Stefania: The Bride Wore Blood

ChapterThree

Every word and action brought me to where I am now. A perfect distance away from our individual scars.

If she died right now. Would it be a peaceful one or a tragedy, a life spent without any accomplishment? Can she say she lived a good life or a selfish one?

Well… Manya didn't care if her world was to end at that moment, because, in the end, life is meaningless.

The clock’s red glare read 1:58 AM.

Manya didn’t need to see it. Her body told her everything she needed to know. Sleep was nowhere near. Heat pulsed beneath her skin, thick and unnatural—like something simmering from the inside out. Every few seconds, a sharp flicker of pain sliced behind her eyes, rhythmic and cruel, as though something inside her was knocking to be let out.

The sheets beneath her were drenched, clinging to her limbs like wet bandages. Her fingers curled around the fabric, knuckles white, trying to anchor herself to something—anything—real. But the room felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. The silence pressed in on her like a held breath.

She rolled onto her side, then stopped. That small movement sent the pain flaring again, stabbing across her temples. She closed her eyes against it, but the darkness only made it worse. She sat up abruptly, her breath catching. The movement made her stomach twist, bile rising in her throat. She swallowed it back and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

The silence in the room was louder than sound. It pressed in from all sides, heavy and suffocating.

No. She couldn’t stay here.

The air felt heavy, pressing against her chest as though daring her to move, but she forced herself up. The floor was cold—blessedly cold. She stayed there for a beat, letting the chill bite her feet.

Then she stood, slowly, like someone learning how to walk again. Her balance faltered, knees shaking under the pressure of whatever was happening inside her. Her body didn’t feel like hers anymore. It felt hijacked. Unfamiliar. Wrong.

She needed a distraction.

The letters. The box.

Her thoughts raced back to the box containing the letters from the late Vampire King. It had to hold more answers—pieces of the puzzle that had eluded her for far too long. She needed to see it again.

She hoped to uncover something that could explain the strange and sudden happenings. Kazimir's words only made her more curious, and that letter could solve her questions.

She left her room in silence, the surrounding halls hushed and asleep. The soft hum of the air conditioner was the only sound, like a ghost breathing in her ear. Her footsteps barely made a sound, but each one sent a jolt of pain shooting up her spine.

By the time she reached Kazimir’s office, her hand trembled so badly she missed the doorknob the first time. When she finally got it open, the scent of leather and Kazimir’s cologne wrapped around her like smoke. She moved straight to the shelf—

The box was gone.

She froze.

Her fingers skimmed over the space, the polished wood cool beneath her burning skin. Her chest tightened, not just from the oppressive heat and sharp pains, but from frustration. She ran her fingers along the polished wood as if somehow the box could reappear with her touch.

"Where could it be?" she murmured, her voice hoarse and strained.

Had it been moved to another location? Or worse—disposed of? The thought made her stomach churn. She gripped the edge of the shelf for support as another wave of searing pain stabbed through her head.

Could the box possibly be in his office at the packhouse or already disposed of? She hoped for the formal.

She whispered, “Please…”

Her voice cracked like brittle paper. She leaned forward, forehead resting against the shelf, willing the pain to ease, the box to return, something—anything—to make sense.

It didn’t.

She felt now that she had a clearer picture of the story, she could understand the other information inside the box which could possibly contain information relating to the previous vampire king.

If it wasn’t here, maybe—maybe the packhouse. Maybe Kazimir had moved it. Maybe he knew she came in here. The thought stabbed deep, but she clung to it because it gave her purpose.

She could barely remember what happened that day. One minute she was reading the letter and the next she was in the room with Terina trying to break down the door into her room. Everything happened too fast, but deep down she knew something had happened, but she couldn't just remember what happened.

With that thought in mind, she traced into the king's office in the pack house only to find herself unmoved. She moved. Barely.

Then, suddenly—stillness. Like she lost her ability to trace.

She stood in the middle of the office, blinking slowly.

Nothing moved. Nothing answered. The air was too thick. The desk seemed to blur and shift, like a mirage bending in the heat. Her skin was slick with sweat, the fabric of her shirt plastered onto her spine.

Sweat clung to her forehead, dripping down her temples as she struggled to remain upright. Forcing herself to focus, she reached for a leather-bound journal on the shelf. If the box wasn’t there, maybe something else could give her a clue.

The second she cracked it open, the words spun off the page, letters sliding like oil across her vision. She blinked rapidly, tried to focus—but the room tilted.

She slammed the book shut.

A groan escaped her, ragged and involuntary, as pain cleaved down the center of her skull. Her knees buckled. She caught herself against the desk, chest heaving. Her phone slid into her hand more by instinct than intention.

“Call Waldron,” she whispered, her lips dry and cracked.

The phone chirped softly, then began to ring. She clung to it like a lifeline, her thumb trembling where it hovered near the speaker.

“Manya?” Waldron’s voice crackled through. “What’s going on?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but the only thing that came out was a hoarse rasp. Then the coughing started. Violent. Tearing. She doubled over, her ribs aching as if they might snap.

“W-Waldron…” she gasped.

Dead silence.

Then his voice again—sharper, lower. “Manya. What’s happening? Manya!” When she didn’t respond immediately, he added, his tone clipped, “I’m coming. Don’t move.”

Her body seized again, and this time she couldn’t stop the cry that tore from her throat. The phone slipped from her hand, hit the floor, and went silent.

She collapsed against the desk. Her legs gave way. Her head lolled to the side as the heat surged again, worse this time, as if her very blood was boiling.

