The Bride Of The Devil-Chapter 61: The Devil Returns Home

Ivan’s lips brushed against Lydia’s neck, soft and warm, like a whisper. Each kiss sent a shiver down her spine. He didn’t rush. He kissed her gently, moving lower, following the curve of her neck down to her back, slowly tracing each line of her spine with his lips until he reached her waist.

She could feel his hands around her, holding her waist, strong but careful, like he was afraid of hurting her. Her skin tingled where he touched. Her breath was shaky. She felt like she was melting under his hands. But just as she started to lean into him, just as her body softened under his touch, he stopped.

He let go.

Lydia blinked, confused. Her heart was beating so fast, her hands trembling, but suddenly, the warmth of him pulled away. She turned around quickly and looked at his face.

His expression startled her.

Ivan’s eyes were distant. His jaw clenched. His face looked like he was at war with himself, like he wanted her—but was forcing himself not to want her. She saw pain written all over him. Not anger. Not coldness. But pain. He looked like a man punishing himself.

"Ivan..." she said softly, her voice barely a whisper.

But he didn’t answer.

He moved back slowly and walked back to the bed. Then he lay down and pulled the blanket over his body, turning away from her.

Her heart dropped.

Something inside her cracked a little. She stood there for a moment, bare in the silence, unsure of what to do. Maybe she should’ve said something. Maybe she should’ve told him she wasn’t scared. That she wasn’t afraid of him. That the fainting wasn’t because of him—it was just too much, everything all at once. Maybe if she had spoken, he wouldn’t be hurting now.

But it was too late.

She quietly picked up her nightdress and put it on. As she changed, she noticed him slowly turning to look at her. His eyes followed her movements, quiet, unreadable. Lydia didn’t say anything. She didn’t know what to say. After changing, she walked to the bed and lay down beside him, but she kept some distance between them.

Still, her body faced his. She lay on her side, eyes on his back, hoping maybe he’d turn to her again. Hoping maybe he’d say something. But nothing came. Only silence.

Eventually, sleep took them both.

---

Morning sunlight peeked through the curtains. Lydia stirred first, her eyes still heavy. She felt warmth next to her. A familiar warmth. Then she realized—her head was on Ivan’s chest. One of his arms was wrapped around her. Her leg was over his.

They were tangled in each other.

And the strange part? It felt peaceful.

But as soon as he opened his eyes and noticed, they both quickly pulled away from each other. Lydia sat up quickly, brushing her hair back nervously. Ivan cleared his throat, his face stiff as always, and got out of bed.

Neither said a word.

They got dressed quietly, the air between them thick with unspoken words and unshed emotions. The same painful silence that always seemed to follow them returned.

They left the inn and entered the carriage, beginning their journey back to the capital.

Ivan sat across from Lydia, like always. She pulled out a book and began to read, though her eyes weren’t really following the words. She just wanted to look like she wasn’t thinking too much. But she was. Her mind was loud. Her heart was louder.

He didn’t look at her once.

She kept reading, pretending she didn’t care. But after some time, the movement of the carriage made her sleepy. Her head started to drop slightly with every bump in the road. Eventually, she couldn’t fight the sleep anymore. Her eyes closed. freewebnσvel.cøm

Her head leaned to the side, but it kept slipping.

Ivan looked at her. Watched her struggle in her sleep. Then, quietly, he leaned forward. His hands moved gently. He reached out and adjusted her head, letting it rest more comfortably against the cushion by the window.

He stared at her sleeping face for a moment.

Then he leaned out and tapped the front of the carriage. "Be careful," he told the rider in a calm but firm voice.

Then he leaned back in, resting his head against the wall, looking out of the window, the quiet ache in his chest growing stronger.

---

By the time they arrived at the capital, the sky had started turning orange. The sun was setting behind the tall roofs of the city. The carriage rolled through the streets slowly.

As soon as people saw the logo on the side of the carriage, they froze.

Children stopped playing. Women carrying baskets paused in the middle of their steps. A man pulling his cart stepped to the side quickly. Whispers spread like wildfire. Some people lowered their heads. Others hid behind wooden stalls and buildings.

Everyone recognized the crest.

Everyone knew who it belonged to.

The devil had returned.

---

In a quiet, smoky tavern on one side of town, a scarred man sat alone, eating a plate of boiled meat and bread. His face was partly hidden under a hood, and long scars ran across his cheeks and neck. He ate slowly, silently, minding his own business.

But as the royal carriage passed by outside, everyone inside the tavern stopped talking. The atmosphere shifted.

Some men stood and peered outside. Then came the whispers.

"Why is he back?"

"Maybe he’s here for what he did. Maybe the Czar will finally remove him."

"Remove him?" another man scoffed. "The Czar is scared of him. The whole royal family is. That man’s a demon. Ivan Romanov."

At that name, the scarred man’s cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the wooden floor.

His hands began to shake.

His eyes widened with terror. His mind drifted—back to a burning room. Screams. The smell of fire and blood. He remembered the pain. The flames climbing his body. And a young boy standing before him.

Ivan.

Only sixteen.

Watching him burn.

The man’s breathing turned heavy. His hand moved to his face, gently tracing the scars on his skin. He was still there—in the fire. He could still feel it.

The two drunk men kept talking.

"The one I pity is the Grand Duchess," one of them said, shaking his head.

"The poor girl fainted when it happened. Poor thing. Her parents died in front of her, and now the Czar made her marry a monster."

"Yeah," the other agreed. "That Andreyevna girl. That’s her name, right?"

Suddenly, the scarred man snapped back to the present. He shot up from his seat, knocking the table over. Plates crashed. The tavern turned silent.

He stumbled forward, eyes wild, and grabbed one of the drunk men by the collar.

"Repeat what you said," he demanded.

The man was confused and terrified. "Wh-what?"

"Repeat what you just said!" he shouted. "The girl. What did you call her?"

"The... the Grand Duchess?" the man stammered, struggling in his grip.

"No!" the scarred man barked. "Her name. What’s her name?"

The drunk man’s lips trembled. "L-Lydia. Lydia Andreyevna..."

The scarred man let go.

He took a step back, then laughed bitterly, but there was no joy in his laugh. Only pain. Only hate.

His eyes darkened as he whispered to himself.

"Looks like the heavens are on my side..."

His fists clenched.

"Two birds... one stone."

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