Rise of the F-Rank Hero-Chapter 143: Peeping Tom

The curtain fell on stage, the actors bowing to thunderous applause. But in the private booth at the back, the heavy breathing had nothing to do with the performance.

Amy pulled back slowly, her chest heaving against Oliver’s hand. Her lips were swollen, her eyes glazed and misty. She looked at him with a mix of shyness and triumphant defiance.

"I... I’m not a child anymore," she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. "Don’t treat me like one."

On his left, Isolde finally withdrew her hand from beneath the layers of fabric. She didn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. She brought her fingers to her lips, kissing the tips lightly while maintaining eye contact with Oliver.

"A spirited effort," Isolde purred, her voice husky. She leaned in, wiping a smudge of Amy’s lipstick off Oliver’s cheek with her thumb. "But you looked a little overwhelmed, Master. Are two women too much for you?"

Oliver slumped back in his seat, his face burning. He felt like he had just run a marathon while holding his breath.

"Let’s just... go," he groaned, hastily buttoning his coat to hide the disarray of his clothes.

***

Walking out of the theater was an ordeal in itself.

The lights in the lobby were bright. Unforgivingly bright.

Oliver tried to walk normally, but his legs felt weak, and he was painfully aware of the scent of perfume and arousal clinging to him.

Isolde walked on his left, looking pristine and elegant, though she held his arm with a grip that said ’mine.’ Amy walked on his right, her face flushed a deep crimson, looking down at her feet but refusing to let go of his hand.

The bystanders noticed.

"Hey, look at that guy," a young noble whispered to his friend. "Isn’t that the adventurer from the rumors?"

"Look at his face. He looks like his soul has been sucked out."

"Lucky bastard. I’d give my left arm to be in his place."

"I bet he won’t live past thirty with that kind of lifestyle."

Oliver ignored the murmurs, keeping his head down until they reached the carriage waiting to take them back to the Guest Palace.

****

The carriage ride back was silent, but the air was electric. Amy rested her head on Oliver’s shoulder, exhausted from her burst of boldness. Isolde simply traced patterns on the back of his hand, her eyes promising retribution for Amy’s interruption.

When they arrived at the Guest Palace, the moon was high.

They stood in the hallway separating the wings. Amy’s room was to the east, with the other Heroes. Oliver and Isolde’s suite was to the west.

Amy lingered, holding Oliver’s hand. She looked at Isolde, then at Oliver. She knew she couldn’t follow them—not with Daniel and the others nearby, and not with her position as Saintess to consider.

"I..." Amy started, biting her lip. "I had fun today."

"It was certainly... educational," Oliver said, clearing his throat.

Amy stood on her tiptoes again, but this time, she hesitated. She looked at Isolde, then decided to retreat while she was ahead.

"Goodnight, Oliver," she whispered. "See you at training tomorrow."

She squeezed his hand one last time, turned, and walked down the hallway. She paused at the corner, looked back with a shy smile, and disappeared.

Oliver let out a long exhale, leaning against the wall.

"That was... intense."

"Intense?"

Isolde’s voice came from right beside his ear. It was low, dangerous, and sent a shiver straight down his spine.

She stepped in front of him, boxing him against the wall. Her crimson eyes were dark, swirling with possessiveness.

"She thinks she won today because she stole a kiss."

Isolde’s hand slid down his chest, grabbing his belt buckle.

"I think I need to remind you," she whispered, her lips grazing his jaw, "that while she gets to hold your hand in a theater... I’m the one who gets to take you to bed."

She yanked him forward by the belt.

"Room. Now."

Oliver didn’t argue. He knew better.

***

The moment the door to their suite clicked shut, Oliver was shoved against it.

Isolde didn’t waste time with teasing this time. She kissed him fiercely, her tongue battling his, tasting the lingering flavor of the wine they had at the theater—and the faint trace of Amy.

She hated that trace.

"You taste like her," she growled against his mouth. "I need to fix that."

She dropped to her knees.

Oliver gasped, his hands tangling in her silver hair as she worked the fastenings of his trousers with practiced efficiency.

