Chapter 98

“Are there that many deer around here?” Marten asked as he chewed on a thick slice of steak, gesturing lazily with his fork toward the spread on the table. “How come every dish—stew, salad, everything except the steak—is made with venison? Lunch was the same earlier.”

True to his observation, nearly every dish served at dinner featured venison in some form.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. Don’t point with your fork. And put your elbows down,” Kennard snapped, glaring at him from across the table.

Marten pouted, slouching back in his chair. “Why are you being so uptight? It’s just us. What’s wrong with eating a little more casually?”

Kennard’s eyes narrowed, the glare sharpening. “I’m saying this because you’re a count and still have the table manners of a wild boar. Eat like that when you’re alone.”

He didn’t even bother hiding his irritation. His voice was low, cold, and heavy with disapproval. Then, after a long pause, he added with a slow, deliberate sneer, “Is that really the best outfit you had?”

At those words, both Elena and Serin, who had been quietly eating up to that point, glanced over at Marten in unison.

Marten, unbothered, gave them a dazzling smile.

He was dressed in a shimmering gold silk gown adorned with dramatic white lace, his shoulders bare under sheer ruffles. A long black wig cascaded down his back in loose curls.

“What?” he said innocently, batting his lashes. “Isn’t it pretty?”

With theatrical flair, Marten twirled a strand of hair around his finger and tilted his head coyly at Kennard.

Then he raised one shoulder, touched a finger to his lips, and blew him an exaggerated kiss—complete with a slow, teasing wink.

“Hurk—cough, cough!”

Elena, caught mid-bite, choked violently on her food.

She slapped one hand over her mouth and pressed the other against her chest, eyes wide and watering as she struggled to catch her breath. Her entire face flushed a deep red, and beads of sweat began to form on her back from the force of the coughing.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

Lassino approached quietly and poured water into a clean glass, placing it in front of Elena with a gentle clink.

Elena nodded quickly, still coughing, and took the glass with both hands. She sipped it in short, shaky gulps as she tried to catch her breath.

Kennard, who had been silently watching her with a tight jaw, reached out and gently patted the back of her hand.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer than usual.

“Yes,” Elena croaked, still hoarse. She nodded again, this time more firmly.

Kennard let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. Then, with a sharp turn of his head, he shot a fresh glare across the table.

“What now?” he snapped at Marten. “You going to say it’s my fault Elena choked?”

Marten rolled his eyes and broke into laughter. “I mean… I wouldn’t say it’s entirely unrelated,” he said with a grin.

From the other end of the table, Serin—who had remained silent throughout the exchange—muttered under his breath, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice as he glanced at Marten.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Marten gasped theatrically. “What the hell? Why is everyone picking on me? Am I the villain now?” He turned dramatically to Elena. “Elena, you’re on my side, right?”

Elena straightened slightly, wary of where he was going. Marten leaned toward her with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t you think I look pretty too?” he asked sweetly. “Or should I say… beautiful? What do you think?”

Elena blinked, momentarily stunned by the question. Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. She wasn’t sure what kind of answer he wanted—or what kind he’d turn into a joke.

Because honestly…
He was beautiful.

Even to her eyes, Marten—dressed in golden silk and lace, black curls cascading over his shoulders—looked more graceful and striking than most noblewomen. If she were being bold, he was even prettier than Hazel.

Unlike Hazel, whose expression always seemed stuck somewhere between annoyance and disdain, Marten’s teal eyes sparkled with playful energy. That mischief only added to his strange, magnetic charm.

But how could she say all of that?

Marten, meanwhile, was bouncing lightly in his seat like a child awaiting praise, his expression full of hopeful anticipation.

“Just stop and eat,” Kennard cut in, his tone sharp with irritation.

Elena almost felt relieved for the interruption.

“Yeah, yeah,” Marten muttered, clicking his tongue as he slouched back in his seat. His mood visibly soured under Kennard’s glare.

“Only answer once,” Kennard snapped, clearly fed up. He set his fork down with a sharp clink.

“You’re not supposed to make noise when you put your utensils down,” Marten retorted, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t a grand duke like you even know that?”

Kennard gave him a long, frosty stare.

“Haa… Marten Remid,” he said slowly, as if summoning patience from the depths of his soul.

Marten rolled his eyes, lifting both hands in surrender. “All right, all right.”

As soon as Kennard spoke his name in that stern voice, Marten deflated like a scolded child and finally picked up his utensils again. The room settled into silence, broken only by the faint clinking of cutlery. No one even dared chew too loudly.

Elena forced herself to eat, but the food sat heavy on her tongue. Each bite turned to sand. The atmosphere was so tense, she could barely swallow.

Still, she reminded herself to be grateful. Thanks to Hazel’s relentless etiquette training, she knew how to sit, how to eat, how to breathe in a dining room this silent.

Since Hazel’s departure to the capital, Elena had found herself sharing more and more meals with Kennard. The nerves that once gripped her had slowly faded. Lately, she could even eat with a semblance of ease.

