Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 102: I remember little else.

Chapter 102: I remember little else.

The Following Morning in the Market District, Southern Wing

The streets of the capital buzzed with life. Hawkers cried out their wares, clattering carts rolled over cobblestones, and the scent of bread, smoke, and damp wool tangled in the early morning air. But beneath the noise, something shifted. The people spoke in quieter tones today. Of the rumors. Of the Blackthorne name returning to court lips. Of a girl who was unknown, silent-eyed at Lucien’s side.

And someone was listening.

A figure leaned against a shaded column in a narrow alley, wrapped in a faded cloak, face partly obscured beneath the hood. He watched the movement of guards along the perimeter of the outer market, not the royal guard, but private security. Noticed the seal sewn discreetly into their sleeves.

Blackthorne.

The figure smirked.

So the wolf had begun to stretch its limbs again.

He stepped back into the alley and vanished behind the worn tapestry of a tailoring shop. Inside, the light dimmed further. The tailor didn’t look up. He kept sewing, the needle quick and precise.

"It’s time," the hooded man said. "The prince is stirring."

The tailor paused only to pull the thread tight. "Stirring is not rising. Be patient."

"He has a girl with him."

That made the tailor blink.

"She’s not nobility," the man continued. "But she’s in the estate. Not a servant. Not a concubine either, at least, not yet."

The tailor chuckled softly. "Dangerous, then."

"She might be our entry point. Or his weakness."

"Don’t mistake the two," the tailor said. "They are rarely the same."

Outside, the bell above the shop’s door rang faintly. The man disappeared through the back again, his scent swallowed by ink and old wool.

Blackthorne Estate , Later That Day

Liora walked through the east garden, her hands grazing the tall lavender stalks. Beatrice had said the flowers were late to bloom this year, as if the earth itself had been holding its breath.

Much like Lucien.

She didn’t see him at first, he was standing near the old sundial, sleeves rolled, reading a folded parchment with a furrowed brow. He looked up at her approach but didn’t move.

"A message?" she asked.

He folded it without answering and tucked it into his coat. "One of the outer guards was bribed."

Her steps slowed.

Lucien’s voice was careful. "Not much. Just enough to make him delay reporting a visitor yesterday afternoon. Someone walked near the southern perimeter. A man. Disguised."

Liora’s mind flicked to the market. The crowds. The tangled shadows.

"Did he get in?"

"No," Lucien replied. "But it means someone wants to know more than court gossip."

"About you?"

He tilted his head. "Or you."

Liora looked away, suddenly chilled.

Lucien said nothing for a moment. Then, quietly, "I want you to move rooms."

She frowned. "Why?"

"The east wing is too exposed. If they’re watching the estate..."

She shook her head. "I’m not leaving the east wing."

He stepped closer. "Liora..."

"You’re not the only one who’s being hunted, Lucien."

That stopped him.

"If they come," she said, softer now, "I won’t be hiding under silk sheets."

Lucien’s eyes flickered with something unspoken, it was frustration, perhaps, or something gentler but buried deep.

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he turned and gestured toward the lavender. "These were my mother’s favorite."

Liora blinked, caught off-guard. "I didn’t know."

"She died when I was six. Mother raised me afterward. But I remember her hands always smelled of lavender."

The wind picked up, shaking the blooms.

Lucien added, "I remember little else."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, slowly, Liora crouched beside the blooms and began to remove a few of the dried heads. She crushed them in her palm and extended it to him.

Lucien leaned in slightly, inhaling.

"They still carry her," she said quietly. "In the scent."

He closed his eyes for just a second. Then opened them. "Thank you."

The gratitude in his voice wasn’t for the lavender. Not entirely.

And again, without grand declarations or softened glances, something between them shifted, just slightly closer.

Lucien stood alone in the small library tucked behind the main hall, the room dimly lit by the orange flicker of a single oil lamp. He hadn’t lit the chandelier too bright, too open. The scent of crushed lavender still lingered faintly on his sleeve, and for once, he didn’t mind it.

The parchment lay open again on the table before him, weighed down with a dagger.

A name was scribbled on it one he hadn’t heard in years.

Mirell Donvar.

