Chapter 349: We’re Newlyweds

A single jug of wine was hardly enough for Oliver. He poured a cup for Isolde, then one for himself. She watched him, curious about the heartfelt words he was about to share.

“What do you plan to do about Cristina?” Oliver took a sip and asked.

After they returned, Britney had informed them of the commotion that had followed their departure. It was quite the spectacle—demands for money, threats of divorce, a full-blown melodrama.

“That’s what you wanted to talk about?” Isolde arched a brow.

“No, it just crossed my mind first. I wanted to hear your thoughts.”

“And what are yours?” She traced the rim of her cup, gazing at his handsome features.

“If it’s troublesome for you, I can deal with Arthur myself.”

“Don’t bother,” Isolde said. “I just don’t want you to feel burdened.”

“Burdened?” She laughed lightly. “She’s not a problem.”

“I know she isn’t, but she’s an eyesore. I don’t want a concubine.” Oliver truly loathed the idea. He could tolerate many things in life, but in this, he refused to compromise. What kind of ridiculous situation was this?

Isolde chuckled. “Alright. If you really don’t want her here, I’ll send her away in a few days.”

“Really?” Oliver exhaled in relief.

She glanced at him sideways. “Most men would kill for a beautiful concubine. You, on the other hand, are throwing one away. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

Oliver scowled. “I don’t want her. The only woman in this world for me is you. Having you is enough—I need nothing else.”

Isolde was momentarily stunned by the sudden warmth in his words.

“What? I didn’t catch that.”

“I said,” Oliver set his cup down firmly, eyes burning with conviction, “I only want you. Even half a concubine would be too much.”

Isolde refilled his cup, a slow smile curving her lips. “Oliver, a man’s word is his bond. If you ever take a concubine or stray, I won’t forgive you.”

Without hesitation, Oliver drained his cup. “Good. If I ever break my vow, I hope you haunt me even in death. Even if you return as a ghost, as long as you’re by my side, I’d welcome it.”

Isolde slowly set the wine jug down, inwardly taking back her earlier assumption that he wasn’t one for sweet words. He was an expert. Even someone as proud as Ashley might have been moved to tears by such a declaration.

“Your turn.” Oliver refilled her cup. “Swear your own vow.”

“Me? What am I swearing to?” Isolde feigned ignorance.

“That if you ever meet a man better than me, you’ll treat him like dirt. Not even spare him a glance.”

Isolde lifted a brow. “How could there possibly be a man better than you?”

“Am I really that great?” Oliver’s lips quirked, his confidence swelling.

“The best,” Isolde said simply. She downed her cup in one go, eyes glinting like liquid fire. “So good that, no matter in life or death, I will always chase after you!”

On the rooftop, Hattie and Hazel exchanged uneasy glances. If this went on, would they end up making some kind of blood pact? A thought struck them simultaneously. Time for a little intervention. A soft rustling sound. A warm mist seeped through the cracks in the window.

As Oliver took another sip, he suddenly paused. “Do you smell something?”

Isolde shook her head. “No.”

Though… she did feel a little hot. Maybe they had stoked the fire too much. She stood, tugging her collar open slightly to fan herself before closing one of the vents. Turning back, she walked straight into Oliver’s chest. His arms wrapped around her. The instant their skin met, an undeniable heat surged between them.

Isolde gritted her teeth. “There was something in that wine.”

Oliver’s lips found hers. “Whoever spiked it deserves a reward.”

Hattie and Hazel quickly fled the scene, satisfied with their work. They had assumed the wine had been drugged—framing Esme for it was perfect. Lady Isolde and Lord Oliver would never blame her. Still, they needed to warn Esme.

Esme was working on embroidery when they burst in with their news.

“What?!” Esme’s eyes widened, “You used love incense? Already spiked the wine!”

“What?!” Hattie and Hazel were equally shocked. “But you told them to take it easy tonight!”

“You fools. That potion helps conceive a son.” Esme lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I got it from Rowena. If they drink it for three to five days, I guarantee a baby boy. A few days of effort is worth it.”

“Is it strong?” Hattie asked, intrigued.

Esme’s expression turned solemn. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t interfere with their visit to the natal families tomorrow.”

Outside Ningser Pavilion, the northern wind howled. Inside, the heat was stifling. Isolde’s clothes weren’t just removed—they were torn apart. Though her nightwear was plain cotton and inexpensive, she still felt a pang of regret. But there was no time for regrets. One jug of spiked wine—she had only had a cup, and already her body burned. Luckily, just one cup. Her mind was still clear. Oliver, on the other hand, had drunk the whole jug…

His lips trailed down her throat, igniting flames wherever they touched. Any lingering rationality quickly dissolved. Bracing himself over her, one arm supporting his weight, the other traced slow, deliberate paths across her body. The callouses on his fingertips sent shivers down her spine. She gasped, her body trembling.

“Isolde…” he murmured into her ear, voice thick with need.

A sharp sting made her brows furrow. “Gently…”

He stilled, pressing kisses against her lips, teasing, coaxing. Her breath hitched, and slowly, she adapted to the sensation.

Much later, still tangled in each other’s arms, Isolde’s body trembled, the echoes of their passion lingering. Oliver brushed her cheek, his lips unwilling to leave her skin.

Isolde, her hair in disarray, took a deep breath, her voice husky. “Oliver, who do you think spiked the wine?”

“Who brought it?” Oliver’s hand idly traced patterns against her skin.

“Esme had Noelle deliver it.”

“Noelle wouldn’t. She doesn’t even know about these things.” His lips ghosted over her collarbone. “It had to be Hattie and Hazel.”

Isolde’s eyes widened as he flipped her beneath him again. “Wait, you—”

“What?” he smirked. “Do you want to switch places like last night? But my waist doesn’t hurt anymore. We’ll save that for when I’m truly exhausted.”

“There’s going to be a next time?!” Isolde’s eyes were as round as saucers.

“Seven or eight times in a night isn’t excessive, Lucas says soldiers on leave do that all the time. We’re newlyweds—ten times wouldn’t be too much.”

Isolde nearly blacked out. What was that saying again? A man who hasn’t tasted pleasure is disciplined. But once he has, he’ll lose himself completely. Has he been to a brothel before? Absolutely… impossible.