The Bride Of The Devil-Chapter 35: Cry For Love

Night had long since fallen, and the walls of the chamber were lit only by the soft flicker of candlelight. Lydia sat at the edge of her bed, wrapped in silence. Her fingers rested in her lap, unmoving. The soft rustle of fabric and the quiet footsteps of her maids filled the room, but she barely noticed.

Her thoughts were a mess.

One of the maids gently tapped her shoulder. "Your Highness, it’s time for your bath."

Lydia stood without a word, her limbs light, her head heavy. She moved like she was drifting — like her soul hadn’t caught up with her body. The bath water was warm, scented faintly with rose petals. Steam curled into the air as the maids began their usual routine, undressing her and guiding her into the tub. The heat embraced her skin, but her heart remained cold and confused.

As they began to scrub her arms and shoulders gently, one maid spoke up with a small smile. "His Highness joined you for dinner today. You must be happy, Your Highness."

Lydia blinked slowly, not responding.

Another maid giggled softly. "There’s something different about him lately. Did you notice? He didn’t seem so... intimidating."

Lydia still didn’t respond. She barely heard them. Her mind had wandered far away — back to the dining table, back to him.

She remembered how Ivan had sat across from her, quiet as always, but there was something in his silence that pulled at her. She remembered how his sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing the veins and shape of his forearms. The way his fingers curled around the silver fork, the slight tension in his knuckles. How his fingers grazed over the smooth fruit before he picked it up, how his lips had been slightly damp from wine. His tongue had darted out to wet them. It was a subtle motion, unintentional maybe, but it made her chest tighten.

She swallowed.

Her mind wandered further — to that night.

The night he touched her.

She could still feel it. The heat of his palm against her waist. The trail of kisses he left on her shoulder. The slow, deliberate way his mouth found her breast, sucking softly at first, then with more intent, more hunger. Her skin burned at the memory, tingled where his tongue had once traced circles. The way his hands had gripped her thighs and pulled her closer. How he had whispered nothing at all, yet said everything with the way he kissed her.

"Your Highness?"

Lydia blinked back to the present. One of the maids was gently patting her shoulder.

"We’ve finished. You may dress for the night."

She nodded quietly and stepped out of the tub, her body still warm but her thoughts colder than ever. She said nothing as they helped her into her cream-colored nightdress — soft and loose against her freshly bathed skin. Her long hair was damp, cascading down her back like gold silk.

She climbed into bed but knew sleep wouldn’t come. The maids whispered goodnight and left. The room was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Lydia lay on her side, facing the wall, her arms wrapped around her stomach. She pressed her thighs together, her breath catching. It was unbearable. The weight of the memory. The ache in her chest. The empty space beside her.

She closed her eyes tightly, wishing for something. Anything.

---

Meanwhile, in the east wing of the palace, Ivan lay flat on his bed, one arm behind his head as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

The candle by his bedside flickered in the silence.

He couldn’t sleep either.

He didn’t understand why his chest felt so heavy. Why her silence at dinner had left a strange hollow in him. He had wanted to speak. He had wanted to say something — anything — to ease the coldness between them. But nothing came out.

Just her eyes looking at him. And him, swallowing words he didn’t know how to say.

He exhaled sharply and turned onto his side. His mind kept going back — not to dinner, but to that night. The way she had shivered under him. The way her voice had sounded when she moaned his name. The feel of her skin beneath his mouth.

He shut his eyes tight and muttered to himself.

"What is this...?"

She turned slowly onto her back, her cream nightdress slipping over her skin like water. The fabric clung lightly to her body, damp from the steam of her bath, and soft as air. Her long legs stretched slightly under the covers, but her restlessness only deepened. She could feel the pulse of heat between them — not from the warm sheets or the summer night — but from inside her.

From deep within.

Lydia exhaled shakily, her lips parting. Her hand moved almost on its own, resting first on her chest — just over her heart — as if to calm it. But it only beat harder. She bit her lower lip and slid her palm down, over the swell of her breast, her fingers brushing lightly over the peak through the thin fabric.

A soft gasp escaped her.

