CHAPTER 118: BREATHE

Ivan held Lydia in his arms like she was made of glass. Her body was cold, her skin pale, and her lips slightly parted. Blood covered her gown and streaked across her cheeks, but it wasn’t hers. He checked her body gently, carefully pushing back her hair and brushing his fingers over her arms and legs.

There were no wounds. No deep cuts. Just bruises—on her ankles, her calves, and her wrists. Scratches too, from branches and leaves, probably from running through the forest barefoot or falling. Her dress was torn, her shoes gone, but she was alive. That was all that mattered to him now. She was breathing.

He pulled her closer, burying his face into the curve of her neck. He could still feel the cold in her fingers, so he held them gently in his palms, warming them with his breath.

"Lydia," he whispered, his voice trembling. "You’re safe now. I’ve got you, I’ve got you."

He kissed her temple, then her cheek. His lips were soft against her cold skin. He didn’t care that she wasn’t awake. He didn’t care that she couldn’t hear him. He just needed to hold her, to feel her heartbeat against his chest, to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

His eyes were wet. He wasn’t sobbing loudly, but tears slid down his cheeks without him even noticing. Relief and pain mixed so tightly in his chest that it hurt to breathe.

That was when Nikolai arrived with the soldiers. Their boots crushed the leaves behind them as they stepped out of the woods. Nikolai froze the moment he saw Ivan, and then his eyes dropped to Lydia. She was limp in Ivan’s arms, and her clothes were soaked in blood.

"Is she—" Nikolai’s voice broke.

Ivan looked up. "She’s okay. It’s not her blood."

Nikolai’s shoulders dropped slightly, but the tension didn’t leave his face. "Then whose blood is it?"

"I don’t know," Ivan said quietly. "I’ll go find out."

Nikolai nodded. "In the meantime, Your Highness... you should return to the palace. She needs warmth. Rest."

Ivan said nothing else. He just nodded and mounted his horse with Lydia held close against his chest. Her head rested on his shoulder, and he made sure her hair shielded her face from the cold air. All through the ride, he kept whispering to her, his fingers gently brushing her back.

"I’m here now. Nothing can hurt you. You did good, my love. You’re safe."

Back in the palace, the atmosphere was tense and cold. Midnight was fast approaching, and everyone was still awake.

Tatiana was pacing up and down the hallway, biting the tips of her nails nervously. Lydia’s cousins sat quietly, their faces pale with worry. Pyotr’s eyes were red and swollen, as if he had been crying for hours. Mikhail had his arms wrapped around Anya, who sat with her head on his shoulder. Elena stood in one corner, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her whole body trembling. She looked like she hadn’t spoken in hours.

Katherine stood silently near the window, watching the darkness. She kept glancing toward the gate, praying for a shadow to appear, something, anything. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve.

Alexander, Lydia’s uncle, looked like he was about to lose his mind. He kept walking in circles, running his hands through his hair, muttering things under his breath. Every few minutes, he’d ask the guards at the door if there was any news.

Vladimir sat quietly in a chair, one hand on his cane, his face tight with worry. He leaned over and whispered to Boris beside him, "I think it’s time we send more men. We can’t sit and wait anymore. This is getting too long."

Olga stood near the stairs, pretending to be worried. But her face had a different look—a tightness in her lips, a nervous flicker in her eyes. It wasn’t fear for Lydia. It was fear for something else. For her plans. If Lydia didn’t return... everything she had tried to destroy might fall apart.

Then the gates opened.

Everyone stood up as Ivan came through the doors.

He was holding Lydia in his arms.

Tatiana rushed forward first. "Is she alright?" she asked quickly, eyes wide. But the moment she saw the blood on Lydia’s dress, she gasped and stepped back in shock.

Everyone else did too.

"She’s okay," Ivan said firmly. "She’s just asleep."

Tatiana stared at the blood again. "I’ll get the physician right away!"

She ran out, her slippers sliding on the floor.

Olga didn’t say a word. She simply turned and walked to her room.

