“I’ll leave it to Your Majesty, then…”
Allison Visseran quietly wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve, letting out a sigh of relief.
The ever-composed cardinal’s expression had completely collapsed, leaving only exhaustion and forced composure.
Even if a woman’s stamina far surpassed a man’s, it was impossible to stand from day to night and still maintain elegance.
Moreover, she had long suspected that those two were using some intimate act to relieve and suppress their fall into depravity.
But who could have imagined that such “relief and suppression” could last this long?
Leaving her, a Prime Minister, stranded here—honestly… it was enough to make an old person jealous.
No, it was infuriating!
Someone had to go and break them up!
Yekaterina nodded slightly, instructed a servant to take the Prime Minister to a guest room to rest, and lifted her skirt to walk alone toward the rear hall of the Royal Palace.
The corridor was deep, the candlelight flickering.
As soon as Yekaterina stepped inside, a faint sound, like a thread of silk, wound its way to her ear.
The sound was deliberately suppressed.
It was subtle, deliberately restrained, yet stubbornly seeped from the darkness at the end of the corridor, standing out in the silence.
The Queen’s steps halted, her eyes narrowing dangerously.
“How interesting. Sister just purged the Veid Family, and yet someone still dares to indulge in such debauchery in the harem?”
She held her breath, her toes lightly tapping as she slowed her steps, silently approaching the source of the sound.
“I must see which reckless fool dares…”
The source was the Queen’s Private Bath, reserved for royalty.
The heavy, carved wooden door was ajar, with warm, misty light and humid steam spilling from the gap.
Sounds enough to make any respectable person blush flowed from within.
The anger in Yekaterina’s heart burned even hotter.
It must be some lowly servant, brazenly committing obscene acts here!
This was a flagrant desecration of royal authority—unforgivable!
She reached out, ready to fling open the door and seize the shameless pair inside.
But just as her fingertips were about to touch the door—
A voice—hoarse, familiar, yet unbearably strange—froze her in place.
“…What a little devil…so fond of wild ideas…”
It was…Sister’s voice?!
Yekaterina felt as if struck by lightning, rooted to the spot, her mind going blank.
Impossible.
How could Sister…make such a sound, overflowing with desire and wickedness?
Then, a muffled moan, heavy with ragged breath, echoed.
Was it…Prince Wendy?!
Boom—!
Yekaterina felt her worldview shatter in that instant.
She staggered back half a step, her blood surging so violently it felt like fire, her heart pounding like a war drum.
No! Absolutely not!
She couldn’t look! She couldn’t listen!
This was Sister’s privacy—how could she, as a younger sister, peep at such a thing?
Sanity screamed in her mind, urging her to turn and flee this forbidden place at once.
But her feet felt nailed to the floor by invisible spikes, refusing to budge.
A wordless, suffocating curiosity, tangled with fear and shame, grew like poisonous vines from the darkest corners of her heart, binding her limbs.
She wanted to know.
She desperately wanted to know what was happening behind that door.
What could make her powerful sister utter such sounds…?
What scene could it possibly be?
And how was the infamous Prince Wendy…serving under Sister’s hand?
As if driven by some evil force, Yekaterina slowly, trembling, pressed her eyes to the crack in the door.
The view was narrow, the light dim.
Steam blurred her vision, allowing her to make out only two interwoven figures under the candlelight.
But even this fleeting glimpse was enough to make the young Queen’s heart stop.
She saw it.
She saw her beloved sister—Astreia—wrapped in a complex outfit that radiated oppression and the beauty of strength, enthroned atop the marble “Jade Throne” at the edge of the bath in a posture that defied imagination.
And the famously handsome prince was beneath her, his arms bound behind his back by black magic, forming the “pedestal” of this absurd tableau.
“A-Astreia…I…I can’t…”
Prince Wendy’s voice was shattered.
“Heh.”
Astreia let out a mocking laugh through her nose.
“You’re the one who came up with this game, and now you want to beg for mercy?”
“Please…”
“All right, then… I’ll give you a little more strength.”
With a playful snap of the fingers, Yekaterina’s mind completely exploded.
All her long-held beliefs, built since childhood, were blown apart.
This—this shameful posture…
Was it really Prince Wendy’s idea?
They…they were just shamelessly doing this here…
In this world, weren’t men supposed to be reserved, dignified, and proper?
Yet the scene before her was an absurd, world-upending farce.
“Mm…ah…”
Prince Wendy’s stifled moans returned, desperate yet twisted with joy, as though bearing ultimate pain and pleasure at once.
Yekaterina’s body trembled violently.
A scorching stream burst from her nose.
She gasped, instinctively covering her mouth and nose with her gloved hand, smothering a scream.
A warm, metallic taste stained her fingertips.
Blood.
She had actually gotten a nosebleed from peeping at such a scene.
She wanted to run, but her eyes were magnetically glued to the crack in the door, unable to tear away.
Inside, the air grew hotter, the steam suffocating.
Yekaterina’s breaths came faster and hotter.
In the air, her sister’s cold, unique scent mixed with another unfamiliar one, forming a dizzying, corrupting perfume that made her reason spiral.
No more…
It was so hot…
Yekaterina slumped weakly against the cold wall, her body going limp, barely able to stand.
Her cheeks burned, strange visions swimming before her eyes.
It was as if she saw that powerful figure—once her sister—now replaced by herself.
And the beautiful, fragile prince, crying and begging for mercy beneath her.
“No…don’t…”
The Queen murmured, the sound barely audible, as if in a fevered dream.
But her body’s reaction was far more honest than words.
A wave of emptiness and heat swept through her, an urge to dominate, to ravage, to tear beautiful things apart.
Too dangerous!
How could she have such thoughts?
Yekaterina bit her lip hard, her nails digging into her palms in a desperate attempt to awaken her sinking sanity with pain.
But the decadent sounds from inside the door played on like a devil’s melody, destroying her last defenses.
Finally.
At the height of rapture, the string called “reason” snapped in Yekaterina’s mind.
She couldn’t endure the agony of fire and ice any longer.
Her right hand, gloved in white silk and symbolizing royal power, moved of its own accord, reaching beneath her court dress—
Damn his harem is expanding