Chapter 107

Marten stormed off in anger. Serin too must have been dissatisfied with Kennard’s decision, yet as his liege’s will it left him no choice but to obey. Even Leto, if only for a fleeting moment, had shown hostility toward her.

One by one, such small frictions began gnawing at Elena’s nerves.

She wanted to shake them all off, to cast away every creeping shadow.

The only beings who deserved her heart now were Kennard, and the child of his who had taken root within her.

Elena placed her palm against her belly. She still felt nothing, no flutter, no stirring—so much so that Leto’s words were difficult to believe. And yet… a strange sensation lingered, as if something were present where nothing yet was.

“Why? Does it hurt?” Kennard asked.

The hand that had been cupping her cheek slid gently down to cover her abdomen. His shoulders went stiff, his voice heavy with worry.

“No,” Elena murmured, shaking her head though she still leaned against his shoulder. “It just doesn’t feel real yet.”

At her words, the tension seeped slowly out of his body. In its place, his grip on her hand tightened with protective insistence.

“If you ever feel the slightest discomfort, tell me at once.”

“Yes,” she replied softly.

“You must promise me you will. Even the smallest thing.”

“I will,” she said again.

Kennard turned his head and brushed his lips across hers. Then he caught her chin lightly and tilted it upward. Elena opened her eyes, lifting them to his face. His golden irises glowed like a calm lake catching sunlight, and his gaze lingered on her as if to drink her in.

“I worry you’ll keep it all inside,” he murmured, “enduring in silence, as is your nature.”

“No. This time I’ll speak,” she assured him.

“Can you promise me that?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Rising a little higher, she pressed her lips to his with an audible smack.

“Haah… Elena…” Kennard’s sigh rumbled low in his throat, deep enough to sound like a growl.

“I’m glad my child has been conceived within you,” he whispered hoarsely. “But how am I to endure months without holding you? Even now, the desire to take you is almost unbearable.”

His brows furrowed and he dragged a hand over them as if the weight of restraint might split him in two.

Elena wanted to say she felt the same. That though their first time together had nearly broken her in pain, every moment since had been filled with shuddering waves of pleasure so sharp they blurred her reason. The memory was like a drug—intoxicating, addictive. She desired him no less than he desired her. She only lacked the boldness to confess it aloud.

“Would it really be wrong… if we did this?” Elena whispered, lifting her head from his shoulder. Her hands framed his face, and she kissed him softly on the mouth. She sucked lightly at his lips, nipping at them as he had once done to her.

“You started the kiss this time,” Kennard breathed, his voice trembling. He accepted her mouth tenderly, yet his sighs escaped through his teeth as she teased him. His arms clutched her more firmly, dragging her closer.

“How am I supposed to endure your temptation, when I cannot have you?” he groaned against her lips. His hand wandered over her back, then her belly, stroking carefully, reverently. Finally his palm spread over the soft folds of her skirt just below. The heavy fabric dented inward where his hand pressed.

“No… Your Grace,” Elena whispered against his mouth. Even as she spoke, their lips brushed and parted with every word, sending heat racing through her body.

“I know,” Kennard sighed, his breath warm and aching. “But this, at least, must be allowed.”

His lips curved in a wry smile before he claimed her mouth with sudden ferocity. Elena flinched, intending to pull back, but his hand slid to cradle the back of her head, holding her steady as his lips crashed onto hers.

“Mmnh—”

Like melting chocolate, he devoured her lips, then pushed his tongue inside her mouth. Elena yielded, answering his kiss with her own, sending her tongue questing into him in return. Kennard groaned as if in pain. His hand slipped beneath her arm, lifting her effortlessly into his lap. He sat her astride him so she faced him directly, all while his mouth plundered hers with deep, demanding strokes of his tongue.

“Your Grace…” she gasped faintly.

“This way is easier,” he murmured, urgent, and drew her tongue deeper into his mouth, sucking at it greedily. It was as though he were wordlessly begging her to let him inside her again, as before. Their tongues tangled and clashed; hot breath mingled; saliva bridged their mouths until everything blurred into breathless heat.

From the moment they had learned of her pregnancy, the carriage traveled at little more than a walking pace. Nearly every hour it halted so she might rest and breathe fresh air. When they passed through a village, Kennard arranged for a house to be borrowed so she could spend the night in comfort.

By the time they departed each place, rumors had already spread: Kennard would wed the woman carrying his heir in Montefiano. The whispers raced ahead of them like wildfire.

The villagers were stunned. Kennard’s chosen consort was no black wolf, not even a woman of any known race. Yet her brilliant red hair gleamed like fire, and her gray eyes shone like crystal beads lit from within. They could not help but stare.

More than her striking features, it was the unfeigned gentleness in her gaze that disarmed suspicion. And when they saw how Kennard, the Black Wolf—the strongest pureblood, the devourer of demons—treasured her as if she were a priceless jewel, even the most distrustful could not help but soften.

Suspicious glances turned swiftly into warmth. Favor blossomed. And the rumors spread throughout the Empire of Baruchella. Elena, exhausted, had no idea it was all part of Kennard’s design.

The journey stretched on, day after day, over a month of travel. She scarcely had energy to think of anything else. From the morning after she learned of her pregnancy, the sickness began. As though it had been waiting.

Each time nausea struck, Cura prepared her herbal tea steeped with Ervejo. Her meals were always prepared separately from the others. But even the scent of food made her stomach lurch; most days she could barely swallow a few bites. Lassino brought her simple dishes prepared under Leto’s guidance, but more often than not she could not keep them down.

She grew so weak she could hardly sit upright, spending her days lying down in the carriage.

“Elena,” Kennard’s voice reached her, coaxing her eyes open beneath heavy lids.

He brushed back the strands of hair that clung to her cheek. His gaze searched her face, sharp and tender all at once, as if to confirm she was not in pain.

“Can you sit up?” he asked gently.

She nodded faintly. Kennard slipped an arm beneath her shoulders, guiding her upright with patient care. Though the carriage rocked and jolted, the bed they had fashioned inside was surprisingly steady. Wooden crates had been stacked and covered with thick furs until the surface was soft and yielding. It was so well-arranged that the interior looked as though it had always been designed for her comfort.

Kennard reached behind her and drew aside the small curtain. Then he pushed open the window, and sunlight spilled instantly across her face.

Elena winced and squeezed her eyes shut. The light seemed to pierce straight through her eyelids and into her skull. A shadow fell across her, and when she opened her eyes again Kennard’s hand was shielding her from the sun.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes,” she rasped. Her voice cracked, her mouth dry as dust.

He shifted her gently to the shaded side. It was only the seat beside her, yet his care was so deliberate it felt as though he were handling porcelain that might shatter.

Once she seemed at ease, he poured a cup of Ervejo tea from the flask kept ready in the carriage. She accepted it carefully with both hands and drank in slow sips. The dryness in her mouth melted away, moisture seeping back into her throat, spreading warmth through her body.

Even when nausea consumed her, this tea never turned her stomach. Instead it soothed her, calming the churning inside.

“How do you feel?” Kennard asked softly. Throughout her drinking, he remained close, brushing her hair back, tucking stray locks behind her shoulder with restless tenderness.

“Much better,” Elena said, mustering a faint smile. Watching his face, twisted by worry, made her heart ache as if pricked by needles.

“We’re almost there,” he murmured once she had finished the cup. Taking it gently from her hands, he pointed toward the open window. “Look.”

Elena turned her head. A fresh breeze drifted in, carrying the mingled scents of earth and flowers.