Chapter 109

The more his lips and tongue sought her out with relentless precision, the more the heat pooled low in her body, a slow, inexorable tide that threatened to pull her under.

But they both knew nothing beyond this would happen—not now, not yet.

On the long journey to Montefiano, Kennard had scarcely left Elena’s side. Ever since the day he learned she was carrying his child, he had abandoned the hunt, forsaken even his usual routines. Eating, drinking, bathing, resting—all of it, he did with her near.

At night, he held her so tightly it seemed as though letting go would mean losing her. His arms stayed locked around her as they slept, as if the warmth of his embrace alone could keep her anchored. When she stirred, he kissed her softly; when she sighed, he brushed the strands of hair from her face.

But that was all.

Perhaps it was Leto’s warning—that the child might be at risk—that restrained him. Whatever the reason, Kennard would not take her further into his arms.

Now Elena leaned fully against him, yielding every inch of her weight to his strength, letting his breath spill warmly across her lips. His mouth moved over hers without pause, until even the carriage jolting over uneven stones could not break the spell.

Only when it lurched sharply did Kennard finally lift his head, breaking the kiss, his gaze sliding instinctively toward the window. Elena followed his line of sight.

The bustling crowds were gone; in their place came the stark line of walls, the glint of water beyond stone. A deep moat wrapped around the fortress, so wide and brimming that one glance told her a fall there, without the skill to swim, would mean disaster.

The carriage rattled harder as they passed over the long stone bridge. The sure thud of wheels against firm road shifted to a hollow clatter; beneath them, she glimpsed the slatted planks and realized they were crossing the drawbridge.

Inside the walls, a formation awaited them. Soldiers stood at rigid attention, knights in polished steel lined the route, eyes sharp, backs straight. The carriage did not slow as it passed, only stopped after they had crossed several inner gates.

“Your Grace, we’ve arrived,” came the call, followed by a brisk knock. The door swung open and Serin appeared, formal as ever.

Kennard stepped down first, then turned to assist Elena. She took his hand, letting him guide her gently to the ground.

The sunlight struck like a blade. It flared so bright it forced her to raise one hand to shield her eyes.

Kennard noticed. Without a word, he lifted his own hand and cast a cool shadow across her face, his palm hovering just enough to soften the glare.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, cheeks coloring as she lowered her gaze.

“Let’s go in,” he said quietly, still sheltering her as he drew her hand into his own and led the way.

“Your Grace, welcome home. Lady Elena, Montefiano greets you.”

Lassino, standing foremost among the attendants, bent low in respect. He had changed since she last saw him, trading travel clothes for something finer; clearly, he had arrived earlier to prepare.

They stepped inside. The entry opened into a grand lobby. To the right, a salon of sorts; ahead, a sweeping staircase climbed to unseen heights. Elena tilted her head back and gasped. The central space rose so high she could not count the floors above. Corridors and stairs circled that vast column of air like winding ribbons, stretching upward without end.

Turning slowly, she took it all in.

The walls and ceilings were sheathed in marble of soft beige, its grain flowing like water. Railings along the corridors and stairs were carved from thick, dark-brown wood, polished but strong. Each step was layered with a plush carpet of deep red embroidered with gold thread; it seemed so soft that even running would not raise an echo.

Every fifth step, the wall opened into arched recesses, each marked with the sigil of House Devel—a wolf’s head carved in wood, its tone slightly darker than the marble it adorned.

Across the lobby, the floor itself was a chessboard of marble and wood, dark squares alternating with lighter ones. Servants lined the path, bowing so low their crowns nearly touched their knees, motionless as statues.

Flower arrangements, simple but elegant, brightened the spaces—on tables, at corners, near the foot of the stairs.

Terra Demorte Castle had been vast and ostentatious, dazzling at every turn with its gardens, greenhouses, jewels, and art. Montefiano was different.

