Ouyang’s heart pounded. Held tightly in his arms so suddenly, he hadn’t done anything improper.

"Next time you’re in trouble, don’t push yourself. I can’t promise I’ll always be there in time."

Bracing to kick and punch—certain the Bloodkin Prince would grope her again—she froze at his unexpectedly gentle words. The shift left her unsettled.

Sensing hidden meaning in his tone, Ouyang asked warily, "That shared vision you mentioned... how much did you actually see?"

"Every step. Even the time you first wore heels and tumbled to the floor—"

Humiliation flooded her cheeks, burning all the way to her ears. She clamped both hands over his mouth, flustered and furious. "Are you that bored?! Why do you keep watching me all day?! You pervert!"

"Is it wrong to be curious about my wife’s life? Or to care?"

He easily trapped her wrists in his cool, unyielding grip. His possessive concern grated on her. "I’m not your wife," she stated firmly, pulling against his hold. She wanted no part in being anyone’s other half.

He’d forced himself on her repeatedly. He knew her body too well—where to touch to make her shiver, how her breath hitched into soft, traitorous sounds under his fingers.

She never found his touch pleasurable. Words she’d never choose to say were dragged from her lips. All that stifled resentment choked her.

She wouldn’t fall for his crude tactic: take her body first, then slowly claim her heart. His kindness now didn’t erase his crimes.

*May the wicked Bloodkin Prince drop dead soon*, she silently cursed.

Seeing her sullen silence, the Prince shifted tactics. His little treasure needed cheering up. "I’ve seen your files on Philip Anderson. What you have is just the tip of the iceberg."

The Blood Clan’s intelligence network here predated Xiaomo’s. Their investigation revealed the Anderson brothers had run this maid-wax-figure operation for years. The eldest scouted targets from databases; the second handled family contacts; the youngest crafted the figures in the castle. Fifty victims sold. The elder brothers returned to the castle on transaction days. If they found their youngest brother missing—killed—they’d seek vengeance.

His words were a reminder: her mission wasn’t over. Leaving now meant the Andersons would avenge their brother. The hidden trade would continue. More desperate girls would vanish. Leaving roots behind meant new shoots would sprout with the spring wind.

Exhausted, Ouyang stared blankly at the ceiling. Her brief calm shattered. One werewolf was manageable. Two? Nearly impossible.

She opened her mouth to ask the Bloodkin Prince for help, then shut it. Pride warred with necessity. She refused to cooperate with him.

What if he smirked and said, *Let me have my way with you, and I’ll help*?

The thought made her shudder—imagining herself reduced to whimpering, pleading in a soft, tearful voice. She shook her head hard, banishing the image. *If he doesn’t bring it up, I won’t ask.*

Dawn found the night long gone.

The castle held many maid outfits. The Bloodkin Prince—back in his small, coal-black beast form by day—selected one for her: a shoulder-baring maid dress with a black lace-trimmed petticoat and gartered stockings. Perched atop her head, he surveyed the view below with quiet satisfaction.

Morning was his rest time. Ouyang glanced up. His still, plush-toy-like form fascinated her. Poking him got no reaction. Wide awake, she took Anderson’s keys and began exploring the castle.

Room by room, she searched. Finally, she found the illegal contracts signed by the girls. Relief washed over her—briefly. Pushing deeper, she located Anderson’s hidden stash of cash and headed to the maids’ quarters.

Two maids, confined to their room without Anderson’s permission, jumped at the knock. Opening the door, their tension eased seeing it wasn’t him.

"Master... is he dead?"

Shock rooted them to the spot when Ouyang confirmed it. Dread filled their eyes—fear for their future.

Ouyang unlocked the cuffs binding their wrists and ankles. She told them about No. 2 and everything that happened. "Anderson is dead. You’re not No. 1 and No. 3 anymore. You’re free."

She handed them Anderson’s savings. Their hesitant, complex expressions held a trace of sorrow. Returning home meant debt collectors. No other job paid this well. They’d rather become wax figures than live in constant fear.

Seeing them hesitate, Ouyang pressed. Staying was dangerous. Her mission was to eliminate Mosterians—not handle this heartache. Then she remembered a solution.

"When you leave," she instructed firmly, "take some wine from the castle cellar to Xiaomo in the Northern District. They’ll understand."

Like Brother Long once offering her a hand to bring her to Xiaomo, this was her way to atone for failing to save No. 2.

*May this never happen again*, she prayed silently.