The Bride Of The Devil

The dinner table at the Andreyevna mansion was peaceful. The warm lights above gave the dining room a gentle glow as the family sat together—Alexander at the head of the table, with his sons Pyotr and Mikhail, and his daughters Anya and Elena seated beside him. The food was simple but comforting. Roasted duck, boiled potatoes, cabbage soup, and warm bread filled the table. Soft chatter floated between the girls, giggling about nothing in particular.

But the peace didn’t last long.

"Papa," Pyotr suddenly spoke, cutting into the quiet. His eyes were hopeful, shining with excitement. "I heard Lydia is in the capital. At the palace! Can we go see her?"

Elena quickly nudged him under the table and gave him a sharp look, as if warning him to stay quiet. But it was too late.

Alexander’s spoon clattered into his bowl.

"I’ve told you already," he said sternly. "We will do no such thing."

"But why?" Pyotr’s voice cracked a little. He was still so young, barely fifteen. "She’s our cousin. She’s like our sister. Why can’t we—"

"I am the head of this house!" Alexander snapped, his voice sharp like a whip. His hand slammed the table, and all the children flinched. "You do not question my orders!"

Pyotr looked like he was about to cry. His lower lip trembled as he looked down at his plate. Anya reached across the table and gently placed a hand on his arm.

But before anyone could speak again, a loud sound echoed from outside—the sound of hooves. A horse had just stopped at the gate.

Alexander stood up slowly. His face turned pale, like all the blood had drained from it. The children looked around in confusion.