The Bride Of The Devil-Chapter 22: Even The Devil Waits

"Your Highness."

The voice came like a tap on Lydia’s mind, pulling her back from the deep, dark hole of thoughts she’d sunk into. It was Katherine, standing by the bath with a towel in hand.

"Your Highness?!"

"Your Highness?!"

Lydia blinked.

Katherine tilted her head. "Are you alright?"

She realized she was still sitting in the bath, her arms hugging her knees, the water gone cold around her. The warmth had faded long ago, but she hadn’t noticed. Her mind was still stuck in the words from earlier.

The blood.

The screams.

A sixteen-year-old boy.

A scar.

A monster.

"I’m fine," Lydia said softly, though her voice barely sounded like her own.

The maids came to help her out of the tub. Her limbs felt heavy, as if the water had soaked into her bones. She let them wrap her in towels and pat her dry. Her eyes were blank, staring off at nothing.

When they brought the dress, she just stood still, letting them lift her arms and button her sleeves. Katherine offered her a tray of warm bread and tea, something sweet too—strawberry preserves. Lydia took it in her hands but didn’t eat.

She sat in front of the mirror as they brushed her hair. Her fingers stayed wrapped around the cup. She hadn’t taken a single sip.

The tea had gone cold too.

"Your Highness," one of the maids said carefully. "You didn’t touch your breakfast. Do you want something else?"

Lydia shook her head.

Her stomach felt like stone. How could she eat when all she could think about was what Katherine said? What she showed?

He couldn’t have. No one could do that.

Not at sixteen.

But the way Katherine said it... the scar on her leg... the look in her eyes...

"Maybe he had a reason," Lydia whispered to herself without realizing.

The maids looked at one another but said nothing.

The rest of the day dragged by like a storm cloud that refused to burst. Lydia didn’t leave her room. She didn’t write. She didn’t speak. When it was time for lunch, she sat at the table and stared at the food. A piece of bread. Some soup. Nothing touched.

She heard her own voice from yesterday echoing in her head:

"I’ll come back. I’ll come every day. I don’t care if you try to kill me or not."

But now, just hours later, she was too scared to even walk to his door.

Evening came. The sun dipped low, painting the sky a dull orange. Lydia sat on her bed, her legs pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the door.

She didn’t move.

---

In Ivan’s chambers, the candle by his bedside burned low. He had been awake all day, eyes half-closed, resting his head back against the pillow.

He hadn’t realized he was waiting until the knock never came.

When a soft knock finally echoed on the door, he jerked up—too fast.

His breath caught. "Come in."

The door creaked open and a servant stepped inside, head bowed low and eyes wide with fear.

Ivan’s face hardened. "What?"

The servant stammered, "F-forgive me, Your Highness. The blacksmith is requesting your approval to repair the eastern gates. He says the damage is spreading."

Ivan didn’t answer for a moment. His eyes flickered to the empty doorway behind the servant.

"I’ll sign the order in the morning," he muttered.

"Yes, Your Highness." The servant bowed and fled.

The door closed again. Silence returned.

Ivan stared at the door.

"Why was I even waiting?" he said out loud, to no one. "She said she would come. She didn’t."

He let out a soft scoff.

"Of course she didn’t."

---

The next morning...

Lydia woke up with a jolt.

The sunlight poured into her room, warm and yellow. It hit her face through the thin curtains.

Her heart sank.

She had fallen asleep. She hadn’t gone.

Her promise. She broke it.

She sat up quickly, brushing her tangled hair behind her ears. Her heart pounded, not from guilt alone—but from fear too.

Would he be angry?

Would he say anything?

Would he... do anything?

She took a few breaths, then stood, dressing quickly with the help of the maids. She didn’t speak. She didn’t eat. She just walked.

Her steps slowed when she reached his door. For a moment, she just stood there, hand hovering over the knob, her palm sweating.

Then she knocked.

"Who is it?" came his voice.

She cleared her throat. "It’s Lydia."

Silence.

Then, "Come in."

She stepped inside.

He was awake, lying back, arms crossed loosely on his chest. His face was unreadable. The bandage across his chest had started to loosen.

Without saying anything, Lydia walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. She gently reached for his arm and helped him sit up.

He didn’t resist.

She began to change the dressing, her hands trembling just a little.

Still, she avoided his eyes.

He watched her quietly.

"You didn’t come last night," he said suddenly.

She paused.

Then, slowly, she turned and looked straight at him. Her eyes were wide, a little tired, but honest.

"I fell asleep," she said. "I was tired. I’m sorry."

He blinked once. "Did you think I was waiting?"

She didn’t answer.

He added, "I wasn’t."

Still, she said nothing.

When she was done, she gently helped him lie back down. As she leaned forward, a few strands of her hair fell loose across her face.

He reached up, almost without thinking, and tucked them behind her ear.

Her breath caught.

Not from fear—but something else.

She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears.

"You’re done," he said suddenly. "You can leave."

She hesitated. "Okay."

But she didn’t move right away.

"Is there something else?" he asked.

"No," she said quickly.

She stood and walked toward the door, leaving without looking back.

---

Back in her room, Lydia sat down on the edge of her bed.

Her fingers played with the hem of her sleeve.

"Could he really have done those things?" she whispered to herself.

The look in his eyes... it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t cruel. It was sad.

Even that night, when he had a nightmare, he sounded scared.

Not like a monster. Not like someone with no heart.

"What happened to him?" she whispered again. "What broke him?"

---

In Ivan’s room, he sat up slightly, staring at his fingers.

He hadn’t meant to touch her hair.

Why had he done that?

Why did he find himself waiting?

He scoffed softly.

"She’s just a girl," he muttered. "She’s nothing."

But still, his eyes flicked to the door.

And stayed there.