The chambers were quiet now.
Not the public quiet of marble halls and uniformed guards—but the softer, heavier hush that settled only after doors had been closed, children carried away by trusted hands, and the last echoes of music had finally died.
Candles burned low along the walls, their flames steady and unhurried, painting silk hangings and polished wood in gold. The air still carried traces of bathwater and perfume—lavender, soap, and something warmer beneath, the lingering scent of skin.
They waited on the great bed.
Three women, close enough that their knees brushed, the nearness both comforting and charged.
Their nightgowns were nearly identical—pale, thin, honest. Court demanded structure and restraint; this demanded surrender. Fabric clung softly to curves still warm from bathing, offering suggestion rather than concealment. Hair had been brushed, lips tinted just enough, skin bare where it mattered.
On the left sat Tanya.
Petite but unmistakably curvy, she lounged with practiced ease, one leg tucked beneath her, the other angled outward. The thin fabric stretched easily over her chest, full and high, the shape obvious with every breath she took. One shoulder slipped free now and then, not by accident. She looked relaxed, but her foot tapped faintly against the carpet—impatient, eager.
This was familiar ground to her.
On the right sat Anna.
Taller, fuller, heavier in presence, she sat upright but unguarded, the nightgown draping generously over her curves. Her chest was impossible to ignore—soft, abundant, moving gently with each slow, deliberate breath. She rested her hands loosely in her lap, calm and assured, as if the room itself took its cues from her steadiness.
She had done this many times before.
And between them sat Princess Gunderlind.
She tried very hard not to look like she didn't belong.
Her posture was perfect—back straight, chin lifted, shoulders drawn as she had been taught since childhood. But her hands betrayed her, fingers twisting together, then stilling, then twisting again. The thin fabric lay modestly over her, revealing a slenderness that suddenly felt too obvious beside the women flanking her.
Her gaze flicked—quick, nervous—to Tanya's confident curves, then to Anna's fuller, heavier presence.
She swallowed.
"He… he won't be long, will he?" she asked, her voice barely louder than the soft crackle of candlewicks.
Tanya glanced sideways at her, slow amusement curling her lips.
"Oh, he'll come," she said lightly. "Eventually. He does enjoy making an entrance."
Gunderlind exhaled, then hesitated. "I just—" She stopped, cheeks warming. "I don't want to… disappoint him."
Anna turned toward her at once, brows knitting gently.
"You won't," she said without hesitation. "You already haven't."
"But what if I don't—" Gunderlind faltered, fingers tightening in the fabric at her knees. "What if I'm not… enough?"
Tanya laughed softly and leaned closer, unashamed. She lifted one hand and, with deliberate exaggeration, pressed it against her own chest, drawing attention to herself before sliding that same hand to rest lightly—reassuringly—against Gunderlind's.
"Sweetheart," she said, voice low and wickedly kind, "he's going to love these."
Gunderlind froze.
Tanya gave a gentle, playful squeeze, then withdrew, grinning.
"Trust me. You don't need to compete with anyone."
"That's not helping," Anna said, though the corners of her mouth twitched. She shifted slightly, the movement making her own curves impossible to ignore. "And she's wrong about one thing."
Gunderlind looked at her quickly. "Which?"
"You don't have to impress him with size," Anna said calmly. "He notices everything. He chose you because you're you, and you're cute."
Gunderlind swallowed again. "Is it… is it going to hurt?"
Anna opened her mouth immediately.
"No. Not the way you're imagining. Oskar is careful. He listens. He—"
"Oh, it will be an experience," Tanya cut in cheerfully. "Let's not lie to her."
Gunderlind stiffened. "An… experience?"
Tanya tilted her head, eyes bright, one knee drifting outward without apology.
"You've seen him. You know how large he is. That confidence doesn't disappear when the clothes come off."
Gunderlind's eyes widened. "Tanya—"
"I'm just saying," Tanya continued, entirely unrepentant, "for a first time? It's… memorable."
Gunderlind went pale enough that Anna immediately reached out, covering her hand.
"Tanya," Anna said sharply.
"What?" Tanya shrugged. "I didn't say anything untrue."
Anna squeezed Gunderlind's fingers gently.