But not tonight.

Tonight, all she wanted was to excuse herself and flee to her room.

“Elena.”

The silence shattered—again—by Marten.

“Yes?” she replied quickly, startled. She swallowed a piece of salad that had been sitting in her mouth and turned to him.

Marten was still cutting into his steak, but he gave her a quick sideways glance. The sudden weight of everyone’s attention shifted toward him—Kennard and Serin included, both lifting their heads to watch him closely.

“What do you think,” Marten asked, voice casual, “about marrying me?”

Elena froze.

“What kind of nonsense is that?!” Kennard roared, his voice exploding across the dining room like thunder.

The sound slammed into the air, sharp and deafening. Every attendant in the room, including Lassino, froze mid-motion.

Marten didn’t flinch. He set his knife and fork down with deliberate calm and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said mildly, as if the suggestion were the most natural thing in the world. “You can’t escape your duty as the Grand Duke of the Baruchella Empire. You’re the Emperor’s only sibling—and the strongest pureblood among the Black Wolves. Who’s going to accept you marrying a woman whose race is unknown?”

Kennard leaned back slightly, his jaw clenched. “If that’s the topic, I’ve already told you—I’ve heard enough of it from Serin. And I said my thoughts won’t change.”

At that, Serin shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, glancing at Elena with clear unease.

Marten pressed on. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to avoid scandal altogether? You marry Hazel, just as His Majesty ordered. And I marry Elena. Problem solved.”

He shrugged, as if discussing a trade agreement rather than people’s lives.

“Unlike you, no one really cares whom I marry. Sure, people might gossip at first—about Elena’s looks, her background—but that’ll pass quickly.”

Elena kept her head down, her eyes fixed on her untouched plate. She couldn’t even begin to think of inserting herself into the conversation.

She had already accepted the truth: she would never be seen as a fitting match for Kennard.
No words of protest came to mind—just silence and resignation.

“Enough with that nonsense. Shut your mouth,” Kennard growled.

His voice trembled—not with uncertainty, but with barely restrained rage. His golden eyes blazed, flickering like a fire pushed to its limit.

Marten raised a brow, unfazed. “I’m seriously trying to offer a solution, and you tell me to shut up?”

He leaned back in his chair, settling in comfortably. His elbows rested on the armrests as he laced his fingers behind his head.

“We could each get married and just stay lovers on the side…” he began, smirking—
“Ugh—!”

The smugness vanished instantly. Marten let out a strangled groan as his body jerked forward in pain.

No one had time to react.

Kennard was already on his feet, his hand clamped around Marten’s face. His fingers dug into skin and bone with terrifying force, crushing one cheek inward. The blood drained from Marten’s face, the skin blanching under the pressure.

Marten gripped Kennard’s wrist with both hands, frantically trying to pry it off. But it was like trying to bend a steel beam. Kennard didn’t budge—not even an inch.

“Aa… agh…”

The sound was barely human. Marten couldn’t scream properly. His knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed with a heavy thud onto the floor.

Still gripping his face, Kennard loomed over him, his expression unreadable except for the raw, murderous intent blazing in his eyes.

“Your Grace…!” Serin shot up from his seat, his voice tight with alarm.

But he didn’t move closer.

He stood frozen in place, clearly unwilling—or unable—to intervene.

Lassino, too, remained still. Silent. His expression unreadable, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening.

The rest of the attendants were paralyzed with fear. No one moved, no one spoke. They only stared, wide-eyed, as Kennard continued to press Marten into the floor with his bare hand.

Elena squeezed her eyes shut, her breath catching in her throat.

This was already the second time today Kennard had lashed out physically at Marten.

If this went on even a second longer, she truly feared he might crush Marten’s skull—and kill him.

Elena drew in a few steadying breaths, then slowly rose from her seat.

“I have something to say to Count Remid,” she said, her voice calm but clear—cutting through the suffocating silence like a breeze through smoke.

The room held its breath.

Had someone shouted or tried to pull Kennard away, he likely wouldn’t have moved. But her measured tone—gentle, composed—pierced through his fury like a needle through cloth.

Kennard’s head snapped toward her, eyes still blazing with wrath. But the instant his gaze met hers, something shifted. The rage in his golden eyes dimmed, and his clenched jaw eased ever so slightly.

“To Marten?” he asked, his voice low, skeptical.

“Yes,” Elena replied softly, her gaze shifting to the man still kneeling on the floor.

Kennard’s brow creased, displeasure flaring again at her answer. But after a long pause—and with visible reluctance—he finally released Marten’s face, shoving him back with a sharp, dismissive gesture.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” Marten wheezed, groaning as he slumped onto one hand and covered his aching face with the other.

“What are you even talking about?” Kennard snapped, shooting him another deadly glare.

Then, stiffening his shoulders, he turned back to Elena and faced her fully.

Elena met his gaze, her voice steady and unwavering.

“I have no intention of being anyone’s mistress,” she said firmly. “All I want… is to be by His Grace’s side.”