The Bride Of The Devil
Chapter 97: The Morning Of Guilt

Chapter 97: The Morning Of Guilt

Ivan and Lydia lay together in the soft quiet of Ivan’s chambers. Morning light filtered through the snowy windows, casting a cold silver glow across the room. Outside, the snow was still falling gently, layering rooftops and tree branches like a slow, silent lullaby. But inside, the warmth of the fire hummed low and steady. The flames crackled now and then, casting soft shadows across the walls and ceiling. The scent of woodsmoke, pine, and something delicate—rosewater perhaps—hung gently in the air.

Ivan stirred first. He blinked slowly into the pale morning light, his body heavy with sleep, but his mind already reaching for the warmth beside him.

The first thing he saw was Lydia.

Her head rested gently on his chest, her dark hair spread over his skin like spilled ink. Her brows were slightly furrowed even in sleep. Her eyelashes were still damp, and her face was pale and tired. Her lips were parted just a little, her breath soft and steady. But her eyes had been red the night before, and even now, Ivan could still see the trace of sadness across her face.

He knew she must have cried—maybe because of the things he told her. Maybe because of the pain he had finally shared. But he had no idea Lydia had cried until she couldn’t anymore. Until her voice cracked. Until guilt and grief drowned her completely.

She had stayed by his side not because she was strong—but because she couldn’t bear to leave him alone in his most broken moment. She held him as he wept, kissed his tears, whispered comfort even as her own heart cracked in half. She had loved him the only way she could—with quietness, presence, and open arms. And when he finally fell asleep, she didn’t move. She stayed. Because leaving would’ve meant letting go—and she wasn’t ready to.

Ivan stared at her quietly, feeling something tighten deep inside his chest. There was a stillness in the way she slept, a fragile silence that made him want to protect her forever. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead gently, as if afraid even that might wake her.

But her eyes fluttered open anyway.

She blinked, slow and groggy, then met his gaze. Her voice was hushed. "Good morning."

He smiled softly. "Good morning."

He pulled her close again, his arms wrapping around her like a blanket. He kissed her again on the forehead, lingering for a moment longer this time.

But Lydia was tense. Her body was stiff. Her heart was beating too fast, her thoughts too loud. Her stomach churned with guilt, fear, and something deeper—something she couldn’t name.

She sat up slowly, brushing strands of hair from her face, trying to collect herself.

Ivan watched her, concern immediately rising behind his calm eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently.

She nodded too quickly. "Just tired," she said, avoiding his gaze.

But he could see it in her eyes—she wasn’t okay. Not really. Something was wrong, and he could feel it like a shift in the wind. But he didn’t push. He just reached out, cupped her cheek, and kissed her—slowly, tenderly. Like he was telling her she didn’t have to be strong right now.

Then the door opened.

It was Boris.

He froze mid-step.

Ivan and Lydia were still close—too close—and Boris had walked in just as Ivan’s hand lingered on her cheek, their lips barely parting.

For a split second, all three stood frozen. The air tensed. Boris’s eyes widened slightly, his expression stuck somewhere between shock and discomfort. The sight of them—so intimate, so real—caught him completely off guard. His ears turned bright red.

"Forgive the intrusion, Your Highness," Boris said quickly, voice pitched awkwardly.

Lydia jumped like she’d been burned. Her cheeks turned scarlet, and she immediately pulled the blanket closer around herself, mumbling something about needing to leave.

Boris blinked and looked away, clearly startled and unsure where to look. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly regretting not knocking harder.

Ivan exhaled and gave Lydia a small, reassuring smile. "Make sure you rest well, alright? And eat something."

She nodded quickly, her eyes wide with embarrassment, and practically fled the room.

Ivan watched her go, still smiling faintly—but Boris stood stiff as a board, still trying to compose himself.

"I didn’t realize you were—" Boris began, then stopped himself. "That is—I—Forgive me. I shouldn’t have—"

Ivan raised an eyebrow, his tone flat. "Do you know how to knock?"

