Chapter 113

It was Marten who stepped inside, to everyone’s surprise. His hair was neatly combed back, and he wore full ceremonial attire. Looking at him now, it was difficult to reconcile this figure with the womanly guise in which he had once appeared before her.

“I greet you, my lady count,” he said smoothly.

Cura and Luna, caught off guard, gaped at him in mute astonishment before hastily lowering their heads.

“Are all preparations complete?” Marten asked, his gaze sweeping the room as he advanced toward Elena.

He tilted his head back, eyes lifting to the high ceiling, then lowered them until they rested squarely on her. One brow arched, and he regarded her from head to toe with the appraising look of a merchant inspecting his wares.

Elena felt the weight of that scrutiny press down upon her, but no words came to her lips. She could only avert her face, dodging the persistent way his eyes clung to her.

“Have you seen Kennard yet?” Marten asked lightly. “I imagine he must have been well satisfied.”

“He has not come here,” Luna answered quickly in Elena’s stead.

Elena had, in truth, half expected Kennard to appear before the ceremony, but his pheromone lingered only faintly in the distance. He was likely besieged by the many nobles who had gathered at the castle and could not steal away.

Her thoughts returned to that morning, when he had left their chamber only after keeping her pressed close against him. His last words still echoed within her. At last, I can claim you as mine in truth.

The memory of his golden eyes, soft yet piercing, and the low whisper with which he had spoken—those were the last traces of him she carried into this hour.

Marten chuckled, breaking her reverie. “Ah, yes. I saw him earlier, hemmed in by those old men. He had his brows all furrowed, fighting to keep his temper in check.” He tapped his own forehead with a forefinger and scowled in imitation.

He strolled idly about, circling Elena once before veering suddenly toward Cura. With no warning, he plucked the fan from her hand.

Cura gave a startled cry and stepped back, but Marten’s mouth curved in a sly smile.

“My, Cura. How you’ve grown. Quite the young lady now.”

He snapped the fan open and lifted it to veil his lips. His eyes gleamed as he leaned down, so close his nose nearly brushed hers.

“Count Remid, what are you doing here…?” Cura stammered.

Seeing her attendant’s cheeks blaze scarlet, Elena hurried to reclaim Marten’s attention. “Why are you here?” she asked sharply.

Marten turned his head just enough to glance at her, then back again at Cura, sighing theatrically through his nose. Slowly he straightened and snapped the fan shut with a sharp crack.

“Step outside for a while, both of you,” he ordered, pointing toward the door with the folded fan.

“What?” Cura and Luna exchanged bewildered looks but did not move.

“What are you waiting for? Out,” Marten snapped, irritation flaring across his face.

“But the ceremony will begin soon, my lord,” Luna said hesitantly. “We must finish Lady Elena’s gown before then…” She clutched the long fall of chiffon lace that was meant to trail from Elena’s back to the floor.

“It won’t take long. And you will not disturb us until I call,” he said flatly.

“That is unacceptable,” Cura blurted, stiffening. She stepped in between Marten and Elena, her whole body taut with defiance.

Marten gave a low laugh behind the fan. “Why? Do you imagine I’ll lay a hand on Elena? Even I know better. She belongs to one man alone, and that’s enough to make her untouchable.” His eyes crinkled with private amusement. “But you…you’re different. You’ve grown up quite adorably.”

He flicked a fingertip against her cheek. His eyes gleamed with the hungry delight of a man seated before a banquet.

Cura gasped, clapping her hands over her face.

“Cura,” Elena said firmly, pulling her close by the arm. “Go. You too, Luna.”

“But, my lady…” Cura protested faintly.

“It’s fine,” Elena insisted with a faint smile.

Reluctant and uncertain, the two girls obeyed and slipped out.

“Ha! Do they think I lose all sense the moment I see a woman?” Marten spread his arms wide in mock outrage, then let them fall again with a shrug.

Elena steadied her breath. “Did you come alone? His Grace assigned attendants to you, did he not?”