Her nipple had hardened already. Sensitive, expectant. She rolled it between her fingers — slowly, gently — letting her head fall back against the pillows. Her other hand slid down to her thigh, fingers slipping under the hem of the nightdress. She dragged it up slowly, baring her legs inch by inch to the cool air.

Her skin prickled.

The memory of his touch overwhelmed her — the way his calloused fingers had started at her ankle, ghosting up her leg in slow, deliberate strokes. He hadn’t rushed. He had taken his time, as though savoring every inch of her. And she had let him — no, begged for it — breathless and aching beneath him.

Now, her own fingers traced that same path. She grazed the inside of her thigh, teasing herself the way he once had, until she trembled. She was soaked already. The thin fabric of her underwear clung to her folds, warm and wet with need.

She swallowed hard and whispered his name.

"Ivan..."

Her voice was soft, nearly a breath.

Her fingers dipped beneath the fabric, sliding slowly between her slick folds. Her thighs parted, knees bending slightly, hips shifting in search of more friction. She moaned — quiet and shaky — as her middle finger brushed against her clit. Her back arched slightly. Her legs tensed.

There.

She found the rhythm he’d used — slow, then firm. Teasing circles, then deep pressure. She matched it, guiding herself through the memory. Her body moved with it, hips lifting faintly, seeking more.

The nightdress had bunched around her waist now. Her skin was damp, her breath uneven. Her fingers moved faster, pressing deeper, circling again. Her nipple ached beneath her other hand, still being teased, still begging for attention.

In her mind, he was here. His mouth was on her chest, hot and hungry, sucking her skin as though he owned it. His hand between her thighs, stroking her so expertly she could barely breathe. His breath warm against her ear, his weight pinning her down. The sound of his low groans echoing in her mind, the feel of his teeth grazing her collarbone.

"Ivan... please..." she whispered again, breathless now.

Her thighs trembled as her fingers rubbed tighter circles, faster now, her body twisting in the sheets. Her core clenched. Her lips parted in a gasp that turned into a moan — soft, high-pitched, desperate. Her eyes fluttered closed.

She could feel herself rising — that tight coil pulling tighter and tighter.

And then — it snapped.

The wave washed over her, crashing through her in hot, pulsing tremors. Her legs shook. Her body arched. Her fingers froze in place as the heat burst through her core, overwhelming and relentless.

Her breath hitched and caught in her throat. A cry slipped from her lips. Her name. His name. Everything and nothing all at once.

She collapsed back onto the bed, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her fingers were still buried between her thighs, wet and trembling. The nightdress clung to her, twisted and damp.

She lay there in silence, the ache still humming beneath her skin. It wasn’t enough. Not really. No matter how many times she touched herself, no matter how vivid the memory, it could never compare.

It would never be the same as his hands. His mouth. His voice.

But it was all she had.

And for now, it would have to do.

Outside her chambers, Ivan stood still. The hallway was quiet, lit only by the dim glow of lanterns. His hand rested on her door handle. He had been pacing his room for hours, restless and haunted. He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

What was she doing now?

Was she sleeping? Was she thinking of him?

His jaw tightened. Every part of him ached to be near her. To hold her. To speak, even if just one word. His fingers curled slowly around the handle.

But he didn’t turn it.

Instead, a wave of doubt hit him, hard and cold. He could hear their voices in his head again. The whispers. The names they had called him all his life.

Monster.

The Devil.

A beast in human skin.

What right did he have to go in there? To reach for someone like her? Someone warm. Soft. Good.

He slowly pulled his hand away, fingers trembling slightly. His throat tightened. He didn’t deserve to see her. He didn’t deserve her kindness. Her tears. Her touch.

Quietly, he turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last.

Inside the room, Lydia lay curled up, the sheets twisted around her body. Her cheeks were wet. Her hands clutched the pillow against her chest, her heart aching.

She didn’t know why she felt so empty after. So hollow. She wanted him. Not just his hands. Not just his body. She needed him to see her, to come to her, to hold her. But he didn’t.

A soft sob escaped her lips, muffled by the pillow.

And just beyond the door, he had walked away.