A merchant once loyal to the Blackthorne house. Or so he had claimed. Now resurfacing near the palace with new allies and quiet wealth.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. He remembered Donvar’s voice—a slick, polished tone that had bent easily to whoever held power. The kind of man who survived every storm, not by strength, but by switching ships before they sank.

And now, he was back in court.

Rowan would be watching him by now. Lucien had no doubt.

He straightened and moved to the window. Outside, the lanterns had begun to glow across the estate. Down the gravel path, he saw Beatrice and Liora walking. Beatrice was saying something animatedly, her hands moving. Liora smiled faintly, nodding but her eyes drifted toward the manor, toward the very window where he stood.

Lucien stepped back before she could see him.

He wasn’t ready for her to see him watching.

Not yet.

Later That Night, Liora’s Chambers

Liora sat cross-legged on her bed, the fire low and a small pile of old books at her side. Beatrice had insisted she read more about the noble houses, about their symbols and politics. Liora tried but her thoughts wandered.

Lucien.

His silence had become familiar. Not cold, but careful. The kind of quiet that came from someone who’d long since stopped expecting comfort. He didn’t try to control her. He didn’t pity her. And when she spoke, he listened, not with kindness, exactly, but with weight.

And he’d remembered the lavender.

It meant something. Not everything. But something.

She set the book aside and stood, moving to the window.

A breeze tugged at the thin curtain. Beyond, she could see the garden, the moonlight painting the hedges silver. Somewhere below, the guard dogs barked twice, then quieted. Routine.

Except... One bark hadn’t sounded like the others. It had been sharp. Muffled.

Liora frowned.

She moved quickly, pulling a shawl over her shoulders and slipping out the door.

Near the Outer Garden Wall

The guards patrolled as usual, torches in hand. But Liora moved away from the light, circling toward the narrower passage that led to the lower garden where Beatrice grew her herbs.

Something felt off.

She slowed.

A figure crouched by the edge of the greenhouse. Cloaked. Unmoving.

Liora’s breath caught.

She stepped back, too late.

A snap. A foot behind her.

She spun...

A hand clamped over her mouth. Another around her waist. She kicked hard, but the figure was strong, dragging her backward.

Then...

"Let her go."

Lucien’s voice. Cold. Sharp.

A blur of motion.

The grip on her loosened with a grunt. She stumbled forward, hitting the ground. The man who’d grabbed her turned just in time to see Lucien lunge, dagger flashing.

Steel met steel.

Another attacker. Two of them.

Liora scrambled back, watching as Lucien fought both men, precise, brutal, without wasted motion. One-lunged, Lucien sidestepped, driving the dagger into his side. The second tried to retreat.

A whistle cut through the air. Rowan’s voice: "Drop your blade!"

The second man bolted.

Liora, shaking, looked up as Rowan sprinted past her in pursuit.

Lucien turned to her. His chest rose and fell, his eyes wild but focused on her.

"You’re hurt?"

She shook her head.

He reached out, then hesitated.

But Liora, breath catching, reached for his hand first.

And he let her.

Lucien’s grip around Liora’s wrist was firm yet careful as he led her back toward the manor. The estate guards were scattering in all directions now, alarm bells faintly ringing from the western post. But here, between hedges and shadow, it felt as if time had narrowed to just them.

Liora didn’t speak. Her breath came in quiet bursts, her shawl slipping off one shoulder. She didn’t notice. Lucien did.

He reached across, gently lifting the fabric back over her shoulder. Their eyes met briefly. She offered a faint nod, not of thanks, but of understanding.

"You said nothing when he grabbed you," Lucien finally murmured as they neared the eastern steps.

"I didn’t have time to think."

"You did the right thing," he said, softer this time.

A strange warmth bloomed in her chest.

At the doors, Beatrice met them, her face pale beneath the lamplight. "The hounds wouldn’t stop barking," she whispered, wringing her hands. "What happened?"

Lucien didn’t answer. He simply nodded to the steward, who rushed in after, ordering more guards and a check of the entire perimeter.

Beatrice led Liora inside.

Lucien remained at the threshold, eyes scanning the darkness one last time.

Whoever had come tonight wasn’t here to rob or threaten.

They had come for her.