The Bride Of The Devil-Chapter 39: When The Devil Worships You

The silence in the room had settled like dust. For a while, Lydia remained there, curled into herself on the edge of the bed, staring out at nothing. Her eyes were dry now. The ache in her chest hadn’t gone, but it had dulled into something quieter... something she could hold without falling apart.

She let out a small breath and whispered to no one, "I have to let go."

Her voice sounded foreign. Hollow, but certain. She slowly stood, brushing her hair away from her face, then reached for the bell on the side table and rang it gently.

Within moments, her maid came in with careful steps, as if unsure what state she’d find her in. But Lydia only gave a small nod.

"Help me get dressed," she said softly. "I want to take a walk."

Her maids didn’t ask questions. They moved quietly helping her bathe, then, bringing out a soft blue day dress and brushing out her hair. They tied the delicate ribbons at her back and buttoned her sleeves, and all the while, Lydia stood still, her gaze distant.

She had to move forward. Even if it hurt. Even if she didn’t understand him.

Once she was ready, Lydia stepped out into the hall. The manor felt different today — quieter, though she couldn’t tell if that was real or just her imagination. Her footsteps echoed lightly on the polished floor as she made her way toward the library. A familiar place. A safe place.

But something caught her eye.

The door to the lounge was slightly ajar.

She hadn’t noticed it before. Something tugged at her — something small and unexplainable — and her feet shifted direction on their own. She reached for the door and pushed it open slowly.

No one was there.

The room was still, soft light filtering through the windows. And on the polished piano, a single sheet of music sat propped up. A handwritten composition, the ink slightly faded. She stepped closer.

Just one page.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the paper, heart stirring strangely. The notes looked intricate, delicate, but something about them felt... warm. Familiar. Like they had a voice of their own.

She remembered what Boris had said earlier in passing — that Ivan had left a gift for her somewhere.

Could this be it?

She sat down carefully, her fingers hovering over the keys. Then, with a slow breath, she began to play. The melody was difficult, but her hands moved with careful memory — years of practice with her mother guiding her fingertips.

The notes danced softly through the room, wrapping around her like something from a dream.

**

Ivan leaned back in his chair, eyes tired from scanning endless reports. His study was quiet now. He’d sent everyone away, wanting just a moment of peace.

But then—

He heard it.

A melody, faint but unmistakable, drifting through the halls.

He froze.

He knew that song.

His breath caught, heart clenching in his chest. Slowly, like something pulling him forward, he stood up and walked out of the room. His steps quickened as he followed the sound.

And when he reached the lounge and opened the door—

He stopped cold.

Lydia sat at the piano, playing the piece with soft, haunting grace. For a moment, it was like looking at a ghost.

She turned quickly when she heard the door. Her fingers slipped from the keys, startled.

"I’m sorry," she said quietly, standing up. "Boris told me there was a gift here for me. I saw the music and thought it was... I didn’t know it was yours."

Her voice trembled with guilt.

Ivan didn’t speak for a moment. He only stared at the piano, then slowly walked toward it.

"Who gave this to you?" he asked, voice low.

"I... no one. I just found it here."

He looked at her, something unreadable in his expression.

"That song," he said after a long pause, "was written by my mother."

Her eyes widened. "Your mother?"

"She taught me to play," he said quietly. "This... this was the last thing she composed before she died."

Lydia felt something twist inside her. She remembered, vaguely, someone mentioning Ivan’s mother had passed when he was still young.

She stepped back, regret heavy in her voice. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—"

"Wait," he said, gently stopping her with a hand at her wrist. "Stay. Please."

She looked up at him.

His eyes weren’t cold. They were... sad. Almost fragile in a way she hadn’t seen before.

He sat beside her at the piano, his hands resting on his lap.

"Can you teach me?" he asked, quietly. "I’ve forgotten how to play it."

Lydia hesitated. Then nodded.

She reached out, guiding his hands slowly to the right positions, her fingers brushing against his. The air between them grew still, filled only by the soft sound of their breaths and the faint notes she played to lead him.

Their hands kept meeting. She corrected his movements gently. Her voice was soft when she spoke.

And then... she looked up.

He was already staring at her.

Not coldly. Not angrily.

Just... looking.

There was sadness in his eyes. And something else. Something deeper, heavier.

Lydia’s heart skipped.

She didn’t understand it. Why he looked so lost. Why she suddenly wanted to hold him. Why her own breath had started to catch in her throat.

"I was taught by my mother too," she said nervously, trying to fill the silence. "So... don’t worry. It’s not that hard. You’ll remember."

He didn’t answer. His hand gently closed around hers — not to guide, not to correct, but to hold.

She looked at their hands.

Then at his face.

"Why..." she whispered, almost afraid to speak, "why do you look so sad?"

His gaze dropped to her lips. His voice came quiet and strained, like something breaking inside him.