"She exaggerates," she said softly. "Yes, he's impressive. But he's also gentle. He'll go slowly. He always does."
Gunderlind nodded faintly. "So I don't have to… do anything special?"
Tanya blinked at her, then laughed.
"Do something? No. Gods, no. Just be where you are. Let him take care of the rest."
Anna nodded. "He didn't choose you for what you could offer," she added. "He chose you because he wanted you. That's already enough."
Gunderlind let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"I just want him to be… happy."
Tanya's teasing softened, just a little.
"Trust me," she said. "He will be."
The room settled again.
The tension didn't vanish—but it became bearable.
They waited.
Then the door opened.
The sound alone snapped all three of them upright—sharp, final, unmistakable.
Oskar stepped inside without ceremony.
A small white towel sat low on his hips, hanging there like an afterthought, his skin still damp from washing. Candlelight caught the water tracing down his chest and arms, turning muscle into sculpture—broad shoulders, a chest carved deep and solid, strength layered upon strength in a way that made the room feel suddenly too small for him.
The room did shrink around him.
His hair was pulled back, pale gold darkened by moisture, his neck thick and powerful above it. His eyes—cold blue in public—softened just enough as they swept over the bed, over the three women waiting for him, like a man checking something he already knew belonged to him.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Even Tanya forgot to smirk.
Anna's breath hitched—slow, then suddenly not.
Gunderlind forgot how breathing worked entirely.
Up close, he was unreal. Every line of him looked intentional, shaped by force and confidence rather than ornament. His body read as man in a way she had never encountered before—nothing delicate, nothing uncertain. Just mass, presence, and a casual lack of shame about any of it.
He moved like someone who knew exactly what he did to rooms.
And when he smiled—not the practiced expression of a prince, but something relaxed and indulgent—it felt less like charm and more like ownership.
"Well," he said mildly, voice low, amused, "you all look very patient."
Tanya made a soft sound in her throat and leaned back on her hands, deliberately arching just enough to make her meaning clear.
"Patient is one word for it."
Anna didn't bother hiding it—her fingers slid slowly over her own curves, eyes never leaving him, lips parted like she was already tasting trouble.
"You took your time," she said. "Cruel man."
Gunderlind stared.
Not at them.
At him.
The towel slipped free as Oskar stepped closer, falling to the floor without ceremony. The sight hit her all at once—too much, too sudden, too male—and her breath left her in a rush.
She had known, abstractly, that men were different.
She had not known this.
Her cheeks burned, eyes wide, heart hammering as her mind scrambled to reconcile stories and lessons with the reality standing calmly in front of her, utterly unbothered by her shock.
Oskar noticed.
Of course he did.
He didn't rush. Didn't pose. Just stood there, letting the moment do the work for him, gaze steady and knowing.
Tanya bit her lower lip openly now, one knee falling outward as she watched him.
"Oh look," she murmured wickedly. "You broke her."
Anna laughed softly, breathless, fingers still roaming like she had no intention of stopping.
"Give her a moment. That's… a lot of man to process."
Gunderlind swallowed hard. "I— I didn't know—"
She stopped, flustered beyond words.
Oskar stepped closer.
With every step, his presence pressed into them—confidence, certainty, the calm arrogance of a man who knew this house, this bed, and these women answered to him. He reached out and guided Gunderlind back with one large hand, firm and unyielding, leaving no question about where she belonged.
She went willingly, dazed, breath shallow.
He loomed over her—solid, warm, unavoidable.
"Are you frightened?" he asked calmly.
She shook her head too quickly. "No. Just… overwhelmed."
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"Good."
Tanya laughed low. "Gods, listen to him. Like he's introducing her to a fine wine."
Anna leaned in closer, voice husky with amusement.
"Careful," she said to Gunderlind. "Once you know… there's no un-knowing."
Gunderlind barely heard her.
All she could see was him.
All she could think was that she had never imagined men could be this—this large, this confident, this unapologetically physical.
Oskar bent down, close enough that his shadow swallowed her whole.
"Relax," he said softly. "I'll take care of everything."
Tanya grinned, thoroughly undone now.
"See? Told you he knows what he's doing. So just relax and enjoy the ride, honey."
The candles burned low, the room thick with heat, laughter, and anticipation—
and whatever world existed beyond those walls had absolutely no claim on them tonight.