Boris lowered his head. "Yes, Your Highness. I... it’s urgent. It’s about the prisoner. Ruslan’s man."

Outside, Lydia walked as fast as she could through the quiet halls, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. The blush still burned her face. But the moment she reached her chambers, it wasn’t embarrassment that greeted her.

It was guilt. The moment her hand touched the door, it all came back.

And standing there was Katherine, waiting.

She wore a floor-length green gown with fitted sleeves and delicate gold embroidery at the collar. Her hair was pinned up in her usual tight bun, though a few wisps had escaped and curled against her cheeks. Her eyes, however, were sharp with concern.

"Where were you, Your Highness?" she asked gently. "I was worried."

Lydia didn’t meet her gaze. Her voice was cold. "I’m fine. I don’t need your worry."

She stepped past her and into the room.

Katherine followed behind slowly. "Did I do something wrong?"

Lydia said nothing. She stood near the bed, her shoulders tight.

"Are you alright?" Katherine asked again, softer this time.

"I’m just tired," Lydia replied flatly. "That’s all."

Katherine looked at her for a long moment before giving a small nod. "I’ll have the maids prepare your bath and breakfast."

Lydia nodded once, her back still turned.

Katherine lingered just a moment longer, then quietly stepped out. Her green dress whispered against the floor as she closed the door behind her.

—

Meanwhile, Ivan walked with Boris down to the dungeons.

The farther they went, the colder the air became—sharper and heavier with the scent of damp stone and rusted chains. Torches lined the narrow walls, their flames flickering wildly as they passed.

Anatoly sat slumped in the darkest corner of the cell, his wrists raw from the cuffs, his shirt stained with blood and sweat. His face was bruised and his eyes half-shut. He barely looked human anymore—more shadow than man.

When he saw Ivan, his eyes opened slightly. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

He knew Ruslan was dead.

Ivan stepped forward slowly, the iron door groaning as it opened wider.

His voice was calm, too calm. "Tell me what Ruslan was doing in Zolotaria. Tell me his plans. In return, I’ll give you your freedom. Or you can rot here in chains for the rest of your life—for the lives you took, and for the attempt on the Grand Duchess."

There was a long pause.

Anatoly lifted his head, and his voice came out like a rasp. "I’d rather die than be a rat. I suggest you kill me Your Highness and stop wasting your time ."

Ivan stared at him for several seconds in silence. His eyes were cold. Then he turned away.

"Let’s go," he said to Boris.

As they walked back up the stone stairs, Boris finally spoke. "He hasn’t said a word since we brought him in."

Ivan glanced at him. "We?"

Boris nodded. "Yes, Your Highness. Her Highness brought him in herself. I only helped move him to the dungeon."

Ivan stopped walking. His face tightened. "Lydia?"

Boris nodded again. "Yes. She caught him. Handled him alone."

Ivan said nothing. He didn’t show a single expression. He just kept walking, faster this time.

—

Back in her room, Lydia sat on her bed, biting her nails. She had bathed and eaten, but nothing helped. Her stomach churned. Her chest ached. The silence was deafening.

She reached for her diary. Her hands were shaking. She opened it and began to write.

She wrote about the deal with the Queen. About the secret she had kept. About the fear that if Ivan ever found out, he would never look at her the same again.

The shame nearly swallowed her.

She tore the page, crumpled it in her palm, and threw it across the room.

Then she wrote again.

She wrote about how much she loved him. How afraid she was. How unworthy she felt. How heavy her guilt had become.

When she was done, she closed the book and hugged it to her chest.

And cried.

After a long time, she stood. She wiped her tears. Tucked the diary into her chest drawer. And left.

Minutes later, the door to her chambers opened again.

A woman entered, dressed in green.

She looked around slowly, carefully, then spotted the crumpled page.

She picked it up, smoothed it out, read every word.

Then she folded it neatly and slipped it into her sleeve.

And left with it.