Chapter 110

Kennard’s hands were swift and practiced as they stripped the dress from her body.

Elena had never been able to undo the row of buttons or the laces running down her back by herself; she had always needed Cura’s assistance.

When Cura was unavailable, Kennard had simply taken that role whenever he wanted her, his manner efficient and unhesitating.

“Come here.”

With only her chemise left clinging to her skin, Kennard caught her hand and drew her toward him.

“Have you gained a little weight?”

In the darkness, his gaze seemed almost tactile, a warm touch grazing her through the thin fabric. Elena flushed, her body heating as though his words themselves caressed her.

“I do feel heavier… more languid than before,” she murmured, her voice barely above a breath.

“Do you?” he replied mildly, a smile ghosting his lips.

She dropped her gaze, mumbling her answer, and nearly swallowed her breath when she lifted her head again.

He was bare before her—nothing at all to hide the power of his form.

“Not much to see from the outside yet,” he remarked lightly.

Leaning down, Kennard pressed a brief kiss to her forehead, then traced his palm in a slow, deliberate glide over her stomach.

A sharp, startled sound slipped from her throat.

“Ah—”

Her body stiffened against his touch, instinct tightening every muscle.

“The belly’s the same,” he observed, smiling through his teeth.

Without another word, he bent and swept her up into his arms as though she were something fragile.

In only a few strides, he carried her to the bed and lowered her with deliberate care, setting her down as though she were made of glass.

She edged back slightly, making room, and he joined her on the mattress, settling close.

“It’s no wonder you haven’t gained much weight,” he said in a quiet tone, brushing aside the strands of hair that had fallen across her temple. “You’ve been sleeping rough, eating poorly. But here… here, there’s more than enough food and fruit. It will be better for you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, offering a shy smile.

But the smile faltered.

“Your Grace.”

“What is it?”

Choosing her words carefully, Elena studied his expression.

“Should we keep His Majesty waiting so long? I fear he might take offense.”

“You needn’t worry,” Kennard said calmly. “I have my own plans.”

“Our marriage… Is that what you mean?”

“I mean that no one will treat you with disrespect. Not even the Emperor himself.”

There was an iron certainty in his gaze that allowed no doubt.

Elena could sense it—the quiet ferocity that meant he would stop at nothing to make good on his promise, no matter what means he had to use.

Yet, deep inside, anxiety curled like smoke.

When Marten had arrived at Terra Demorte with the Emperor’s summons, she had agreed to go, though she had had no plan, no power to resist. She had simply been terrified—that Kennard might be harmed because of her, or worse, that he might kill Marten in her defense.

What could someone like me possibly do?

Her thoughts turned inward, and she found herself staring down at the sheets, unfocused.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Kennard’s fingers tilted her chin up gently, guiding her to meet his eyes.

“Two days from now, we’ll be wed.”

“Two days?” The words tumbled out, her lips parting in shock.

He chuckled at her expression. “Why so surprised?”

It wasn’t that she longed for a grand ceremony. But it was already late in the day, and the notion of preparing everything in a single night seemed impossible.

And yet—two days?

“When we left Terra Demorte, I sent word ahead to have everything made ready. Fifty days was more than enough.”

Her worry eased somewhat, though surprise still lingered. He had been planning this all along.

“I hadn’t expected,” he added, his tone dropping lower, almost reflective, “that I would learn during our journey that you carry my child. But your body has barely changed; there’s no need to alter the dress. Still, it would be wise to try it on tomorrow—just in case it needs a touch of work.”

She could only listen, quiet and still, as he spoke in that calm, steady voice.

The visit from Marten had thrown the castle into sudden commotion. She hadn’t even been able to greet the tailor and his wife when they came to take her measurements.

Yet somehow, the garments had been made all the same.

“For now, rest,” Kennard said at last. “A bride who looks tired on her wedding day will only invite gossip—that she was forced into it.”

She wondered who these guests would be but held her tongue, allowing him to guide her back onto the bed.

He drew the coverlet up around them, settling at her side.

Elena turned toward him, resting her head on the firm plane of his arm.

