Chapter 87

Just as the morning sun began to stream softly into the room, a sharp, rapid knock echoed against the bedroom door.

Elena stirred beneath the sheets, her senses immediately catching the familiar scent lingering beyond the threshold.

“It’s Sir Serin,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I had a feeling it was about time…”

As she propped herself up on her elbows and turned toward the door, Kennard let out a low, irritated groan beside her. He raked a hand roughly through his tousled hair, his brows furrowed in clear annoyance.

“Already?” he muttered under his breath, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He rose, scooping up the robe crumpled on the floor and shrugging it on with careless ease. Though the heavy curtains were still drawn, ensuring no one could see inside, Elena instinctively pulled the sheets up to her chin as she watched him stride across the room.

“How long… must everyone suffer because of Your Grace’s pheromones… Leto…” came Serin’s muffled voice from the other side of the door, the words trailing off into silence.

Whatever Kennard replied was lost to Elena, swallowed by the thick walls and the heavy tension hanging in the air.

She sank back onto the pillows, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. Swirling above her were vivid patterns—shifting, abstract, painted in a myriad of dreamlike hues.

“That’s a conversation we can have after your memories return…”

His voice from the night before echoed clearly in her mind, followed by a soft sigh that slipped from her lips.

She had asked him again what he meant by that—asked him desperately—but he’d only offered vague words and evasive glances. No real answers. No clarity.

Instead, he had pulled her close, drowning her in kisses and unrelenting desire. His body had burned against hers, and she had surrendered, unable to think clearly in the heat of his embrace.

By the time sleep finally took her, her thoughts were scattered and her body spent.

Now, in the quiet hush of dawn, she found herself no closer to understanding the truth.

What does my memory have to do with His Grace’s imprint?

The question circled endlessly in her mind, unanswered and unrelenting. She turned it over again and again, hoping for clarity—but found only more silence.

Her memories remained a void. Months had passed, and still… she didn’t even know her own name.

“Why are you awake already?” Kennard’s voice was low but steady as he reentered the room, his sharp eyes locking onto Elena with quiet curiosity.

He let the robe slip from his shoulders, carelessly discarding it before climbing back into bed. Without hesitation, he drew her into his arms, his movements slow and deliberate. Pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, he let his hand drift gently down the length of her back.

“You barely rested,” he murmured, his voice wrapped in concern. “Tossing and turning all night. Get a little more sleep.”

Elena sank into his embrace, letting herself be wrapped in the warmth of his body. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, the firmness of his arms—these small things gave her a fragile sense of calm.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut despite the claim. She wasn’t fine—but for now, this was enough.

A hint of mischief crept into his tone as he leaned in closer. “If you’re not going to sleep,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear, “we could always do something else.”

Before she could respond, he shifted, pressing his body more firmly against hers. The sudden pressure between her thighs made her gasp softly, eyes flying open.

“Your Grace… Sir Serin came to you urgently…” Elena’s voice trembled, the words stumbling from her lips.

“It’s fine,” Kennard interrupted, his tone final, his gaze dark with intent.

Then his mouth was on hers, swallowing her protest in a deep, commanding kiss. And just like that, he was inside her again—no words, no hesitation—just the quiet slide of surrender and the heat of desire rekindled.

***

Only after claiming Elena’s body again and again throughout the early morning did Kennard finally leave the bedroom.

Elena lay in bed, her limbs heavy with exhaustion and aching from the overwhelming pleasure that had consumed her for hours. With Cura’s assistance, she managed to bathe and freshen up, the warm water soothing her sore muscles.

By the time she had slipped into a soft dress and had her hair arranged, the sun had already risen high in the sky, casting golden light well past noon.

After a light meal taken quietly in her bedroom, Elena tried to focus in the library, but her mind refused to settle. Her thoughts were tangled, looping endlessly back to the night—and the man—who filled them. A strange heaviness weighed in her stomach, as if her food hadn’t quite settled.

Restless, she left the library and wandered the halls, eventually making her way outside. The castle gardens greeted her with a surprising sight—trees she had assumed to be purely ornamental were now crowned in vivid, multicolored blossoms, their petals dancing gently in the breeze.

Drawn by the beauty, she drifted farther along the path, until she reached a small, secluded garden tucked behind the castle. Surrounded by stone walls and nestled in the narrow space between the main building and the annex, the air here was thick with fragrance. The mingling scents of a hundred blooming flowers clung to her skin, dizzying and sweet.

She paused, wondering which blossoms might be best for an arrangement, when a new scent caught her attention—warm, earthy, and mouthwatering.

“What is that smell?” she asked, turning toward the source.

Cura, trailing a few steps behind, lifted her head and sniffed the air. “Oh, I think someone’s baking bread.”

“Bread?” Elena blinked. The thought of something so simple seemed oddly comforting.

“Yes,” Cura said with a nod. “The kitchen’s nearby.”

“Can we go take a look?”

“The kitchen?” Cura looked mildly surprised, then let out a quiet chuckle and shrugged. “If you like. You really are curious about everything, Lady Elena. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up knowing the castle better than His Grace himself.”

Elena laughed softly as they walked side by side. “Surely not.”

“No, really,” Cura insisted with a grin. “His Grace only moves between the bedroom, office, study, training grounds, dining room, and reception hall. He rarely ever steps into the gardens or the greenhouse—and when he’s not in his office, he’s usually at the training grounds.”