The heat was everywhere now. Inside her. Under her skin. Like her bones might combust. Her body shook, her breath hitching into ragged, useless gasps. The floor rushed up to meet her as she slid down the wood and curled inward, arms around her stomach, trying to keep herself from flying apart.

Everything blurred. Her vision, her breath, her thoughts. The only thing she could feel was pain.

Minutes felt like hours before the door swung open with force.

Waldron stood there, framed by the hallway light. His face was a mask of stone, unreadable, but his eyes, sharp, scanning, searching—landed on her and froze.

She was a crumpled shadow on the floor, curled in on herself, skin clammy and pale, damp strands of hair glued to her temples. Her hand clutched her chest like she was trying to hold herself together.

He didn’t call her name. He crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees beside her.

“Manya.” Just her name, clipped and low.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came. Only a dry cough, cracked and weak.

Waldron scooped her up without hesitation. She didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her body light and trembling in his arms. “What the hell have you done to yourself?” he muttered, barely above a whisper, but there was an edge in his voice.

He carried her like she was something fragile, something precious, though he’d never say the words out loud. He laid her down on her bed, his movements quick but precise, arranging the pillows behind her back to keep her upright.

Her breathing was shallow. Too fast. Her skin burned under his touch.

“You’re burning up,” he said, brushing her damp hair back. “When did this start?”

Her lips parted. Her voice was a rasp. “The… bracelet. It… was removed.”

His expression shifted, tightened. “Shit.”

He pushed up from the bed, turned away for a moment, pacing. “Of course. The bracelet.” His hand clenched into a fist before he exhaled through his nose and returned to her side. “Your abilities were locked away for too long. Now that they’re free, your body doesn’t know how to handle the sudden influx of power.”

She whimpered, low and guttural. Her body jerked as another wave of pain tore through her. She doubled over, gripping her stomach like something inside her was trying to claw its way out.

“H-hurts…” she gasped, teeth clenched, a tear sliding down her cheek unchecked.

Waldron was already moving. He returned with a bucket and a cold cloth, setting them down with mechanical calm. But when he pressed his hand onto her forehead, something shifted. A subtle pulse, like a current of cool water running through her fevered veins.

A strange sensation followed, a cooling, calming wave that contrasted sharply with the fiery heat ravaging her body. She knew he had used a spell on her.

“Stay with me,” he said, his voice level, his palm anchoring her. “This is going to hurt, but I need you to let it run its course. This is the backlash—the suppression breaking. You have to let your body purge it.”

Her reply was a choked sound, half sob, half scream. Her body convulsed.

He grabbed the bowl just in time as she retched—dark liquid, thick and sour, spilled out of her, the smell sharp, wrong. Her shoulders shook with each heave.

Waldron didn’t flinch. He held the bowl steady, then wiped her mouth clean. “Good. That’s part of the buildup leaving your system,” he said as his hand lingered on her shoulder, grounding her.

She sagged back against the pillows, gasping, shaking. Her entire body was drenched in sweat, and the room felt like it was spinning.

“I… can’t…” she whispered, her voice breaking. She wanted to cry, scream, anything to escape the unbearable pain and weakness consuming her. Her vision blurred, and she felt like she was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

“Yes, you can.” Waldron’s voice was quiet but immovable. He took her shoulders in both hands and locked eyes with her, grounding her. “You’re not dying. You’ve endured worse than this. You will survive this.”

Her lips trembled. Another flash of heat surged through her. She writhed, whimpering. “Why… like this?” she asked, barely audible.

He wiped the sweat from her brow, his hand moving with a gentleness she hadn’t felt in what felt like years. “Because this time she removed the spell without purging the effect off. That bracelet didn’t just block your power, it chained your natural self. That kind of suppression doesn’t come without consequences once removed.”

His jaw ticked, the muscles there taut with something like regret. “I told them it was too long. It wasn’t safe to keep you restrained like that for so long.”

More retching. More of that strange, black liquid, like ink mixed with fire.

Her body shuddered, muscles seizing, then loosening with every spasm. It was like watching a storm break inside her.

And Waldron—he stayed through all of it. Silent. Steady. Not once turning away.

When it was over, she slumped back—limp and soaked, eyelids fluttering shut.

“You’re through the worst,” he murmured, easing her into the pillows. “You need to rest. Your body has been fighting itself for hours.”

Her lashes fluttered. Her lips barely moved. “Why… Do you care?”

For a moment, his face changed. Just a flicker—but it was there. The walls in his voice cracked, and when he spoke again, it was low. Honest.

“You’re not as disposable as you think,” he said. “And I’m not as heartless as I pretend.”

She couldn’t respond. Not with words. But her eyes watched him as he tucked the quilt around her, careful not to jar her still-burning body. How long had it been since the last time he had been this kind to her?

She was already slipping toward unconsciousness when she whispered, “What if it happens again?”

Waldron crouched beside the bed, his sharp eyes never leaving her. “It might,” he admitted. “But it won’t be like this. You’ve already survived the break. The rest is just rebuilding.”

He reached out—almost cautiously—and brushed the damp hair from her forehead again. His touch lingered this time.

Then she was gone, swallowed by sleep.

Waldron didn’t move for a long while. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest. He took in the color slowly returning to her cheeks. The slight crease between her brows didn't smooth, even at rest.

She looked fragile at that moment—so unlike the fierce, determined woman he knew. It made something familiar stir in him, something he wasn’t prepared to confront.

He reached for the bucket of black sickness and set it aside, then took a fresh cloth and wiped her face one more time, slow and precise. “I’m not leaving. Not this time.”

He stayed—long after the danger passed, long after the room had gone quiet—guarding her in quiet like he always did.