Kennard gathered her close, brushed a kiss over her brow, and smoothed his hand through her hair with unhurried care.

She closed her eyes, feeling the contrast—the softness of the sheets against the solid strength of his body.

She felt so painfully weak, so ignorant, useless in the shadow of all that surrounded him.

When… when will I ever be of real help to him?

***

Later, Elena stood upon a low, round platform, gazing at her reflection in a great mirror.

The gown revealed far more than she was accustomed to. The neckline plunged low, baring her shoulders and the delicate hollow of her chest.

The bodice clung tightly, sculpting her curves—full breasts, a narrow waist—before the skirt burst outward in generous folds.

From her shoulders to her elbows, the fabric hugged close, but below that, fine chiffon embroidered with intricate patterns fell in soft layers, covering her arms to the fingertips.

The white silk, kissed with a faint beige tone, shimmered with threads of gold worked into tiny, ornate designs.

When she moved, the fabric made a crisp, snow-like sound, glinting under the light like frost.

Tentatively, Elena lifted a hand to touch the chiffon flowers adorning the neckline. They seemed so delicate she feared to crush them, yet she could not resist the urge.

“Do you like it?”

Luna, the tailor’s wife, crouched at her feet, adjusting the hem and watching her face.

“Yes. It’s beautiful,” Elena replied softly, letting her fingers trail down to the row of small silk ribbons that traced from her chest to her navel.

They were firm yet soft to the touch, the same silk as the gown itself, smooth and cool against her fingertips.

“I’m relieved,” Luna said, straightening a little. “I worried you might not approve, since we never heard your opinion beforehand.”

“Oh no—it’s truly more than I deserve. It’s too beautiful.”

“Too beautiful? My lady, nonsense. The dress belongs to you. It was made for you. You carry it better than anyone could. It suits your mysterious beauty perfectly.”

Elena glanced at the mirror again, catching her own reflection as if seeing herself through another’s eyes.

Her hair gleamed brighter than before, red tones rich and lustrous. Her gray eyes held shadows of worry but shone like glass.

The frail, trembling creature she had been—the little wounded animal abandoned by the roadside—was gone.

Even the scars that had once made her shrink back were faded now, softened into whispers of what had been.

She owed it all to Kennard: his shelter, his care, his affection.

And yet, hearing praise from another’s lips, she didn’t know where to look.

“We followed the Grand Duke’s instructions,” Luna went on, lifting the folds of the skirt. She stepped back to adjust the neckline, lowering it slightly to bare more of the shoulder. “But I must say, he has a keen eye. This style suits you perfectly.”

She looked up with a quick, conspiratorial smile. “And please, my lady—don’t be so formal with me. If the Grand Duke hears you using honorifics to a commoner, I’ll be the one in trouble.”

Elena forced a small smile, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

She had grown accustomed to speaking more freely with Cura, but it still felt strange, even improper, to drop such courtesies with others.

“My lady, did you see the guests?” Cura’s voice floated over.

He stood at the window, peeking past curtains of teal and wine, leaning on the sill to gain a better view.

“Guests?” Elena turned slightly.

“Yes,” he said. “Since noon, carriages carrying nobles have been arriving at the castle.”

Luna answered before Elena could. “And the town is teeming. Even merchants have come from outside the usual routes. They shouldn’t be here for another fortnight at least.”

Elena blinked, startled. Merchants—she remembered Kennard mentioning that traders came to Montefiano only twice a month.

“But nobles?” she asked. “Why would they come now? Is there some other occasion?”

“Do you truly not know?”

Cura turned, eyes wide, astonished.

Luna’s expression matched his.

“What?” Elena asked, confused, blinking rapidly at their incredulous stares.

“They’re here for your wedding, of course,” Cura said quickly, brows climbing high.

“My—what?” Her voice failed, a thin gasp breaking the word.

“Invitations were sent throughout the entire Baruchella Empire when you left Terra Demorte,” he said. “The Grand Duke sent them himself.”

“Who?”

“Who else? His Grace. Oh—look! Even Duke Benzef has arrived!”

Cura broke off suddenly, craning his neck toward the window again, eyes bright with surprise.