Ivan carried Lydia upstairs, slow and steady, like every step mattered. In her room, he lit the fireplace and closed the windows. The air was still cold, but at least the room was quiet and calm.

He placed her on the bed gently, brushing the hair from her face.

Then, without calling for a maid, he walked to the washbasin and poured warm water into a bowl. He dipped a soft towel inside and knelt beside the bed.

He cleaned the dirt off her arms and legs, wiped the blood from her neck, and carefully took off her torn gown, replacing it with a fresh, soft nightdress. He tried not to cry again when he saw the bruises on her skin. She had run for her life. Alone. Cold. Frightened.

When he was done, he sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand in his.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. "I’m so, so sorry."

A knock came. It was the physician.

He checked Lydia’s breathing, her heartbeat, her reflexes. "She’s just exhausted," he said. "No injuries. She just needs to sleep."

The physician left.

Ivan stayed.

He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, and whispered, "You’re safe now. I swear I’ll never let anything happen to you again."

Another knock. It was Nikolai this time.

Ivan stood and opened the door slightly. "Is she alright?" Nikolai asked first.

"Yes. She’s okay. Asleep," Ivan answered.

"Then I thought you should know... we found him."

Ivan froze. He didn’t need to ask who he meant. "Ruslan?"

Nikolai nodded. "He’s dead."

Ivan didn’t move.

"Stabbed in the throat," Nikolai added. "A small dagger. Not a soldier’s wound. It was messy. Likely done by someone without training... probably Her Highness. She must have done it to defend herself."

Ivan’s chest felt hollow. He lowered his eyes.

She had killed him.

She had killed Ruslan with her own hands.

Not him.

Not any soldier.

She had done what he couldn’t do for all these years.

"She must have been terrified," Nikolai said quietly.

Ivan nodded slowly, unable to speak.

"We brought his body. To be sure. We’ll bury him at dawn."

"Do what you want," Ivan said softly.

Nikolai left.

Ivan returned to Lydia’s side. He sat on the bed again, held her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. His tears came back.

"I should have been there. I promised you I’d protect you... and you protected yourself instead. You were alone. I failed."

He laid beside her, curling around her body, whispering over and over that he was sorry. That he loved her. That he’d never let her feel scared again.

He kissed her cheek, her forehead, her fingers. And slowly, sleep came.

When dawn broke, soft golden light filled the room. The sky outside was pale and quiet. Ivan opened his eyes and saw her still sleeping beside him.

He wanted to stay. To stay right there in her arms.

But he had one thing left to do.

He slipped out of bed and left the room. Downstairs, Nikolai was waiting.

They went to the morgue together.

It was really him.

Ruslan.

Dead.

Cold.

Gone.

Ivan stared at his body. The same man who had haunted Lydia. The same man who had once been his friend. Now lying on a slab of stone with no honor, no name, no pity.

Ivan said nothing.

He didn’t feel relief.

Just emptiness.

"She killed him," he thought bitterly. "I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it."

Nikolai spoke gently. "We’ll bury him in the outskirts. No name. No stone. No memory."

"Fine," Ivan said, his voice hollow. "Do whatever you want."

He left and went straight back to Lydia’s room.

The sun was rising now, soft light pouring in through the window.

He opened the door—and stopped.

She was awake.

She was sitting up in bed, staring at the sunrise. Her eyes were wide, her face pale, but there was something almost peaceful about the way she watched the light.

Then she saw him.

She didn’t speak.

She just ran to him.

And he opened his arms.

She collapsed into him, sobbing. Her fingers clutched his back like she didn’t want him to let go.

He held her just as tightly, his arms wrapped around her small frame, kissing her hair.

"I’m sorry," he whispered into her shoulder. "I’m so sorry, Lydia."

She shook her head, her voice breaking. "No... I’m sorry, Ivan."

He didn’t know what she meant.

But she did.

Because she hadn’t just killed someone.

She had betrayed him.

She had betrayed everything.

And the fear of him finding out the truth... that was the only thing that truly scared her now.

Not Ruslan. Not death.

But the truth.

The truth that could break the man who loved her more than anything.