“You’ve already measured her height, right?” Kennard asked, his tone casual but his eyes focused.
“Yes, Your Grace,” the tailor replied quickly, nodding as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and dripped from his chin.
“What’s next?” Kennard stretched the measuring tape between his hands, the readiness in his stance leaving no doubt he intended to continue.
“You’ll need to measure the shoulders next,” the tailor stammered, his voice faltering.
“Like this?” Kennard asked, placing the tape from the edge of Elena’s left shoulder to the opposite side.
“Her hair needs to be moved,” the tailor said hesitantly, gesturing toward her flowing locks with his pen.
Kennard nodded and stepped closer, gently gathering Elena’s soft waves and sweeping them over one shoulder. The movement revealed her delicate nape, pale and smooth beneath the cascading hair.
His gaze lingered, catching sight of a faint mark—his mark—peeking out between her neckline and her hair. The sight sent a flicker of heat coursing through him. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
When his fingertips brushed against her neck, Elena flinched, the subtle movement breaking the tension.
Kennard’s grip on the tape tightened as he fought an overwhelming urge to abandon the task altogether. His thoughts betrayed him, tempting him to bury his lips against her exposed skin.
Get a grip, you idiot. He cursed himself silently, forcing his unruly desires into submission. Drawing in a steadying breath, he refocused and continued. With methodical precision, he measured her shoulders, the length from her nape to her waist, and the lengths of her arms and forearms, ending with her neck circumference.
The tailor guided him step by step, his instructions coming quickly as he jotted down the numbers Kennard dictated.
Meanwhile, Serin pressed his fingers to his temples, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief, while Cura observed the scene with an amused smirk.
At some point, Lassino had slipped out, returning with a tray laden with tea, chocolates, and cookies. He meticulously arranged the items on the table before pouring tea into a cup and offering it to Kennard.
Kennard waved him off without looking up, his attention still on the measurements. Lassino turned to Serin, who scowled and shook his head in refusal.
Kennard had no bandwidth for anything but Elena. Every subtle reaction from her—the faintest flinch, the smallest quiver—registered sharply in his mind as his hands brushed against her skin while he measured.
Elena kept her head lowered, unsure where to look. Her teeth worried her lower lip repeatedly, deepening its already rosy hue.
Kennard’s gaze lingered. The sight of her lips, flushed and tender from her nervous nibbling, sparked an unbearable desire within him. He wanted nothing more than to lean in, capture those lips, and murmur for her to stop hurting them.
If they’d been alone, he would have kissed her a hundred—no, a thousand—times by now.
And it wasn’t just her lips.
When it came time to measure her bust, his resolve was tested to its very limits. As he looped the tape around her back and let it rest across her chest, his hands faltered for a brief moment.
The thought crept unbidden into his mind—his hands replacing the measuring tape, cupping the soft, delicate curves hidden beneath the fabric. Her form, so perfectly outlined under the cloth, had already etched itself into his memory.
You’re behaving like a lust-crazed beast.
Heat pooled in his body, barely contained by his frock coat. His restraint felt precarious, as if it might snap at any moment.
“Damn it,” he muttered through clenched teeth, the frustration in his voice slipping out before he could stop it.
Elena’s head snapped up, her wide eyes trembling with uncertainty. Her face turned pale, her expression tinged with fear and confusion.
“I’m not angry,” Kennard said softly, his voice low and meant to reassure her. Yet, despite his words, his darkened expression betrayed his inner turmoil.
He quickly dictated the final measurement to the tailor, his tone clipped. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s all,” the tailor replied hurriedly, his hands shaking as he packed his tools.
“Then leave,” Kennard commanded, thrusting the tape back at him.
The tailor fumbled to take it, nearly dropping it in his haste. Stuffing the measuring tape, ink bottle, pen, and notebook into his bag, he bowed repeatedly and scurried out of the room, the bag flapping open as he fled. Lassino followed to see him off.
Kennard turned sharply to Serin and Cura. “You two, leave as well.”
Serin sighed, already anticipating the dismissal. “It’s barely past noon,” he grumbled, though he didn’t argue further. Taking Cura by the wrist, he led her out of the room.
The door clicked shut, leaving silence in its wake.
Elena stood frozen, stiff and tense, as if afraid to move. Her wide eyes darted toward Kennard, her expression still hesitant. She seemed to think he was angry with her.
But when Kennard finally spoke, his low, husky voice shattered her composure.
“You’re driving me mad.”
Before she could respond, Kennard leaned in, closing the distance between them, his restraint finally slipping away.