She remembered the night before. Kennard had hosted a banquet for the nobles, leaving her and Marten to dine together in the smaller dining room. Throughout the meal, a hulking man had stood silently behind Marten, watching with a vigilance that bordered on oppressive. He had even followed Marten out afterward, a shadow bound to his heels.

When Elena later asked Kennard who the man was, he had pressed his temples with weary fingers and muttered that he had stationed the fellow to ensure Marten didn’t trouble the noble ladies of the court.

Yet now Marten was entirely alone.

“Oh, that watchdog Kennard saddled me with? Likely sleeping somewhere by now,” Marten replied carelessly.

“What do you mean—” Elena began, but Marten had already turned his back, striding toward the window.

Her gown was heavier than any she had worn before, its folds and flounces weighing her down with every movement. She lifted the hem slightly with both hands, feeling the strain even in that small effort.

In the tall mirror, she saw Marten fling the windows wide. She turned on the dais, the dress shimmering like a jewel in the lamplight. For a heartbeat she caught her own reflection and stared as if spellbound. Then a sudden chill shot down her spine, stiffening her from neck to heel.

At first she thought it was only the breeze, drifting in through the open windows. A pleasant thought even brushed her mind—that the air would be cool for the garden ceremony.

But this was no natural wind. Black smoke seeped inward from outside, coiling around her like a living thing. It swelled, thickened, and slowly took shape behind her, towering above her height, a hooded shadow shifting like a cloak made of mist.

“Good evening, my lady.”

The voice struck her ear like a dart, sending shivers racing across her skin. She trembled, unable to still the violent quake of her body.

“It has been a long time.”

It was unmistakably human speech, yet the smoke revealed no face, no eyes, nothing but a vague silhouette.

“Wh…who…” she managed to whisper. Her throat felt seized, as though clamped in a stranger’s hand. Even that one word left her drenched in cold sweat.

“Oh dear. I heard you lost your memory, but to have forgotten me entirely?”

The shadow’s arms—if arms they were—slid around her from behind. A phantom head inclined close to hers.

“Ugh…no…stay away…”

The voice and the smoke pressed against her like a serpent coiling tighter. Elena recoiled instinctively, every nerve screaming refusal.

The man chuckled darkly against her ear. She tried to twist away, but her body would not respond, locked and rigid.

“I came for you, as promised. Do you not even remember that much? Or is it the same as before—you erased the memory yourself?”

“What are you…”

“You have a habit, it seems,” he whispered, “of erasing what you cannot face and running away.”

He sighed, shaking his unseen head.

Erasing memories? Did I erase my own? It wasn’t from injury? Elena’s thoughts whirled. She could not grasp what he meant.

“What are you saying?” she demanded, her voice raw with fear.

His laugh, sly and tainted, poured into her ear again.

“Elena.”

She froze as his hand ghosted over her stomach.

“No. Don’t touch me,” she cried, twisting desperately. She could not bear it—not there, not where Kennard’s child grew within her.

“So he never told you,” the man murmured. “Never told you even as he planted his seed so deep within.”

“Seed…? No. He isn’t a demon. You are—you’re the demon!”

“Me? A demon?” The figure’s laughter erupted, booming enough to ripple the smoke in great waves.

“So he gave you the name Elena, did he?”

The laughter cut off, and the shadow constricted around her once more.

“Elena Rosou,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear like a curse.

Her body jolted. She struggled but halted mid-movement. “What did you just say?”

“Elena Rosou. That is your true name.”

“Rosou… Elena Rosou?” Her head rang as though struck with a heavy stone. She could hardly breathe, hardly move, yet the words clawed at her mind. She repeated them, dazed, staring at the reflection of the smoky figure in the mirror.

“Yes. From the beginning, your name was Elena. That demon already knew you—who you were, where you lived. Yet he feigned generosity, bestowing a name and pretending to care for you as if it were a gift.”

The voice dripped contempt. Then, abruptly, his head snapped toward the door.

“How swift he is,” the man muttered.