Chapter 95

Thick, heavy tomes came crashing down onto Kennard’s back.

Some struck his flanks, others glanced off his spine, but each blow sent a dull, throbbing pain coursing through him. He didn’t flinch. He couldn’t.

If he moved, even slightly, Elena—collapsed on the floor beneath him—might be hurt.

One particularly large book slammed against him, and Elena flinched. Her face turned pale as she watched the volumes tumbling beside her, then lifted her gaze to him with wide, alarmed eyes.

“Your Grace,” she said urgently, her voice strained, “you’ll get hurt if you stay like that.”

A delicate hand reached up and rested against his broad chest.

Despite the chaos, the feel of Kennard’s soft, black fur rippling like waves beneath her fingers stirred something oddly comforting in her.

Then, with a thunderous crash, the last shelf gave way. Books rained down in a deafening cascade, sending a thick cloud of dust swirling through the air like smoke.

Elena squeezed her eyes shut, coughing violently.

“Are you okay?” Kennard asked, his voice roughened by tension.

She nodded between coughs. “Y-Yes.”

“Hold on to me and get up,” he said, lowering his massive head toward her.

He was still in his transformed state—still a wolf. The situation was too unstable to shift back. He had to remain ready. Dangerous. Protective.

Elena hesitated, then wrapped her arms around his thick neck. Her fingers barely met halfway, but as Kennard slowly lifted his head, she was gently pulled to her feet.

Carefully, Kennard guided her back toward the window. Then, with deliberate control, he began to turn his body around.

“What in the world is this…”

Serin reached the study’s entrance and froze. Words failed him as his gaze swept over the chaos: the floor buried in fallen books, the once-neat shelves now bare and broken.

His eyes widened when he noticed the black wolf standing opposite Kennard, tense and poised like a rival ready to strike.

“No way…?” Serin muttered, his voice barely more than a breath.

“Oh my, it’s been a while, Serin.”

The other wolf responded in a high, sweet voice—almost teasing.

Despite the greeting, the stranger didn’t even glance Serin’s way. His sharp eyes remained fixed on Kennard, alert and wary.

At the sound of that voice, both Kennard and Serin grimaced.

“Cut that damn voice out,” Kennard snapped, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Annoyance prickled under his skin. Hearing that honeyed tone from a wolf’s mouth made his fur bristle.

“What?” the other replied, still in that grating falsetto. “You’ve heard my voice enough times—don’t act so surprised now.”

Kennard bared his teeth and stepped forward, muscles tensing beneath his dark coat.

“Whoa, whoa.” The other wolf backed up a pace, his tail flicking as if in mock surrender. His voice dropped, the playful pitch giving way to a smooth, baritone drawl. “We haven’t seen each other in so long, and now you’re planning to tear me apart? Why don’t we both drop the act? You too, Serin.”

He took another step back, tail still wagging in a slow, calculated rhythm. His gaze flicked between them—cautious now. He’d clearly realized that one wrong move might push Kennard past the edge.

Kennard’s lip curled in a snarl. “Then why did you do something to deserve it?” he growled. “Laying a hand on my woman—do you have a death wish?”

The fury in his voice was unmistakable.

The image of Elena—startled, frightened, and helpless in the arms of that other wolf—seared across Kennard’s mind.

But what burned deeper than jealousy was the fear in her eyes.

She hadn’t known what to do.

She’d been forced to endure something humiliating.

And he hadn’t been there to stop it.

“Hey, friend. If you release your transformation first, I’ll do the same,” the other said with a nervous chuckle. “Honestly, you’re the more dangerous one here.”

“Shut up,” Kennard growled.

The other wolf continued backing away, his paws fumbling awkwardly as his hindquarters bumped against a bookshelf. Realizing he was cornered, he lowered his ears and tail, casting a pitiful glance toward Kennard.

Kennard advanced without hesitation.

The killing intent radiating from him was so thick it filled the study like a choking fog. Even Serin, frozen at the doorway, and Elena, now standing near the window, dared not speak a word.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” the other tried again, his voice strained with false levity. “Your whole body’s a weapon, but I’m just a weak little citizen, you know?”

Only his mouth kept moving now—quick, desperate, trying to defuse a situation rapidly spinning beyond his control.

In a flash, he shifted back into human form. His back hit the bookshelf with a soft thud, hands raised slightly in a show of submission.

In that moment, it looked less like two men confronting each other and more like a massive black wolf preparing to devour a delicate woman dressed for court.

Kennard closed the final distance and bared his teeth just inches from his face.

“Ah! I brought a personal letter from His Majesty!” the man blurted out, voice rising in panic. “I’m on a special mission, I swear! You know what would happen if you killed someone like me, right?”

Eyes clenched shut, he raised his arms to shield his face, his voice cracking.

Kennard stared him down, his jaw tense, every muscle screaming with the urge to strike.

He genuinely wanted to rip him apart.

But he didn’t.

Not because of the Emperor’s letter—he couldn’t care less about that.