“He never goes anywhere else?” Elena asked, brows slightly raised in disbelief.

“No,” Cura replied with a small shake of her head. “Unlike you, he never visits the areas where the attendants work. I mean, I haven’t met that many nobles, but most of them are the same. They don’t really have a reason to go where the servants are.”

As they chatted, they arrived at the entrance to the kitchen. The moment they stepped inside, the air grew warmer, rich with the scent of herbs, roasting meat, and freshly kneaded dough.

Inside, the kitchen bustled with activity. Attendants moved swiftly and efficiently—chopping vegetables, trimming cuts of meat, kneading dough, and washing dishes in a steady rhythm. Most worked with practiced ease, eyes focused, hands steady.

All except for one young boy.

He darted between stations in a frenzy, clearly overwhelmed, and it was he who first spotted Elena at the doorway.

“Oh—!” he gasped, eyes wide.

Startled, he fumbled the basket he was carrying. A loud clatter echoed as it hit the ground, vegetables scattering across the stone floor.

“You clumsy little brat!” a man shouted from across the kitchen. He slammed his cleaver into the chopping block with a sharp thunk and pointed it toward the boy. “Those are for His Grace! You want to ruin them by tossing them on the ground?!”

The boy shrank back in fear, shoulders trembling as he tried to stammer out an apology.

“Excuse me…” Elena stepped forward quickly, raising her voice to cut through the tension. “That was my fault. I didn’t mean to startle him.”

At the sound of her unfamiliar voice, the entire kitchen froze. The staff turned in unison, startled and unsure of how to react. Awkward glances passed between them, hands stilled mid-task as they took in the unexpected visitor.

The silence was broken by the eldest among them—a stocky man stationed near the oven, sweat glistening on his brow. He removed his hat, revealing graying hair damp with heat, and approached slowly.

Untying the cloth around his neck, he wiped his forehead with a weary hand, then looked between Elena and Cura with cautious curiosity.

“…Cura?” he asked, his voice gruff but polite.

The man had his faded brown hair neatly combed back and tied into a single knot at the nape of his neck. His shirt, buttoned crisply all the way up, looked freshly pressed—immaculate even in the sweltering heat of the kitchen. Not a thread was out of place, not a trace of flour or dust clung to him, despite his proximity to the blazing oven.

“This is Lady Elena,” Cura introduced gently.

At once, the man bowed deeply. The rest of the kitchen staff, startled into formality, quickly followed his lead, dipping their heads in respectful greeting.

Elena shifted awkwardly, the sudden wave of deference making her self-conscious. Flustered, she gave them a small, polite bow in return.

“Lady Elena, this is the head chef,” Cura said, gesturing toward the man. “And these are the kitchen staff who handle meal preparations.”

As Cura named each of them, Elena met their eyes one by one, offering a soft smile in greeting. Her presence seemed to make them visibly tense.

“Unlike the other attendants, they work exclusively here,” Cura continued. “I suppose this is your first time seeing Lady Elena up close, isn’t it?”

Judging by the subtle nods around the room, the answer was clear. Though none of them had met her directly, there was no mistaking who she was—not with the elegance of her dress, the poise in her posture, and Cura at her side. She was unmistakably the woman whispered about in connection to Duke Kennard.

Feeling a little guilty for causing such unease, Elena stepped forward and tried to ease the mood.

“I just followed the wonderful smell of bread,” she said with a warm smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. If I am, please forgive me.”

“Oh, not at all, my lady!” the head chef said quickly, flustered as he waved his hands. “It’s just… we were a bit surprised, that’s all. We didn’t expect Lady Elena to visit such a humble place.”

“Humble?” Elena chuckled softly. “There’s no need to be so careful around me.”

“How could we not?” the chef said, eyes wide. “His Grace gave us strict orders—to treat Lady Elena with the utmost care and respect.”

Elena blinked, her cheeks instantly flushing with heat. The words struck her deeper than she expected, sending warmth rushing up her neck until her face felt hotter than the oven fire nearby.

Beside her, Cura raised a hand to her mouth to hide a laugh.

“Cura…” Elena shot her a reproachful look.

“I didn’t say anything,” Cura replied, grinning even as she fought to contain it.

Elena cleared her throat and glanced past the chef toward the back of the kitchen. There, on a wooden tray stacked with tiered shelves, rows of freshly baked bread sat cooling—perfect golden crusts glistening with butter, steam still rising from their soft centers.

The scent made her mouth water.

“Um…” She lifted a hand and pointed. “Would it be alright if I watched the baking process for a bit?”

“You’d like to watch?” the chef echoed, blinking in surprise.

“Yes,” Elena said with a nod. “Only if I’m not getting in anyone’s way.”

“Well… I wouldn’t say you’re in the way exactly, but…” The chef hesitated, casting a questioning look at Cura.

“Lady Elena enjoys doing things herself,” Cura offered helpfully. “She even decorates the flowers in His Grace’s office and bedroom.”

“I’ve heard about that,” the chef muttered, rubbing the side of his temple as if unsure whether to be impressed or overwhelmed.

After a moment’s deliberation, he turned back to Elena and gave a reluctant but respectful nod. “As long as you watch from a safe distance, my lady. The kitchen can be dangerous, especially with open flames and sharp tools.”