Chapter 101

After the meal, while Kennard conversed quietly with Serin, Elena sat in silence, her eyes fixed on the flickering campfire.

Around them, the attendants—having finished serving dinner—moved busily between the tents, preparing bedding for the night.

“If we just rode on horseback, or used water magic, we could cut the travel time to the capital in half. Why are we dragging this out?” Marten muttered as he flicked a small pebble into the flames, sending sparks flaring up into the night sky.

Elena bit down softly on her lower lip, her gaze dropping to the ground.

He wasn’t wrong. They could have taken a faster route—or at least urged the carriage to move more swiftly.

But Kennard showed no intention of hurrying.

In fact, he became visibly annoyed whenever the carriage picked up even the slightest speed or jostled too much.

Ever since that first day of bumpy travel—after which Elena had fallen ill—he had grown even more particular, bordering on overprotective.

“At this rate, it’ll take us nearly a month,” Marten muttered under his breath.

“If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to go on ahead,” Kennard said without turning, his tone cool and even.

Marten raised an eyebrow. “And if you decide to wander off somewhere in the middle, then what?”

He picked up a twig and pointed it lazily between Kennard and Elena.

Kennard straightened, the firelight catching the edge of a smirk on his lips. “Do you think your presence alone is enough to keep me in line?”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re actually planning to stray off?” Marten’s voice rose, eyes widening in disbelief.

Kennard gave an exasperated sigh. “I was speaking in hypotheticals. You’re the one spinning nonsense.”

He stood, rising with slow, deliberate ease. At once, Serin and the nearby knights shot to their feet.

Elena’s gaze drifted to the hand Kennard extended toward her.

It was a large, battle-worn hand, calloused along the fingers and palm—hardened not only by nobility but by war, training, and the hunt.

Despite its roughness, or perhaps because of it, that hand brought her an immense sense of comfort.

She placed her hand in his without hesitation.

Kennard gave a gentle tug, helping Elena to her feet.

“We’re turning in for the night,” he said to the nearby knights. “Don’t stay up too late.”

With one arm wrapped around Elena’s waist, he guided her toward the tent positioned farthest from the rest of the camp.

Even as they walked away, Marten remained seated by the fire, eyes narrowed, watching them in silence.

Elena turned her head deliberately, pretending not to notice his gaze.
But she could feel it—sharp and persistent against her back—sending an uneasy chill through her spine.

“You’re here?”

Inside the tent, Cura greeted them with a warm smile as she busied herself with the bedding.

Several crates had been stacked side by side to form a makeshift bed, neatly covered with a thick blanket. Though the season had turned warmer, forest nights still carried a bite, and a fur throw lay atop the bed for extra warmth.

At the sight of the well-prepared space, exhaustion crashed down on Elena like a wave.

All she wanted was to crawl in and surrender to sleep.

“Your Grace, just a moment…”

Serin poked his head through the tent flap, his expression hesitant.

“What is it?” Kennard asked, frowning as he paused mid-motion, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.

“There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. It won’t take long.”

Kennard exhaled, a quiet sigh of resignation, then gave a curt nod.

“Get some rest first. I’ll be back shortly.”

He leaned down and gently pressed a kiss to Elena’s forehead before turning to leave.

Flustered, she cupped her face with both hands, her cheeks blazing.

It was one thing when he showed affection in private—but when Kennard did so in front of others, heat surged through her so quickly it left her breathless.

Seeing Cura grinning from ear to ear made Elena break into a cold sweat.

“Cura… have you eaten?” she asked, fumbling for a distraction.

“I’m about to,” Cura replied cheerfully.

Of all the things Elena could have said to shift the mood, the best she managed was asking whether her handmaid had eaten. She sighed inwardly.

Then it struck her—Cura only ever seemed to be around at night before bed, or early in the morning.

“You haven’t eaten all day? You must be starving.”

“I’m fine,” Cura said with a shrug, already moving to help Elena out of her dress.

Elena used the water Cura had set out in advance to wash her face and lightly cleanse her body.

It wasn’t much, but ever since leaving the castle, this was the best she could manage. A proper bath had become a luxury. Still, compared to the knights who had to scrub down in cold streams and rocky valleys, she was better off.

“But Cura,” Elena began as she raised her arms to slip into her chemise, “I feel like I barely see you these days. You’re not even riding in the carriage with me anymore.”

“Me?” Cura echoed, momentarily pausing as she straightened the hem of the chemise. She looked up.

“Yes,” Elena said, watching her closely.

