Chapter 103

A soft rush of water echoed in the darkness, and the air around them grew noticeably warm.

Elena turned her head, following the direction of Kennard’s gaze. Beyond the dense tangle of trees, a faint glow shimmered brighter than the rest of the moonlit forest. The closer they moved toward it, the more vivid the light became.

As they slipped between the trees, a small clearing opened before them—just large enough for several people to sit comfortably. At the center, a narrow stream flowed, its waters glistening like scattered gemstones under the moonlight. Wisps of steam curled lazily into the night air.

“Oh…” Elena breathed, her eyes widening in surprise.

What she had assumed was an ordinary brook now shimmered with heat, steam rising gently from its surface. The warmth radiating from the water brushed against her skin like an unseen touch.

“Your Grace, is that…?” she asked, her voice hushed.

“A hot spring,” Kennard replied simply.

“A hot spring?” she repeated, blinking at the unexpected sight.

Kennard glanced down at her with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Then, with deliberate care, he lowered her to the ground.

“Serin said one of the knights came across it while out scouting,” he explained.

Elena’s thoughts flickered back to the day Kennard had returned from a short absence—his hair still damp, a fresh, clean scent clinging to him. So this was the reason.

“They offered to move the tent closer,” he continued, his voice low. “But I thought it would be too much trouble to relocate everything… I may have been too quick to refuse.”

He began to gently untangle the fur wrap draped around her shoulders, his movements slow and unhurried. The warmth in the air had banished the night’s chill, leaving her skin tingling.

Elena flushed and instinctively drew her arms inward to shield herself. But Kennard’s eyes only lingered on her, unreadable, before he let his own coat slip from his shoulders and fall beside the fur.

“If I’d brought you here earlier,” he murmured, “I could have held you without restraint through the night.”

His fingers traced the curve of her shoulder, rough fingertips brushing softly against her skin. The calluses of his palm sent a shiver coursing through her body—an involuntary response she couldn’t contain.

“Maybe Serin was trying to give me a hint,” he said with a breath of quiet amusement. “And I was too slow to notice.”

Kennard let out a quiet sigh, barely more than a breath. “Still,” he murmured, his gaze darkening, “the thought of him imagining me touching you… it’s more than I can tolerate.”

Before Elena could respond, his lips found hers—without hesitation, without warning. The kiss was sudden but sure, searing through her like a spark to dry tinder. Her breath hitched, overwhelmed by the heat of his nearness.

Instinctively, she leaned back, but Kennard swept her into his arms and waded straight into the spring. The hot water wrapped around her legs, then her back, and soon rose to her shoulders, drawing a soft gasp from her lips.

Her crimson hair unfurled across the surface like silk, spreading in ripples. Beneath the moonlight, her skin took on a delicate rose hue, as if the spring had painted warmth into her body.

The smooth stones beneath their feet were packed like a hidden mosaic, and the rock behind her, steeped in the thermal heat, pressed gently against her back—not cold, but soothing.

“No one will hear us out here,” Kennard murmured, cradling her closer to ensure her back never touched the stone. His voice was low, intimate, almost reverent.
“There’s no need to hold anything back.”

Elena tensed as he leaned in, the stillness of the spring echoing the slow, deliberate rhythm of his movements. Her heart beat faster, each breath shallower than the last.

“Your Grace…” she whispered, the words escaping her before she could pull them back.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

The surface of the spring shimmered with moonlight, reflecting his face in fractured silver. His golden eyes, aglow with restrained hunger, met hers without wavering.

He was waiting—for her words, for permission—but the thoughts rising within her were too bold, too vulnerable. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Embarrassed, she shut her eyes tight and gave a small shake of her head.

She couldn’t say it. Not aloud.

Yet her body told a different truth.

A low chuckle slipped from Kennard, barely audible, his breath brushing her forehead like a passing breeze.

“How long,” he asked softly, “will I have to wait until you finally ask me without fear?”

He pressed a kiss to her eyelids, murmuring the question like a promise. Then, with aching tenderness, he returned to her lips—inviting her, coaxing her, never forcing.

The warmth of the spring curled around them as their bodies slowly drew together beneath the surface, water shimmering in gentle waves.

Elena’s breath caught, tangled in the rising steam, as the moment deepened around her—slow and inevitable, like a tide she could no longer resist.

It had only been a week—yet it felt like an eternity.

