All Chapters of The Demon King’s Bride: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The next morning, Elinor didn't speak a single word to him.Dawn filtered through the trees in a pale, icy light that barely managed to pierce the forest mist. Rowan was already awake when she opened her eyes. He had saddled the horse and extinguished the remains of the previous night's fire, moving with the quiet precision of someone trying not to create any more tension than necessary.Elinor rose without looking at him.There was no good morning.No conversation.Only the soft creak of leather as Rowan tightened the last strap on the saddle.They set out in silence.The forest seemed endless. Towering trees stretched along both sides of the trail, their dark trunks casting long shadows while only scattered shafts of sunlight slipped through the dense canopy above. Rowan guided the horse with practiced confidence, but every so often he glanced back over his shoulder.She was still there.Sitting behind him.And yet she felt as distant as if an ocean lay between them.Elinor kept her

The castle had not slept in days. Since dawn, the corridors had been alive with movement: servants rushing about with trays and fabrics, hands adjusting fresh flowers on every column, silk ribbons cascading from the balconies like waterfalls of golden light. Everything had to be perfect, flawless, worthy of the most important event in the kingdom. And of its new queen. In one of the highest rooms of the palace, Lyria stood before the mirror while several handmaidens worked around her, adjusting her dress, arranging every strand of her hair, and placing jewels that gleamed against her skin. The reflection staring back did not seem to be her own. But the slight tremor in her hands did belong to her, reminding her that, despite all the luxury surrounding her, she was still herself. Her mind was not on the room, or the dress, or the voices around her, but on Rowan, on his absence, on what remained unsaid. There was no news, no one mentioned his name, and that silence—thick, uncomfort

The music still filled the great hall, but for Lyria, everything had vanished. Her world shrank to the man standing before her—bound, beaten, and yet, still on his feet. Rowan. Fear coursed through her body with a force she could not control, making her hands begin to tremble as she leaned slightly toward the king, trying to ensure her voice was heard by no one else. "Your Majesty… you were supposed to kill him," she whispered, urgency bleeding into every word. "You must do it… before he says anything." Before he destroys everything. Edrion did not answer immediately, but his gaze descended slowly to Lyria’s trembling hands, lingering there as if that detail were more interesting than anything else in the room. A faint smile appeared on his lips—not kind, but curious, almost dangerous—before he stood up. The simple movement was enough to shift the atmosphere; the music faded, the conversations died, and silence began to spread through the hall as every eye followed the king des

Edrion remained standing in front of her, his breathing restrained and his gaze fixed, as if he were still deciding what to do. Lyria, however, could not stop seeing something else.The blood returned to her mind with unbearable clarity, followed by the image of Rowan’s eyes slowly losing their light and the dull sound of his body hitting the ground, replaying over and over in her head as if there were no escape from it.But the present was there.Edrion began removing his clothes without looking away from her, his movements slow and tense, as though every gesture was being held in check by the force with which he was trying to remain in control. Piece by piece, the fabric fell to the floor, revealing the strength of a body shaped by years of combat and discipline. His bronzed skin contrasted with the dim light of the chamber, outlining every muscle in soft shadows.He approached her step by step, with a calmness that was anything but reassuring. Instead, it only heightened the tensio

The king had not slept. The night had dragged on, slow and agonizing, heavy with thoughts he couldn't banish, leaving him at dawn with an anxiety that only continued to fester. He paced back and forth across his study, his shoulders tight, his jaw locked—as if at any given second he might shatter something just to release the suffocating pressure building inside him. It wasn't merely the council, nor was it the heavy burden of the marriage itself. It was *her*—and what he had witnessed in that room before the blood had even hit the floor. Jealousy tore through him in a way he didn't comprehend: persistent, agonizing, digging into his chest with an intensity he found almost offensive. Because this was jealousy over a dead man. Jealousy over a look that hadn't been meant for him. Jealousy over something he could neither alter nor control. *That* was what infuriated him most. His entire life had been constructed upon the foundation of control—upon the absolute certainty that nothing e