"Isolde, wait—"

"Quiet," she commanded, looking up at him. Her eyes were glowing in the dark room. "You don’t get to speak tonight. You just get to feel."

She pulled him free, her breath hot against his skin.

****

[Amy’s Perspective]

After returning to the guest palace, Amy threw herself onto her bed, burying her face in the pillows.

She had been restless ever since she stepped foot in her room. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like a trapped bird against her ribs. She never imagined—never in a million years—that she would take the initiative like that.

To grab a man’s hand... and force it onto her chest? In a public theater?

Even thinking about it now made heat rush to her face, burning the tips of her ears.

’Kyaahh!’ She screamed inwardly, kicking her legs against the mattress. ’Why did I do that?! I’m the Saintess! I’m supposed to be pure and reserved!’

And her first kiss.

She touched her lips, tracing the swollen curve with a trembling finger. She had her first kiss today.

She never imagined her first kiss would happen in the back row of a dark theater, sandwiched between her childhood love and... her.

She tried to recall the memory, the sensation, the feeling of Oliver’s lips moving against hers.

But with that sweet memory came someone else’s face.

That silver-haired witch. Isolde.

Amy sat up abruptly, her hands clutching the bedsheets. The blush on her face vanished, replaced by a dark, simmering scowl.

’Why does she keep clinging to my Oli?’

He would have been mine. He should have been mine and mine alone. If the summoning hadn’t happened... if William hadn’t betrayed him... Oliver would have come back to her eventually. They would have been together.

But now? That woman acted like she owned him. The way she touched his thigh. The way she whispered in his ear. The way she dragged him off to their room with that smug, superior look in her crimson eyes.

’Just because she saved his life,’ Amy thought bitterly. ’Just because she found him first in the dark.’

She looked out the window toward the West Wing of the palace. The lights in Oliver’s suite were dim.

Her imagination ran wild. She remembered Isolde’s threat—"I’m the one who gets to take you to bed."

No.

Amy stood up. The thought made her stomach churn with a sickening mix of anxiety and possessiveness.

’I can’t let her do as she wishes. If I leave them alone tonight... she’s going to erase me from his mind again.’

"Yeah," Amy whispered to the empty room, her eyes gleaming with a determined light. "I won’t leave him alone with her."

She moved to the door, checking the hallway. It was silent. The other Heroes were asleep.

She didn’t bother changing out of her dress. She just kicked off her shoes to move silently.

’Stealth Magic: Hush Step.’

A faint green glow wrapped around her feet. As a high-level mage, silencing her own footsteps was child’s play.

She slipped out of her room, moving like a ghost down the corridor. She bypassed the drowsy night guards, hugging the shadows until she reached the connecting hall to the West Wing.

Her heart hammered in her throat, but she didn’t stop.

She reached the heavy oak door of Oliver’s suite.

She hesitated for a split second, her hand hovering over the handle. From inside, she could hear... sounds.

"Ugh" It sounded like a groan and judging by the hoarse tone I knew it belonged to Oliver.

’What?’

Amy was even more confused by the noises drifting through the crack in the door. It wasn’t the sound of conversation, or even arguing. It was a wet, rhythmic sound, punctuated by heavy breathing.

She looked around the hallway one last time to ensure no guards were coming, then turned back to the door. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

’Just a peek,’ she told herself. ’Just to make sure she isn’t hurting him.’

With trembling fingers, she slowly—and just a little—pushed the door open further, creating a gap wide enough to see into the sitting area of the suite.

And what she saw blew her mind.

The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the moonlight spilling in from the balcony and a single mana lamp turned low.

Sitting on the velvet couch, with his back slightly hunched and head thrown back, was Oliver. But what shocked Amy—what made her breath hitch in her throat—was the scene below.

His trousers were pushed down, wrapped around his ankles, leaving him completely exposed.

His cock—thick, veined, impossibly hard—glistened in the lamplight, slick with saliva. Isolde knelt between his legs, silver hair swaying as her head bobbed with deliberate rhythm. Her plump lips stretched wide around his shaft, taking him deep until her nose brushed his abdomen, then pulling back slow and teasing, tongue swirling the head before plunging down again.