The Bride Of The Devil

Chapter 30: Unnamed Emotions

Still, he said nothing. He didn’t come back to her. His steps slowed near the door, his hand pausing on the handle. Lydia sat upright, the sheet clutched to her chest, heart pounding.

"Ivan," she said, her voice soft, pleading.

He didn’t turn around.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Hollow. "This was a mistake."

Her breath hitched.

Before she could say anything else, he opened the door and left. Quietly. As if none of it had happened. As if she hadn’t moaned his name, hadn’t held him like she never wanted to let go.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And the ache that filled her chest was worse than any touch he’d denied her.

Lydia sank back into the bed slowly. The sheet twisted in her hands. Her skin still tingled where he had kissed her. Her heart was still racing—but now, for a different reason.

He left her.

Again.

Just like always.

She turned to his side of the bed. The pillow was still warm. She buried her face into it, breathing in the faint trace of him.

And then—her tears came. Quiet at first, then harder.

He had held her like she mattered. Kissed her like he couldn’t stop. But it meant nothing to him.

She knew it now.

---

Later that morning, Lydia tried to compose herself. Her eyes were still red, her throat sore from crying. But she dressed simply—no jewels, no heavy gown. Just a soft cream robe with a sash tied tightly around her waist.

She needed to see him. Even if it hurt.

The palace halls were quiet as she walked. A few servants passed her with lowered eyes. No one said a word. No one ever did.

They all feared him. Everyone did.

But she wasn’t afraid of Ivan.

She reached his chambers. The guards at the door looked uncertain, but one of them opened it for her after a pause.

Inside, Ivan stood by the hearth. Already dressed in black. His coat perfectly fastened, gloves in his hand. A portrait of control.

He looked at her once. No warmth. No trace of the man from last night.

She stepped in slowly. "Ivan..."

He didn’t move.

"About last night—" she began, but he cut her off without even turning.

"I warned you on our wedding night," he said. His voice was sharp, cold. "This marriage means nothing. Do not mistake what happened for anything more than a moment of weakness."

Lydia’s mouth parted slightly, the sting immediate. Her hands clenched at her sides.

"A moment of weakness?" she asked, barely able to get the words out. "You kissed me like you meant it. You touched me like—"

"I shouldn’t have," he interrupted. "It won’t happen again."

He turned from the fire, slipping his gloves on with calm, practiced movements. He still wouldn’t look at her.

She stepped closer. "Please, don’t do this."

"You would do well not to hope, Lydia," he said, finally meeting her eyes—and they were empty now. "You’re the Grand Duchess in name only. Nothing has changed."

Then he brushed past her like she wasn’t even there.

And left his own chambers.

---

Lydia didn’t move. She stood there, her heart breaking all over again. Then slowly, her legs carried her back to her chambers. She didn’t remember walking. Just the sound of her own breath and the pounding in her chest.

When the door shut behind her, she dropped to her knees. The robe slipped from her shoulder, but she didn’t care. Her hands gripped the edge of the bed as the tears fell again.

She had let herself believe. Just for one night.

And now she would pay the price.

Again.

The afternoon sun crept slowly through the curtains, but Lydia didn’t notice. She sat at her writing table, her back straight, her face pale. A single candle burned beside her even though it was still daylight.

Her diary lay open before her.

She didn’t know why she reached for it. Maybe because there was no one else to talk to. Maybe because if she didn’t write it down, the pain would eat her alive.

She dipped the pen into ink. Her hand trembled.

"He kissed me. It felt real. I thought... I thought maybe something changed. Maybe he was finally letting me in. I was wrong."

The ink smudged where a tear hit the page.

"He said it was a mistake. I wanted to scream. To beg. But I didn’t. I just watched him walk away. I hate myself for wanting him still. I hate this heart that can’t stop breaking."

She stopped. Her breath was shaky. She pressed the pen harder, the nib scratching against the page.

"What does he see when he looks at me? A burden? A duty? I thought maybe—just maybe—he saw a wife. Someone worth staying for."

Her hand stilled.

But there was nothing else to say.

She closed the diary and sat there in silence.

---

By evening, she still hadn’t eaten. Katherine came in with a tray of warm soup and bread, her eyes full of worry.

"Your Highness, please. Just a few bites."

Lydia sat curled on the chaise, her knees pulled to her chest, her head resting against the cushion. She didn’t look up.

"I’m not hungry."

Katherine tried again. "You’ll get sick."

"I don’t care."

Her voice was flat.

