Chapter 94

“What did the letter say?” Serin’s eyes searched Kennard’s face, shadowed with worry.

But Kennard didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze shifted to Lassino. “Where is the man who delivered this?”

“We’ve shown him to the reception room,” Lassino replied calmly.

A flicker of unease crossed Serin’s face. “You mean the courier is still in the reception room? He didn’t leave immediately? Why?”

Lassino opened his mouth to respond, then abruptly closed it.

At that moment, Kennard rose abruptly from his chair.

“Did you confirm he entered the reception room?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I personally escorted him.”

Before Lassino could finish, Kennard had already strode out of the office.

“Your Grace, where are you going?” Serin called, flustered, rushing after him. The air seemed to whirl in the space Kennard had just vacated, his movements swift and purposeful.

“Aren’t you going to meet the courier? That’s the opposite direction of the reception room.”

Serin caught up, breathless, his words trailing off as he took in Kennard’s expression—taut with barely concealed fury.

***

“Lady Elena, how about going to your bedroom for some rest?” 

Elena, dozing on the sofa by the fireplace, blinked awake at Cura’s gentle voice.

The book lay open on her lap, frozen on the last page she had read. She had no idea how long she’d been like this, but her legs had gone numb—heavy, almost as weighty as the book itself.

Rubbing her eyelids with the palm of her hand, she felt as though her entire body were soaked in thick, cold water, weighed down and sluggish. Drowsiness came in waves, relentless and pulling at her.

Her eyes stung, and it seemed she might drift off the moment she lay down. But every time she tried to sleep, exhaustion remained stubbornly awake within her, keeping true rest just out of reach.

“Cura, could you bring me a fresh cup of tea?” Elena asked, noticing her teacup was empty.

“You’re not going to rest?” Cura glanced back with concern.

“No. If I sleep now, I probably won’t be able to sleep at night.”

“Oh… but you don’t sleep well at night anyway…” Cura began, then abruptly clapped a hand over her mouth, cutting herself off.

Her cheeks flushed a bright crimson as she gave an awkward smile and lifted the teapot from the table.

“I’ll get it ready right away.”

Elena watched the study door close behind Cura, then bowed her head into her hands.

She knew exactly what Cura had almost said.

Alone, she rarely slept well. But with Kennard, she often fell into sleep as if completely spent—usually after losing all track of time, lost in each other’s embrace until their bodies gave out.

When she let herself be consumed by the heat radiating from Kennard, exhaustion would wash over her like a tidal wave—leaving her barely able to lift a finger. Once nestled in his warm embrace, sleep became not just inevitable, but utterly irresistible.

That Cura knew this intimate truth was a source of deep embarrassment. Not just Cura—likely everyone in the castle did.

She had once heard whispered rumors that whenever Kennard held her, his pheromones became so potent and heavy they seemed to saturate the entire castle. Some people complained of headaches, others were sickened, and in rare, extreme cases, even fainted.

When Cura had first told her this, Elena was mortified beyond measure. She’d locked herself away in her room for an entire day, unwilling to see anyone—not even Cura.

With a sharp slap to both cheeks—palms striking hard enough to echo—Elena rose from her seat.

As she moved toward the window, a cool breeze drifted in. The newly changed, thin curtains of the season fluttered softly, whispering against the frame.

Closing her eyes, Elena let the breeze brush gently across her face, a fleeting comfort on her flushed skin.

She lingered there a long moment before opening her eyes slowly.

She had tried to resist it—tried not to look, tried not to let her mind wander. But inevitably, her gaze was drawn toward the tower, as if some invisible force tugged at her very will.

It had been several days since she and Kennard had ascended to the topmost room of the tower, sealed behind cold iron grates.

Since then, neither had spoken a word about it.

Yet still, Elena often felt it—an icy presence, a silent summons—wrapping around her like a shadow, chilling her from within.

A sudden shiver ran down her spine, and Elena spun toward the study’s entrance.

She had caught a scent—a pheromone unlike anything she’d ever encountered in this place before.

Sure enough—

There, framed by the open doorway, stood a woman clad in an extravagant gown and an imposing hat, her gaze locked directly on Elena.

The dress revealed a daring plunging neckline, leaving her shoulders and décolletage bare. The bodice hugged her slender waist tightly, while the sleeves and skirt billowed out in lush, dramatic folds.

The silvery silk shimmered softly, embroidered with red and blue roses so intricately detailed that tiny diamonds sparkled like morning dew scattered across the petals.

