The Bride Of The Devil-Chapter 56: The Shadows In The Snow

The wind outside was howling gently, blowing soft flakes of snow against the windows. The fire in the corner of the room had died down into a warm orange glow, casting a faint light over the walls. But Ivan didn’t move from his spot.

Lydia was still in his arms.

She was quiet now, but her soft cries could still be heard every few seconds. She was clinging to him tightly, her arms wrapped around his waist, her head resting against his chest. Ivan had one hand gently stroking her back and the other resting protectively around her shoulders. He held her like something fragile—like something he was afraid to break any more than he already had.

After a long silence, her voice finally came, so small and broken that it made his heart twist.

"I thought I could forget it..." she whispered, her voice shaking. "But I can’t."

Her grip around him tightened. Her whole body was trembling as she spoke.

"It’s always there. Every time I close my eyes... it’s like I’m back there. I see everything again. I feel everything again. The fear, the pain... everything."

She took a shaky breath and continued, tears falling down her cheeks again.

"I just want to forget. I just want to forget everything."

Ivan didn’t say a word. His throat was tight. There were so many things he wanted to say—so many apologies, so many regrets—but none of them would help. None of them could take away her pain. So he stayed quiet, gently patting her back, comforting her the only way he knew how.

Inside, he was silently blaming himself.

He had opened a wound that was still bleeding. He had brought back memories she was trying to bury. And now she was hurting all over again... because of him.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t find the right words. Even "I’m sorry" felt too small, too weak. He hated himself in that moment—for being the cause of her pain, for being the reason she was crying like this.

But he didn’t let go.

He held her tighter, his hand moving up and down her back slowly, trying to calm her. He could feel her tears soaking into his shirt, feel her chest rising and falling unevenly as she tried to breathe.

Minutes passed.

Her crying slowed. Her body slowly began to relax in his arms. Her hands, once clutching him tightly, softened their grip. Her breathing became softer, steadier.

She had fallen asleep.

Ivan looked down at her. Her face was peaceful, but not completely. Her eyebrows were still drawn slightly together, like she was still afraid even in her dreams. Her lips moved slightly, whispering something too quiet to understand.

He gently brushed her hair away from her face and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.

His voice came out low and quiet. It cracked halfway through.

"I’m really sorry for what I did to you..."

He paused, his eyes full of pain.

"Please... don’t forgive me. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve you."

He sat there for a long time, just watching her sleep. The firelight flickered across her face, making her skin glow softly. She looked so vulnerable, so fragile. He wanted to protect her, to take her pain away—but he also knew that he had caused so much of it.

Carefully, he shifted, trying to move without waking her. He thought maybe he should go.

But then—she whimpered.

"Please... don’t leave me."

His heart stopped.

She had said it in her sleep, but the words were so full of fear and sadness that they shattered something inside him.

He couldn’t leave.

He laid back down beside her, pulling the blanket over both of them. He wrapped his arms around her again, holding her gently but firmly. He kissed her forehead softly, letting his lips linger there a little longer than he meant to.

His voice came out like a promise to himself.

"Just this once," he whispered. "Let me stay. Just for tonight."

---

Back in the capital, the night was still and cold. Snowflakes fell slowly, covering the rooftops and streets in white. The city was quiet. Most people were asleep, wrapped in their blankets, their windows shut tight against the cold.

But sleep did not come to Olga.

She sat by her window, wrapped in a deep blue robe. Her long, wavy hair hung loose around her shoulders. She didn’t look tired. She didn’t even blink. She just stared out at the snow, watching it fall silently under the moonlight.

Not a single word left her lips.

The room around her was dim, the fireplace behind her glowing faintly. Shadows danced along the walls, but Olga didn’t move.

Then—there was a flutter of wings.

A black bird appeared in the distance, flying through the snow like a silent shadow. It flew straight toward her window.

She didn’t even flinch.

She extended her hand, and the bird landed gracefully on her arm. It was cold, its feathers lightly dusted with snow.

A small smirk formed on Olga’s lips.

She stroked the bird gently.

Then, a knock came on her chamber door.

"Enter," she said calmly.

The door opened, and the Grand Chamberlain stepped inside. His eyes were alert, his face tense.

"Your Grace," he said quickly. "What did it say?"

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she handed him the bird and untied the tiny note from its leg. Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately. She opened the note and read it quietly.

The message was simple.

Our plan is in action.

Olga smiled.

Without saying a word, she walked to the iron fireplace at the side of the room. The flames were low but steady. She looked at the letter one more time, then dropped it into the fire.

It crackled and burned to ash within seconds.

She turned to the Grand Chamberlain. Her expression calm, but her eyes sharp.

"It’s going faster than planned," she said softly. "Soon. Just very soon."

---

At the Andreyevna estate, the house was quiet.

Everyone was asleep.

The halls were dark. The only sound was the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the main corridor and the distant wind howling outside.

But one man was still awake.

Alexander sat in his study, a single candle burning beside him. His desk was cluttered with papers, maps, and ink. His coat was draped over his chair, and his sleeves were rolled up. He had been working for hours—signing, reading, stamping.

He didn’t notice how late it was until his hand began to cramp.

He looked at the clock and sighed.

Rubbing his eyes, he stood up and decided it was time to sleep.

He walked through the halls, passing the warm rooms of his children. He stopped at each door, opening them gently and checking inside.

Pyotr was curled up in bed, snoring softly with a stuffed bear tucked under his arm.

Mikhail was spread out like a starfish, mouth open.

Anya and Elena were fast asleep, cuddled close together.

Alexander smiled faintly at the sight.

Then he walked to his own room.

The room was cold. A breeze had pushed the window slightly open. Snowflakes drifted in, landing quietly on the floor.

He walked over to shut it.

But when he looked out—

He saw him.

A man standing in the snow, wearing a long dark cloak. His face was partly hidden by the shadows. But the scars... those terrible scars... were unmistakable.

Even after all these years, Alexander remembered.

His blood ran cold.

His hands began to tremble.

The scarred man was back.

And he was watching.

The snow kept falling.

But for Alexander, it felt like the world had just frozen.

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