"Why can’t I stop myself from wanting you?"

She froze.

The next second, his hand reached for her cheek, brushing gently along her skin, tracing the curve of her face with trembling fingers. He leaned in slowly — and then, he kissed her.

Softly.

Tenderly.

She didn’t pull away.

Her lips answered his, quietly at first, then with a growing need that bloomed between them. His hands moved to cradle her face, then down to her neck, tracing her skin with aching slowness.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, then her jaw. Her breath caught.

She gasped as his lips trailed down to her neck, soft and hot against her pulse. His fingers slipped around her waist, drawing her closer as he kissed her collarbone, open-mouthed and hungry but still gentle, as if he couldn’t bear to hurt her.

Her hands reached for him, finding his chest, his shoulders, anything to ground herself.

Then she felt him move lower, his mouth brushing over the top of her chest.

He kissed the curve of her breast through her dress, then pulled it aside with care. His lips closed around her nipple, his tongue circling it slowly as she let out a sharp moan, her back arching.

"Ivan..." she whispered, eyes fluttering.

He lifted his head, only to kiss her again, lips warm and desperate.

Then he moved lower, down her stomach, past the edge of her dress.

He knelt before her.

His hands lifted the hem of her gown, inch by inch, until it pooled around her thighs. She trembled as he reached for her underwear, pulling it down gently, reverently, like it meant something.

And then—

His mouth found her.

Her breath caught in her throat, her hips lifting slightly as his tongue slipped between her folds. Slow, careful, deliberate. He tasted her like he was starving, holding her thighs with both hands to keep her from slipping away.

Her moans filled the room, soft and broken. freewёbnoνel.com

"Ivan..."

He looked up at her briefly, eyes dark and glassy with emotion — and then buried his face deeper between her legs, sucking gently on her clit, letting her ride the edge again and again, until her body shook from the pleasure.

When she finally came, her hands were in his hair, fingers tangled, mouth open in a quiet cry.

He rose back up, kissing her lips again — tasting her, tasting everything.

His lips lingered on hers—tasting, drinking, as if he needed her breath to breathe.

Lydia’s hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, clutching at the only thing that felt real. Her chest still heaved with the fading tremors of her release, her cheeks flushed, her lashes heavy. Yet he didn’t stop. His touch only softened, and his eyes searched hers—not for answers, but for permission.

Then, without a word, he drew back slightly.

His hand moved to the laces at the back of her corset.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t stop him.

He paused—just for a moment—as if asking her again in silence.

Then slowly, he began to unlace her. One string at a time. Each pull was gentle, careful, until the fabric loosened around her. He helped her out of the stays with unhurried hands, revealing the slope of her back, the curve of her spine.

She was still half-naked beneath the dress—bare from the waist down, the soft fabric of her corset slipping off her shoulders. She turned away slightly, not to hide but to breathe. To let herself feel the air, the quiet between them.

Ivan leaned in.

His lips brushed her neck again.

But this time, he didn’t stop.

He kissed her shoulder, then lower—each kiss a slow descent down her spine. From the nape of her neck to the dip just above her waist, his mouth left soft, worshipful touches, reverent as if in prayer.

Lydia shivered, her breath catching. Her fingers gripped the edge of the nearby settee, steadying herself.

He guided her there.

Gently, Ivan took her hand and helped her sit down, her bare skin pressed against the velvet upholstery. She looked up at him, lips parted, and this time—without a word—her fingers reached for him.

He let her.

She touched the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, the fabric parting slowly beneath her trembling hands.

He stood still.

No tension. No shame.

She had seen his scars before. But now, she let herself trace them. The healed lines across his ribs, the rougher skin near his shoulder, and the long faded wound that curved beneath his collarbone.

She didn’t ask how.

She didn’t need to.

Her fingers moved with aching softness, memorizing what had once been hidden from the world. Her touch trembled, but she didn’t pull back. She placed her palm flat against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart.

Steady. Warm. Human.

Ivan caught her hand.

He brought it to his lips and kissed her fingers—each one, one after the other. Then he released her.

She didn’t stop.

She rose slightly, leaning forward. Her mouth found his neck, kissing slowly, open-mouthed and hot against his skin. She kissed him there again, feeling his pulse jump beneath her lips.

Then she moved behind his ear, letting her breath graze him as she pressed another kiss there.

His breath hitched.

His hands came to her thighs again, pulling her gently into him as he knelt before her once more, but this time not for worship—just closeness. Their bodies touched—skin to skin, heat meeting heat. He pressed his forehead to hers, his arms wrapped around her waist.

Still, they didn’t speak.

They only breathed together.

Held each other in the silence that wrapped around them like dusk.

And in that moment, there was no war between them. No walls. No pain.

Only skin. And warmth. And the quiet ache of something that felt dangerously close to love.