Katherine set the tray down and walked over, kneeling beside her. "He left for the capital early this morning. I heard the guards say he’s going to report about the rebels. He’ll be back in a few days."

Lydia didn’t answer. Her eyes stared blankly at the wall.

"I’ll leave this here," Katherine whispered. "Just in case."

But Lydia never touched the food.

She cried again that night.

Alone.

Until sleep finally dragged her under.

---

Far away, Ivan’s horse galloped across the snowy path toward the capital. The wind bit at his skin, but he barely felt it. His mind was elsewhere.

Her face.

Her voice.

The way she had looked at him that morning—like he had torn her apart.

He tightened his grip on the reins.

Damn it.

He tried to push her from his mind. He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. Safer. But every time he blinked, he saw her eyes. Red. Shiny. Crushed.

He cursed under his breath.

He shouldn’t have touched her. Shouldn’t have let his guard down.

It was a mistake.

But if it truly was a mistake... why did it hurt?

The road turned, and up ahead, he saw a familiar building. The small inn where they had spent the night after leaving the capital. On their way to Svetlana. After the wedding.

He slowed his horse.

His chest tightened.

He remembered it clearly. How she had sat near the window, too scared to lie next to him. He had been cold. Distant. Not a word of comfort.

And still—she had said nothing.

She just sat there all night, hugging her knees, watching the night sky through the window.

She had fallen asleep like that.

He had been the one who picked her up. Her body was freezing. He had laid her on the bed gently, covering her with the thick blanket. She hadn’t stirred.

That memory haunted him now.

He turned his face away from the inn and spurred the horse forward.

But he couldn’t outrun the ache in his chest.

He had done this to her.

And he hated himself for it.

---

The next morning, Ivan arrived at the palace and made his way straight to Czar Vladimir’s throne room. His footsteps echoed in the vast hall as he entered, his posture straight, his face as unreadable as ever.

"Report," Vladimir’s voice boomed as he glanced up from a pile of scrolls.

"Rebels at the border killed several soldiers. We need to tighten security immediately," Ivan said coldly, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Vladimir nodded, considering the news. "And how is your injury? Has it healed?"

Ivan’s eyes flickered briefly. "It has healed," he replied without hesitation.

The Czar gave a sigh of relief. "Good. Boris mentioned that the Grand Duchess was the one who treated you," he continued, his gaze softening slightly. "I was right to allow the two of you to marry. She’s proving to be more than just a wife in name."

Ivan stiffened, the words striking something deep inside him, but he said nothing. He remained silent, keeping his thoughts hidden behind a mask of indifference. The weight of his unspoken thoughts hung in the air for a moment, but he did not respond.

After a pause, Vladimir continued with his orders, and Ivan turned to leave the throne room.

---

On his way back, Ivan ran into Olga. She was standing by a pillar, arms crossed, her sharp eyes watching him closely.

"You’re here," she said, her voice laced with amusement. "But not with your bride." She paused, studying him for a moment before adding, "I heard it was her who treated your injury, despite your threats. Poor child, caring for a heartless devil like you. What exactly does she see in you?"

Ivan ignored her, his expression unreadable as he continued to walk past her without a word. Olga’s mocking voice followed him, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response.

---

Back in Svetlana, Lydia woke up feeling feverish. The thick blanket that covered her felt heavy, and her body ached. Her mind was foggy, but she could tell something was wrong. She had eaten nothing the previous day, only crying herself to sleep. Her throat felt dry, and her head was pounding.

She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt weak. She reached for the water beside her bed, but her hands trembled too much to grasp the cup. The pain in her chest seemed to multiply, and the thought of Ivan—of the way he had left her the night before—made her feel worse.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away. She couldn’t let herself break. Not like this.

---

At the capital, Ivan was about to leave the palace grounds when Leonid suddenly appeared, running toward him with a wide grin on his face.

"I made this for you!" Leonid called out, holding up a small bird whistle.

Ivan’s instinct was to push him away, but instead, he turned toward him and took the whistle. "I’m taking it just so you stop disturbing me," Ivan said, his voice as cold as ever. "Now, go away. You know your mother doesn’t want to see you near me."

Leonid smiled even wider. "Of course, brother," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

As Ivan mounted his horse, Leonid called out to him again. "You know, you look better now than before... without your mask."

Ivan froze for a moment. It took him a second to realize what Leonid meant. He wasn’t wearing his mask anymore.

A brief moment of hesitation flickered in Ivan’s eyes before he continued riding, the weight of Leonid’s words lingering in his mind.