No, the reason held deeper roots. And no one knew that better than Kennard himself.

“Damn you, Marten,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Then, with a hiss of effort, he forced himself to shift back into human form.

Only then did Serin, still lingering at the doorway, follow suit, the tension in his frame easing slightly as he returned to his human appearance.

Marten peeked through his arms with one eye, cautiously surveying the room.

When he saw that Kennard had returned to his human form, he slowly lowered his arms and exhaled a dramatic sigh.

“I thought the black wolf who swallowed a demon was about to eat his friend too,” he muttered, brushing a trembling hand over his chest. “Scared the hell out of me.”

“Try anything like today one more time,” Kennard said coldly, his eyes narrowing into a lethal glare, “and I really will kill you.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned toward Elena.

She stood frozen, wide-eyed and unblinking, as if the scene before her had turned her to stone. Even when Kennard came to stand directly in front of her, she didn’t react.

He reached out and gently cupped her cheek.

Her face, already pale, had gone completely bloodless. Her skin was ice beneath his touch.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

At the sound of his voice, Elena finally stirred. She gave a slow, almost mechanical nod.

“But that person… is he, by any chance, a ma—?”

“Yes,” Kennard interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. “A man.”

Elena’s eyes grew even wider. “But he’s too beautiful for that…”

Perhaps sensing the shift in atmosphere, Marten piped up again, his tone light and airy as he smoothed down the fabric of his dress.

Elena tilted her head slightly, peeking around Kennard’s arm to get a better look at Marten.

Just the sight of her curious gaze drifting past him sent another wave of irritation crawling under Kennard’s skin. He scowled and shot Marten a pointed glare before reaching down to lace his fingers with Elena’s.

He gently tugged her behind him, shielding her from view.

“A man—a marquis, no less—why the hell are you walking around like that?” Kennard snapped. “No sense of dignity or decorum. When are you going to stop?”

“Why should I?” Marten replied breezily, tossing him a look over his shoulder. “Do you have any idea how comfortable these clothes are?”

He took his time surveying the wrecked study, then sauntered toward the fireplace. The sharp clack of his heeled shoes echoed through the dust-choked silence.

Without invitation, he dropped heavily onto one of the sofas in front of the fire and sprawled with casual arrogance, legs spread wide, completely at ease in the chaos.

I’m prettier than most women,” Marten declared with a smug smile. “When I dress like this, they let me in without a second thought.”

He lifted his chin and untied the ribbon at his neck, then removed his feathered blue hat with a dramatic flourish. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the sofa beside him and slid one hand into his long, glossy hair.

After a few delicate motions, he peeled the wig off, revealing short, tousled hair beneath—dark with a hint of reddish brown.

Marten ran his fingers through his flattened real hair, shaking it loose with practiced ease, then tossed the wig onto the sofa as carelessly as the hat.

“Oh my!”

Elena’s gasp rang out from behind Kennard, her voice laced with surprise.

Kennard wasn’t surprised by her reaction. Even he found the sight jarring—an elegantly dressed man in a lavish gown, now revealed to have a cropped, masculine haircut. The contrast was absurd. Unfitting. Bizarre.

“Foolish noblemen think I’m some lord’s daughter and don’t give it a second thought,” Marten said, laughing as he reclined into the cushions. “They assume their wives are enjoying tea time with me… when in reality, they’re rolling around in bed.”

“You’re still doing that insane stuff?” Kennard asked, voice sharp with irritation.

“Why would I stop something so fun?” Marten replied, his tone airy, eyes sparkling with mischief as he looked past Kennard—directly toward Elena.

Kennard immediately shifted sideways, placing himself squarely between them, blocking Marten’s view.

“So the rumors were true, then,” Marten said, the smirk returning to his lips.

Kennard’s eyes narrowed. “What rumors?” he asked, tone low, warning.

Marten leaned forward slightly, clearly enjoying himself. “The rumor that the great Kennard Den Devil is head over heels for a woman. But no one knows who she is… or where she came from.”

He extended a single finger, pointing—not at Kennard, but at the presence behind him. At Elena.

Kennard felt her stillness, the subtle catch in her breath. He tightened his grip on her hand, now cold in his.

“I heard you even kicked out Lady Hazel in disgrace,” Marten continued, tilting his head with faux innocence. “That must’ve been quite the insult.”

“I was never engaged to that woman,” Kennard said firmly.

“But she was the match chosen by His Majesty,” Marten reminded him, arching a brow. “You know full well we don’t have the right to refuse that.”

Kennard’s eyes locked onto Marten’s. “I choose my own partner. Once I’ve made up my mind, no one—not even you—can stop me.”

His words weren’t a bluff or a retort. They were a declaration. A vow. A truth carved into the bedrock of who he was.

Marten leaned back slowly, draping one arm over the back of the sofa. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed slightly.

“Even if your opponent is His Majesty?” he asked, voice quiet now, the amusement finally gone from his face.