'mage girl'—how is she? Do you like her?"

Oliver groaned softly. "We're back to that, huh?"

Her lips curved in a teasing smirk. "I'm just curious. Was she just grateful or something else?"

"I don't know about that, but she was grateful for sure," he admitted, scratching his cheek. "Said she wants to work together sometime. That's all."

"Hmm." Isolde leaned back slightly, studying him. "You attract trouble, Oliver. Monsters, nobles, now women."

He grinned faintly. "What can I say? It's a gift."

That actually made her laugh—a low, melodic sound that filled the quiet room. "You really are a fool sometimes."

Then she leaned in, wrapping her arms around him in a sudden hug. "Whatever the reason was, you still left me alone all day," she murmured, her voice softening with a hint of reproach.

Oliver blinked, returning the embrace, feeling the warmth of her body against his. "Has my place in your eyes fallen since you found another woman?"

"Have I fallen in your eyes now that there's another woman?" she asked, trying to sound playful but failing to hide the flicker of uncertainty.

He shook his head immediately. "Not a chance. You were the first person who ever stood by me in this world. No one can take that place."

He pulled her into a deep kiss, their tongues interlocking with a hungry intensity. When they parted, his breath was ragged, a faint smile on his lips.

Her lips curved at that, a mix of relief and affection. He leaned closer, brushing his forehead lightly against hers.

Then, quietly, he said, "Honestly, I thought you'd kill me that night you caught me with Serena."

Isolde's laugh was low and genuine. "Kill you? Please. I might scold you, but murder is too much effort." She looked at him sideways. "Besides, I made a promise. The day you broke my seal, I became yours to follow. What kind of servant turns on their master?"

Oliver blinked, a bit taken aback. "You still take that seriously?"

"Of course I do." She met his eyes steadily. "And don't mistake me for jealous. You can love whoever you wish—just don't forget me."

He smiled faintly. "I couldn't, even if I tried."

"But seriously?" Oliver continued, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were so open-minded."

"Hah~ Have you forgotten who I was?" she teased, leaning back to meet his gaze.

"Of course I know," he replied. "You were a princess, so what?"

"It means I'm from a royal family, and it's common for kings to have multiple concubines. My father, the emperor, had 19 wives."

Oliver whistled softly. "So, coming from that background, you were taught that your husband might have multiple wives too?"

"Exactly," she said with a nod. "Isn't polygamy common among nobles?"

"Indeed," Oliver agreed, a grin spreading across his face.

In a burst of happiness, he locked her into another kiss, this one more enthusiastic, filled with renewed energy. "It's fantastic," he murmured against her lips.

"I'm very happy," Oliver said, pulling back slightly, his eyes shining.

"Oh, I know your happiness is poking my belly," Isolde said with a sly smile, glancing down at the tent forming in his pants, pressing against her.

She slid her hand inside his pants, her fingers brushing against his hardening length. "Let me take care of it," she whispered, her voice dropping to a seductive murmur.

Oliver's breath hitched as Isolde's fingers wrapped around his hardening cock, stroking it slowly through the fabric of his pants. The warmth of her hand sent a jolt through him, his shaft throbbing in response. "Fuck, Isolde," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. "Let me show you how deeply I love you."

Before she could respond, he pulled her closer, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the thin nightgown higher to expose her smooth, pale skin. He captured her lips again, the kiss deep and possessive, tongues tangling as he tasted her sweetness. Isolde moaned softly into his mouth, her grip tightening on his cock, pumping it with deliberate slowness that made his hips buck.

He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down her neck, nipping at the sensitive spot just below her ear. "You're mine," he growled, his hands roaming up to cup her busty tits through the nightgown. They were full and firm, spilling over his palms—petite frame or not, her breasts were a perfect handful, nipples hardening into peaks under the thin fabric. He squeezed them gently at first, then harder, rolling the buds between his fingers until she arched against him.

"Oliver..." Isolde gasped, her free hand tangling in his damp hair, guiding him lower. She shrugged off the straps of her nightgown, letting it pool around her waist, baring her tits to him completely. They bounced free, pink nipples erect and begging for attention.

He didn't hesitate, dipping his head to take one into his mouth—sucking hard, tongue flicking the tip while his hand kneaded the other. "These tits are fucking perfect," he muttered against her skin, switching sides, biting down just enough to draw a whimper from her. Isolde's strokes on his cock grew faster, her thumb circling the head, smearing the pre-cum that leaked from the slit.

Pushing her back onto the bed, Oliver stood briefly to shrug off his shirt, his lean, toned chest heaving. He yanked down his pants, his thick cock springing free—veined and rigid, the head flushed and glistening. Isolde's eyes darkened with lust as she reached for it again, but he caught her wrist, shaking his head with a smirk. "Not yet. Let me taste you first."

He knelt between her legs, shoving the nightgown up completely to reveal her clean-shaven pussy—pink and slick, folds already swollen with arousal. "So fucking wet for me," he said, his voice husky. He spread her thighs wider, leaning in to drag his tongue along her slit, savoring her musky sweetness. Isolde cried out, her hips lifting off the bed as he lapped at her clit, circling it with firm strokes before plunging his tongue inside her tight heat.

"Yes—fuck, right there," she panted, her fingers digging into his scalp, pulling him closer. He added two fingers, sliding them in deep, curling to hit that spot that made her walls clench around him. Her juices coated his chin, and he hummed in approval, the vibration sending her over the edge. Isolde came with a shudder, her pussy spasming, flooding his mouth as she ground against his face.

Panting, she pulled him up, her eyes wild. "Now you," she demanded, pushing him onto his back. Isolde straddled his thighs, her busty tits swaying as she leaned down, wrapping her lips around his cock. She took him deep, throat relaxing to swallow half his length, bobbing slow and sloppy—tongue swirling the underside, hand stroking what her mouth couldn't reach. "Mmm, you taste so good," she mumbled around him, saliva dripping down his shaft to his balls.

Oliver groaned, his hand fisting her white hair, guiding her rhythm. "Suck that cock like you own it, Isolde—fuck, just like that." He thrust up gently, watching her cheeks hollow, her tits brushing his thighs with each dip.

After a few minutes of her expert blowjob, he couldn't wait anymore. He flipped her onto her back, positioning himself between her legs, rubbing his cockhead against her slick entrance. "Ready for me to fuck you deep?" he asked, voice strained.

Isolde nodded, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Yes—show me, Oliver. Fuck me like you love me."

With a growl, he thrust in, burying himself balls-deep in her tight, shaved pussy. Her walls gripped him like a vice, hot and wet, as he started pumping—slow at first, then harder, their bodies slapping together in rhythm.

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