Its scale was smaller, but its presence was formidable, almost forbidding to outsiders. There were no glittering chandeliers threatening to crash from above, no jeweled murals, no canvases of history to flaunt. Yet here, in this restrained grandeur, there was a quiet beauty, a sense of dignity that Terra Demorte could not match.

“Remarkable,” a familiar voice said behind them.

Elena turned to see Marten and Serin entering. Marten brushed at his coat with gloved fingers, his expression cool as he took in the scene.

His hair was immaculately slicked back; not a strand dared fall. A ruffled shirt framed his throat, and over it he wore a coat of deep teal, matching the sharp hue of his eyes.

When their gazes met, Elena dropped hers at once. Though they had shared meals and roads for over a month, she remained uneasy around him, wishing to slip from his notice whenever possible.

“Impressive,” Marten continued.

Lassino smiled faintly. “Even in the master’s absence, the attendants take pride in their work.”

Marten clicked his tongue. “So you say, but surely some must resent it—abandoned lands, a lord who lingers elsewhere…”

“Must you speak nonsense the moment we arrive?” Kennard’s tone was edged, his brows drawing together.

Marten only shrugged. “Resentment’s a natural thing. A master away too long is a master forgotten—or worse, scorned.”

“Enough,” Kennard snapped. “Lassino, show him to his quarters. Let him grumble there.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Kennard added dryly, “And Marten—next time, spare the staff your theatrics. They’ll clean thoroughly when I come, not before. Let them live as they please.”

Marten spread his arms with exaggerated ease, looking around at the servants. “You hear that? Take your lord’s words to heart.”

The servants did not move. They did not speak. Heads remained bowed, bodies still as though they heard only one voice—and it was not Marten’s.

“Obedient to a fault,” Marten murmured, eyes narrowing.

Kennard’s sigh cut short the exchange. “Lassino, are our chambers ready?”

“They are, Your Grace. I’ve prepared your former rooms to ensure Lady Elena’s comfort.”

“We’ll rest until dinner. Notify us when the meal is set.”

He offered his arm to Elena; she placed her hand lightly on it, letting him guide her toward the stairs.

The carpet embraced her steps like a soft cloud.

Behind them, Marten’s voice rose again. “Bathwater, at once. No, show me my room first.”

Elena glanced back just in time to see him scowling at a servant, gesturing sharply.

Kennard leaned closer and tapped her hand. “Pay him no mind. He’s always been like that, right, Lassino?”

Lassino, a few paces ahead, paused and turned. At Kennard’s words, he allowed himself a gentle smile. “Indeed. Since he was old enough to babble, in fact.”

“Excuse me?” Elena blinked, startled.

It dawned on her then: they were teasing, lightening her mood, easing the quiet strain she carried.

“If Count Remid hears you,” she said with a small, unguarded laugh, “he’ll have words.”

The sound softened her face; Kennard’s smile widened.

They climbed to the third floor, the corridor stretching long and stately, until Lassino stopped before a massive door carved with the same wolf sigil.

Inside lay a room as solemn and grand as the rest of the castle—walls and ceilings of dark-veined stone, furniture of rich wood dressed in silk and gold thread. Tall windows and glass doors opened to a terrace, though Lassino swiftly drew the curtains at Kennard’s nod, dimming the sunlight until the lamplight glowed warm.

When Lassino stepped forward, hands lifting toward Kennard’s cravat, the prince waved him off. “Enough. Leave us.”

Lassino inclined his head. “Then I’ll fetch Lady Elena’s maid—”

“No need,” Kennard said.

The servant hesitated, glanced once at Elena—whose face flushed scarlet even in the gloom—then bowed deeply. “As you wish. Rest well.”

The door closed.

Elena found herself staring at the wood, teeth pressing her lower lip.

“Come here,” Kennard said, already stripping off shirt and trousers with efficient movements, hand extended toward her.

And once more, as always, those golden eyes caught the lamplight and burned against the dark, sending a sharp tremor through her whole body.