Cura hesitated, glancing toward the tent flap. Then, as if deciding it was safe, she leaned in slightly and cupped a hand beside her mouth, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

Even though they were far from the rest of the group and unlikely to be overheard, she looked like someone about to share a dangerous secret.

Elena’s curiosity sharpened. Her eyes widened as she leaned in too, wordlessly urging her to go on.

“I think my brother asked His Grace to assign me to morning and evening duties only,” Cura whispered. “So I wouldn’t run into Count Remid.”

“So you wouldn’t run into Count Remid?” Elena repeated, blinking in confusion. “Why?”

Cura gave a little grimace. “Because he doesn’t leave women alone. My brother thought it best I stay out of sight.”

Elena frowned, caught off guard. From what she had observed over the past few days, Count Remid might have been provoking Kennard with sharp jabs and mockery, but he didn’t seem like someone who abused subordinates.

If anything, she had a vague sense that Marten could push Kennard’s limits because there was trust between them—a quiet assurance that no matter how far he went, Kennard wouldn’t actually harm him.

“Count Remid apparently messes with every woman he lays eyes on,” Cura said, wrinkling her nose in clear distaste. “My brother told me to stay out of sight as much as I can.”

“Really?” Elena asked, eyebrows rising in disbelief.

“I swear! I’ve been sneaking around like I’m playing hide-and-seek, always checking my surroundings like a fugitive. That’s why I end up eating late, all alone.”

Elena blinked. Now that she thought about it, Cura was the only female attendant traveling with them. She had likely been included solely because of Elena, while the rest had probably been dismissed on Kennard or Serin’s orders.

“No way… does he really go that far with women…?”

“Who?”

A low voice cut in from the tent entrance.

Kennard stepped inside, shirtless, holding the garment loosely in one hand. His bare torso was slick with droplets of water, evidence that he’d just washed up outside.

“It’s nothing,” Cura said quickly. She threw a brief, almost panicked glance at Elena before handing Kennard a neatly folded cloth.

The look in her eyes said everything: Please don’t tell him.

“Cura, go on and rest,” Kennard said, drying himself with little care as he turned toward her.

“Yes, Your Grace. Sleep well.”

With a polite bow to them both, Cura hurried out of the tent.

“What were you two talking about?” Kennard asked casually as he tossed the damp cloth onto the table and began undoing his trousers.

Even under the soft flicker of the lantern light, his body seemed to glow with sheer strength. His chest and abs, his shoulders and back, his thighs and arms—every muscle was sharply cut and tightly knit, as if chiseled from stone.

Even his hips, even the lines that curved into the shadows—everything about him radiated power.

Elena found herself unable to look away.

It felt as though, even if the entire world were swallowed by darkness, as long as Kennard was there, she would still feel him—just from the weight and heat of that presence.

“We were just chatting… about little things,” Elena said, her voice catching in her throat.

Unbidden, images surfaced—how his body wrapped around hers, how he reached for her, always with that same quiet intensity. The memory alone made her pulse quicken.

Kennard glanced at her, the corners of his mouth curling into a knowing smile.

“Are you cold?” he asked softly.

“N-no, not at all,” she replied, shaking her head too quickly.

But the closer he drew, the tighter the tension coiled within her—like her whole body was being twisted by invisible hands.

When he finally reached her, he slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him.

Startled by the sudden closeness, Elena instinctively pressed her palms to his chest, seeking balance.

His heartbeat was strong and steady beneath her hands, thudding against her skin as if to remind her how alive he was—how near.

Without thinking, her fingers moved, gently stroking his chest.

His skin, as always, felt like finely tanned leather—rough with strength, but smooth with heat and familiarity.

A quiet moan escaped him, deep and restrained, vibrating through the small space between them.

Kennard lowered his head, brushing his lips against hers in a kiss that was more a tease than a claim. Then, with the tip of his tongue, he traced the corner of her mouth in a slow, deliberate stroke.

“Then why’s your voice trembling like that?” he murmured.

The playful lilt in his tone betrayed the fact that he already knew the answer—but he asked anyway, just to watch her squirm.

Yet his voice, too, was hoarse—low and thick with strain.

Elena parted her lips to respond, but no words came. His tongue was still brushing her mouth, tasting, toying.

And then she felt it—something firm pressing insistently against her lower belly, sending heat rushing up her spine.

Her eyes squeezed shut as she swallowed hard.

“Ah—Your Grace!”

Her breath hitched as she called out to him, panic threading through her voice.

But no sound came clearly. It caught in her throat, choked and helpless.

“Shh…”

Kennard whispered against her lips, as if even that faint cry had been too loud.