Only seven days since Elena had last collapsed in Kennard’s arms, drained of strength, sleep taking her like a spell the moment he’d finally let her rest. And now, reunited in the spring’s embrace, it was as though the distance between them had stretched for ages.

The instant their bodies met, a jolt surged through her—blinding, all-consuming. It was like lightning striking from the inside out, sharp and electric. Her breath hitched in her throat. Thoughts scattered. Every sense narrowed down to a single, searing awareness of him.

Heat unfurled from deep within, pulsing outward in dizzying waves. Her limbs trembled, breath came short, and the water no longer felt warm—only his touch did.

“Haa… Elena, relax,” Kennard whispered against her lips, his voice ragged with tension, the syllables breathy and low. “Why is it… that you always feel so impossibly tight?”

His words reached her, but she couldn’t answer. Her mind was adrift, barely tethered to the present. All she could do was cling to him—arms circling his shoulders, fingers curling into his back—as though anchoring herself to something real.

The tighter she held him, the more urgent he became, kissing her like he feared she might vanish in the steam. His lips grew more demanding, more consuming, until her head fell back of its own accord, surrendering.

And still, he didn’t loosen his hold. If anything, he drew her closer, his arms locking around her with possessive intent—as if letting go would undo everything. His body pressed in, chest to chest, breath to breath, until nothing else existed but the water rippling around them and the wild rhythm of their hearts.

“Aah…” A soft sound escaped her, half-gasp, half-m0an, her lips parting as the heat within her surged higher.

Even the spring’s warmth paled beside the blaze he ignited in her. Every shift of his body sent tremors through her, stirring the water into quiet waves. The mist thickened around them, cloaking the world in vapor.

“Your Grace… slower, please…” Elena’s voice quivered, the words barely coherent as she arched against the warm stone at her back. There was pleading in her tone, but more than that, helplessness.

“I can’t,” Kennard muttered, voice rough with need. “Not with you here… like this.”

One hand cradled the back of her neck, steady and warm, while the other tightened around her waist, anchoring her against him.

“I held back in the carriage,” he continued, his breath hot against her ear. “Over and over again. You didn’t notice… but I was on the edge.”

The frustration in his voice was raw—something long repressed now breaking free with each breath, each heartbeat. The tremor in his tone made her chest tighten.

At the mention of the carriage, Elena flinched, a flicker of belated understanding dawning in her eyes.

She was grateful—genuinely—that he hadn’t acted on those impulses. Had he tried, she might have pushed him away. She wanted to believe she would have. And yet, deep down, she wasn’t sure if she could have resisted.

If Kennard had lost control then, in that confined space with others so close, his intensity alone would have betrayed them. He didn’t need to touch her for others to feel the weight of his desire. His presence, charged and overwhelming, would have been enough.

Even now, the air between them was thick—saturated with the scent of him. His pheromones clung to the steam like smoke, heavy and intoxicating. They curled around her senses, seeping into her lungs, muddling thought with want.

She didn’t know how far it reached. If it traveled back toward the camp…

And still, he moved with increasing urgency. The very air around them seemed to pulse with the force of his restraint wearing thin.

“Just… a little slower…” Elena pleaded, her voice barely audible, trembling against the sound of the water and the rhythm of her shallow breaths.

Kennard said nothing. Instead, he gently turned her face and pressed his lips to the curve of her neck. His kisses started soft—tender, lingering—but quickly deepened, becoming more insistent.

His mouth traced a slow path to her collarbone before he drew her skin between his lips, marking her with deliberate intent.

“A-ah!” Elena gasped, her body jolting as a sharp sting flared at her throat. The pain came swift, unexpected, and tears sprang to her eyes before she could stop them.

“It’s a mark,” Kennard murmured against her skin, the words laced with possessiveness. “A sign you belong to me.”

Then he sank his teeth into her shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to send a shock of sensation rippling through her.

“Everyone already knows…” she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of everything unspoken.

He didn’t answer. He simply moved lower, trailing his lips across her flushed skin, leaving behind warmth and memory with every touch.

She arched back instinctively, only to press against the unyielding stone wall behind her. There was no escape—nowhere to retreat.

The old scars and bruises that had once marred her body had faded since her arrival at Kennard’s castle. Time had healed them.

But in their place now were different marks—faint impressions left by his mouth, his hands. Quiet, indelible reminders of nights like this. Of him.