---
After the wedding—and the formal and spicy bedding that followed it—Oskar and his wives departed Berlin at once.
The honeymoon was not an escape so much as a controlled withdrawal, a pause carved out of the machine he had built. The children came with them, of course. All of them. Even Anna's three older girls joined the journey, naturally slipping into the role of watchful older sisters as the procession moved south from Berlin, through Bavaria, and into Switzerland.
The Alps greeted them in late summer.
They lacked the cruel perfection of winter—no blinding whites, no razor winds—but what they offered instead was gentler and no less impressive. Green slopes folded into one another. Lakes lay still as polished glass. The air was thinner, cleaner, carrying the scent of pine and stone.
The children were stunned.
The younger ones stared constantly, mouths open at waterfalls and peaks. The older girls shepherded them with practiced patience, counting heads, steadying small hands, teaching them the names of mountains as if geography itself were a game.
For two weeks, Switzerland became something rare for Oskar:
A place where the world did not demand answers every hour.
He still worked, of course.
He always did.
Meetings were arranged—quiet ones. First with senior figures of the Catholic Church in Switzerland, men old enough to remember other crises and smart enough to recognize a new one when it stood in front of them.
Bishop Jakob Stammler of Basel.
Bishop Joseph Deruaz of Lausanne and Geneva.
They listened. They measured. They tested Oskar's words as if weighing coins.
Oskar explained himself—again—to his private irritation, but without hostility. He made it clear that he remained Christian, but that his convictions leaned toward the Old Testament: law, order, covenant, responsibility. He did not seek to provoke the Church, nor did he ask for endorsement beyond acceptance.
In the end, that was what he received.
Not approval. Not imitation.
Acceptance.
His situation was declared unique—not a model, not a precedent, but a reality to be managed rather than condemned. The bishops did not say the words aloud, but Oskar could see it in their eyes:
This man was not normal.
And neither were his children.
Eight silver-haired, violet-eyed proofs of something the old men did not entirely understand—and had no desire to challenge openly.
Politics followed faith.
Oskar also met with the President and Vice-President of the Swiss Confederation. They were pleased he had agreed to speak with them at all. Switzerland lived by industry and banking—by competing, not conquering—and the rise of the Oskar Industrial Group had begun to bite hard into Swiss exports to Germany.
They wanted investment.
Stability.
Reassurance.
Oskar gave them something adjacent.
He had no interest in turning Switzerland into another industrial engine. That was not its strength. Instead, he spoke of tourism—of rail access, alpine hotels, clean lakes, and the rising German middle class hungry for places that felt untouched.
Germany, he promised, would come to Switzerland.
And Switzerland, in return, would remain Switzerland.
That seemed to satisfy them.
The rest of the time, Oskar did very little.
Which, for him, meant swimming in cold lakes, climbing mountain paths with his children, and standing on peaks long enough to remember the view rather than calculate its value.
They stayed in a private mountain estate—large enough to feel secluded, modest enough to feel real. Nights were quiet. Days were slow. His wives were exhausted in the good way, content to let the world stay outside the windows.
Oskar did not hide.
He swam openly. Climbed openly. Laughed openly.
And Switzerland noticed.
Newspapers ran photographs of the giant prince by the water, bare-chested, three women at his side. Of him atop a ridge, lifting a sheep as if it weighed nothing, grinning for the camera while his children cheered below.
Public opinion softened.
People looked at him and decided something simple:
A man like that could not be ordinary.
And perhaps, a single ordinary woman could never have been enough.
Two weeks later, they returned to Potsdam.
Not because Oskar wished to leave—but because the world no longer allowed delay.
Reports from the Ottoman Empire piled up: Kurdish unrest, the Zaranjīq rebellion, the Hauran Druze uprising. Small fires, yes—but fires nonetheless. The international situation was tightening again, threads pulling toward something larger.
The navy waited.
Tirpitz waited.
Europe waited.
Oskar knew the Balkan war was still years away—if history behaved.
But history had already proven it did not always do that.
As the A-class Muscle Motor's car rolled back through the palace gates, Oskar felt the familiar weight settle again across his shoulders.
The honeymoon was over.
And the future was already knocking.