The winter sun sets early in Germany; by four o'clock, the horizon was already awash in a shimmering, watery gold.

The hunt concluded at sunset as everyone gathered to tally their trophies. Frederick had a bountiful harvest, having taken a red fox, two red deer, and a wolf. His cart was laden with prey, and the thick scent of blood made Black and Peach restless with predatory instinct.

Despite the haul, Frederick felt a lingering trace of regret; he hadn't encountered a bear today. Perhaps they had already entered hibernation, as the light faded earlier each day and the grip of deep winter had truly arrived.

Nightfall came. The gold and pink twilight besieged the blue sky, and as visibility in the forest dimmed, the camp lights were kindled early. The massive canopy tent, which appeared unremarkable during the day, was transformed as strings of fairy lights twined around its perimeter flared to life.

Lights hung from the surrounding trees like scattered stars, and paired with the low, intoxicating thrum of music, the party atmosphere was immediate. Fragrant firewood burned in birdcage-shaped fire pits, casting a warm orange glow to drive back the biting chill of the winter night.

Today's prey had become sizzling, oil-dripping roasts on the grill, accompanied by bread and wraps prepared by the chefs. The bar was a cornucopia of choices: large kegs of fresh beer were the most popular, alongside champagne, rosé, white wine, and cocktails mixed on the spot by professional bartenders.

This was Arabella's first time attending such a party, and she was exceptionally excited. She wore a long golden dress and a Tibetan cashmere shawl coordinated for her by Daisy and Sophia. Her long, chocolate-colored hair had been styled into voluminous curls and pinned with an ostrich feather clip, giving her the aura of a vintage movie star.

"Is it good? Do I look like a celebrity?" Arabella posed to accentuate her curves and blew a kiss toward Frederick.

"Exquisite," Frederick replied, reaching out to pull her fox-fur shawl tighter to hide the glimpse of her cleavage. "But isn't it cold, wearing so little?" What kind of dress had Sophia put her in? Why was the neckline so low?

"Sophia said a sexy woman should show off her curves," Arabella said, reaching to unbutton the shawl.

"When a sexy woman catches a cold, her nose runs just like everyone else's," Frederick countered, taking off his own heavy overcoat and draping it over her shoulders. "Don't take it off, Aerona—not if you want any ice cream tonight."

Arabella pouted but obediently kept his coat on. In retaliation, she devoured two ice cream cones in quick succession and began to drink.

Frederick, however, forbade her from having more than three.

Man of many rules.

"Why?" she complained. "Everyone else is drinking more than me. Sophia has had seven or eight shots already!" Whenever alcohol was involved, she became particularly rebellious.

"You get tipsy too easily and your appetite is huge, so you really need to restrain yourself. Darling, how many times have I told you that?"

Restraint, restraint, restraint. Arabella couldn't understand it. Why did everything require restraint?

"Then why don't you practice restraint?" Arabella challenged, staring him down. "You've had three beers and two glasses of white wine."

Frederick chuckled. "I've had that much?"

"Of course. I know exactly what you eat and drink. You had a beef wrap, three skewers of venison, and a piece of seared salmon." Arabella was proud of her observation. 

Frederick compromised. "Fine. One last shot, babe."

Arabella threw her arms wide and lunged forward to kiss him. Before he could stop her, his face was smeared with her lipstick and saliva. "I love you, Daddy! I'm going to go pick a cocktail!"

The loud exclamation of "Daddy" caused everyone in the vicinity to turn their heads, their expressions turning remarkably subtle.

The scene fell silent for a moment, save for the music.

Germans often project an image of being distant, cold, and uninterested in gossip, but in reality, they are intensely curious. They have such a lack of "boundary sense" that if you don't pull your curtains, your neighbors will watch you twenty-four hours a day. Frederick did not wipe away the kiss mark; under the collective gaze of the crowd, he calmly took a sip of his beer.

Benjamin was the most theatrical of the lot. Winking and nudging his way over, he clinked his glass hard against Frederick's. "I knew it, Fritz."

Frederick glanced at him. "You knew what?"

"Stop pretending. I've known since we were kids that you weren't exactly a 'saint.'" Benjamin took a large gulp of beer. "Even though I'm afraid of you, I won't let you bully our Sweetheart. She looks so petite; do you really have the heart to break her? To be honest, you're a total mismatch."

Frederick felt a sudden urge to shove the beer bottle into Benjamin's mouth, but he maintained his poise. "In what way are we a mismatch?"

He wanted to know what part of him didn't fit with his Birdie. In his mind, they were perfectly matched in every way—from age and appearance to temperament and preferences, even down to the blood in their veins. He carried one-eighth Eastern heritage from his maternal grandfather and spoke Mandarin fluently—certainly better than this playboy cousin whose English carried the heavy scent of a pizza shop.

Benjamin stared pointedly at Frederick's crotch, recalling a scene he had witnessed when they once shared a hot spring.

"The size!!"

"............"

"Fritz, she definitely won't be able to take you. You'd better stop acting like an ascetic Catholic and start learning some useful skills!" Benjamin was essentially telling him his "virgin technique" would be terrible. Things like "Daddy," "Dom," or "S" weren't meant for a novice fresh out of the starting gate. If you're bad at it, study more—don't just try to be fancy!

"Benjamin," Frederick said, his dark blue eyes narrowing with an oppressive, cold weight.

"I'm just telling the truth! Fritz, you'd better learn what women actually like!" Benjamin bolted before Frederick could speak again.

Arabella finally returned with a honey-pomelo cocktail. She passed a hurried Benjamin and gave him a suspicious look before sitting beside Frederick. Frederick appeared to be in a daze, his sapphire-blue eyes silent and brooding.

"What's wrong, Frederick? Are you drunk?" Arabella poked his thigh.

Frederick snapped back to reality, a smile dancing in his eyes. "I'm not drunk, Birdie. What drink did you choose?"

"A hawthorn and rose blend. It's sweet." Arabella found it so delicious she wanted to down it in one go, but remembering it was her last glass, she sipped it slowly and cherished every drop.

Frederick watched her quietly as she swallowed. She was... truly very small. Benjamin's words were nonsense, yet they forced him to reflect deeply on the physical differences between them.

Her height was considered slender and elegant for a woman (168 cm), but compared to his 190 cm frame, she was tiny. Her face was so small he could cover it with a single palm. Her mouth was small enough that he could encompass it entirely when they kissed. Her throat was small, and that place...

It was even smaller. Last night, when he had tried to use his tongue. He didn't dare use his hands; his fingers had become thick and hard from years of hunting and sailing. He even felt the protruding veins on the back of his hand were thicker than her opening.

If his tongue and hands were too much, then...

It was a troubling thought. Frederick closed his eyes with a headache.