Her wavy black hair tumbled freely to her chest, crowned by a grand blue hat adorned with ornate feathers that fluttered lightly with every breath of air.

In one gloved hand—white as freshly fallen snow—she gripped a long parasol, delicately crocheted from blue lace that perfectly matched her hat.

Yet it was her eyes that held Elena captive—turquoise pools gleaming like a still mountain lake, brimming with quiet curiosity and fixed unwaveringly on her.

“Who… are you?”

Elena had been staring, momentarily mesmerized, but snapped back to herself and forced the words out.

A sudden thought struck her sharply—after Hazel’s reluctant departure, could the emperor have sent another noblewoman to be Kennard’s new match?

Her mouth went dry. Her heart felt as though it were being crushed in a vise.

The woman watched silently as Elena’s expression darkened with each passing second, then slowly curved her lips into a long, deliberate smile.

With every step she took forward, the sharp click-clack of her heels echoed sharply through the quiet room, each sound punctuating the growing tension.

Up close, she was taller than Elena had anticipated—her presence imposing and unyielding.

She stopped just inches away, leaning down until the tips of their noses nearly brushed.

Elena’s hand instinctively pressed against the window frame, her upper body recoiling just slightly as she swallowed hard, dry and tense.

There was nowhere left to retreat. Yet, inexplicably, she found herself rooted in place, unable to step aside.

Trapped, Elena had no choice but to meet the woman’s gaze head-on.

“Who are you?”

Her voice trembled despite herself, but the question demanded an answer. She had to know who this enigmatic intruder was, appearing so suddenly, so confidently.

“You’re Elena?”

The woman tilted her head further, whispering the name with a sharp, almost mocking edge.

She was so close that Elena could feel her breath, faint and cool, as if their lips might brush at any moment.

Frozen, Elena’s heart pounded as the woman’s voice—thin, high-pitched—sent a strange chill down her spine.

Something was off.

And when Elena looked more closely…

***

Like a shadow leaping through space, Kennard thundered down the hallway—and in an instant, shifted into his black wolf form.

“Your Grace?!”

Serin’s startled cry behind him, almost a scream, barely registered.

Serin, too, had transformed into a wolf and was close on Kennard’s heels, but Kennard paid him no mind.

A suffocating dread clung to him like thorny vines wrapped tight around his chest.
His legs felt as if wading through a swamp—each step sluggish and heavy.

But that was only Kennard’s illusion.

The wind whipped up in his wake, fierce and wild, making the lanterns lining the corridor sway violently before flickering out altogether.

Servants passing through the hallway froze in terror at the sight of two wolves barreling past and scattered like startled birds.
Some pressed themselves flat against the walls, desperate to avoid the powerful beasts.

“Your Grace, who is this person—who brought His Majesty’s letter and caused all this chaos?” Serin glanced toward the fleeing servants as he raced after Kennard.

Kennard said nothing. He focused solely on the scent—the sharp pheromone trail that led him forward.

Soon, Kennard reached his destination, pivoted sharply, and surged inside.

Exactly as he had feared—Elena stood frozen by the study window, terror etched on her face, while the flamboyantly dressed figure leaned in dangerously close, as if about to kiss her.

“If you don’t step back…!”

Kennard’s voice thundered through the room, laced with cold, murderous intent.

Elena’s eyes, pale and haunted, met his.

Without hesitation, Kennard lunged at the man.

Since he had dared touch Elena, Kennard meant to tear his throat out.

But just as he had sensed the man’s pheromones outside, the man shifted instantly—transforming into a black wolf—and deftly dodged Kennard’s attack.

“Want to die, huh?”  Kennard bared his razor-sharp fangs and let out a low, menacing growl.

He crouched on his front legs, muscles coiled like a spring, ready to strike again.

“No way.” The man chuckled darkly, eyes sharp and unyielding, every muscle tense and prepared for Kennard’s next move.

Without hesitation, Kennard lunged forward, jaws snapping—but the man slipped away with a sinuous grace, sliding like a snake beneath his attack once more.

Yet, startled by Kennard’s relentless ferocity, the man stumbled, crashing hard into the study’s bookshelf.

The collision sent a thunderous cascade of books tumbling down, their dense, heavy bodies crashing noisily around Elena and scattering across the floor.

“Ah!”

Elena screamed, clutching her head in panic.

Kennard abandoned his attack instantly, springing over her protectively as a shield.