Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 107: The marks we found

Chapter 107: The marks we found

The night deepened around Petra, shrouding the estate in a hush that even the wind dared not break. In Lucien’s study, the fire had burned down to embers, casting long, flickering shadows across the stone walls. Liora stood near the shelves, her fingers brushing over a leather-bound volume she didn’t really intend to read.

Lucien had returned after changing out of his travel-worn cloak, now in a loose tunic, the collar slightly undone. He poured a glass of wine, offering her one without a word. She hesitated only briefly before accepting.

"You’re quiet," he said at last, his voice roughened by weariness.

"I’m listening."

He studied her for a beat, as if the simplicity of her answer surprised him.

"The marks we found... they weren’t random. Rowan believes they were left by a trained, disciplined group. No merchants would’ve used those routes."

Liora swirled the wine in her glass, watching the red cling to the rim like blood. "You believe someone is moving against you."

Lucien looked away, jaw tightening. "They already have. This is just the beginning."

"And the council?"

"They’ll deny everything. Smile with honeyed tongues and curse me the moment my back turns."

She moved closer, not quite standing beside him, but close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

"You’ve never told me how much of your exile was politics... and how much was personal."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Does it matter? They dressed the blade with silk. The wound still bled."

Liora turned to look at him fully now, her voice quiet. "I think it matters. Not to them. But maybe to those still standing beside you."

For the first time in hours, Lucien’s eyes met hers, steadily, deeply, as if searching for something he wasn’t sure how to name. She didn’t flinch under the weight of it.

"You’re not like the others," he murmured.

"No," she agreed, her voice calm, "but I never claimed to be."

A silence stretched between them, not cold, not sharp. Simply present, like the first moment of stillness after a storm.

Lucien turned slightly, his body angling toward the hearth. "Beatrice said the lower valley roads need inspection. If you’re willing, I want you to handle that with Rowan."

"Of course," Liora answered.

He looked at her again, and this time there was something quieter in his gaze. Respect. Trust. A seed of something else that neither dared name yet.

"Get some rest," he said after a pause. "The work begins early."

She nodded, taking a slow step back. "You should too."

As she left the room, Lucien remained by the fire, watching the last ember flare, fade, and fall into ash.

And somewhere in that quiet moment, something shifted, no declarations, no grand revelations.

Just the beginning of a thread pulled taut. A tension, not yet love, but something perilously close

The next morning dawned cool and grey, with low-hanging clouds veiling the sun. A gentle mist clung to the ground as if Petra itself still slumbered. Liora stood in the courtyard, adjusting the leather straps of her riding gloves while Rowan finished inspecting the horses.

Lucien appeared just as she mounted her steed, his black coat buttoned up to the collar, hair damp from the lingering fog.

"You’ll take the western path first," he said, handing her a folded parchment. "There were signs of movement reported near the old mill."

Liora tucked the note into her belt. "And if we encounter more than tracks this time?"

Rowan’s voice cut in before Lucien could answer. "Then we see what their steel says when asked to speak."

Lucien’s gaze lingered on Liora a second longer than necessary, as if memorizing her face not out of sentimentality, but something quieter. Caution, perhaps. Or concern he wouldn’t name.

"Stay close," he said, voice low. "Rowan’s reckless when he smells trouble."

"I’m standing right here," Rowan muttered with a grunt, adjusting his saddle.

Liora’s smile was faint, but it softened her features. "I’ll keep him in line."

Lucien’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave a small nod. "Return before nightfall."

She inclined her head in silent agreement before nudging her horse forward. Rowan followed, and together they rode out through the front gate, the hooves of their mounts muffled by the dew-heavy earth.

For the first part of the ride, silence stretched between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though; rather, it was the kind shared between two people used to watching, listening, and measuring the world around them.

"You trust him," Rowan said finally.

Liora didn’t look at him. "He gave me no reason not to."

"He’s lost many. Burned through loyalty like a blade through silk." Rowan’s voice was measured, not cruel, just worn. "Men like that learn to survive by expecting everyone to leave."

"Then maybe he needs someone who doesn’t."

Rowan studied her for a long beat, then gave a grunt that might’ve meant approval or at least less disapproval than usual.

They rode in silence again until the mill came into view, an abandoned structure, leaning slightly as if tired of standing alone. Liora dismounted, her boots squelching softly in the wet earth. She moved with purpose, eyes scanning the perimeter, hand near the hilt of the dagger at her waist.

"Tracks," she murmured, crouching low. "Not older than a day."

Rowan knelt beside her, frowning. "Four, maybe five riders. Light tread. Not merchants."

Liora rose slowly. "Let’s follow them."

As they mounted again, the mist seemed to thicken, and the silence of the woods pressed in, heavy and watchful.

Somewhere deeper in the trees, the truth waited, wrapped in secrets and steel.

And back at Petra, Lucien stood atop the western watchtower, eyes fixed on the horizon, as if he could see them still.

The trail curved through the woods like a serpent, half-eaten by time and overgrown roots. Liora and Rowan pressed forward, careful not to stray far from the hoofprints that had already begun to blur with the shifting light.

A branch snapped up ahead.

Liora’s hand moved to her dagger instantly, and Rowan reached for the hilt of his sword.

They didn’t speak. Only their eyes met, silent understanding honed through danger. Rowan dismounted, gesturing with two fingers. Liora slid from her saddle and crouched low as he moved ahead, silent as a shadow.

The thicket rustled again, louder this time.

Then a voice came; it was a low, male grumbling.

"Damn fog... I told him, This was a fool’s errand."

Another responded, sharp and impatient. "Orders are orders. We ride until dusk. Then we move."

Liora crept forward a little more, pushing aside a veil of damp leaves to see the edge of a clearing. Four men huddled around a small fire, weapons resting close at hand. They wore plain cloaks, but the glint of steel at their belts wasn’t common soldier fare. These were mercenaries or spies.

Rowan slid beside her, his jaw tight. "Not Petra, men," he whispered.

"No insignias," Liora murmured. "They’re hiding something."

One of the men rose, pacing. "You think the prince suspects?"

"Blackthorne always suspects," the sharper voice answered. "That’s why we stay ahead of him."

Liora’s breath hitched slightly.

Rowan raised a brow.

Lucien’s name, used like that, wasn’t casual. These weren’t random bandits. They were watching him

"We wait for dusk," the leader continued. "Then we leave the message where he’ll find it."

Liora felt a chill crawl up her spine. "Message?" she mouthed to Rowan.

Rowan’s face darkened, and he started to rise, but Liora caught his arm.

"Not yet. We follow," she whispered. "If we strike now, we’ll lose the rest."

He hesitated, then nodded.

The two of them retreated as quietly as they’d come. When they reached the horses, Liora was the first to speak.

"We return. Tonight. They said Lucien would find a message."

Rowan frowned as he adjusted the reins. "Or a warning."

They rode harder on the return. The trail was quicker on the way back, but the sky was darkening with the approach of evening, streaks of gold vanishing into the mountain’s shadow.

Petra’s gates opened without question when they arrived.

Lucien met them in the inner hall. His brows lifted at the speed of their arrival.

"You found something."

Liora didn’t waste time. "Four men, cloaked, lightly armed but trained. They mentioned you by name."

Lucien’s gaze sharpened.

"They’re watching. And they plan to leave something behind. A message. Or worse."

Rowan added, "They ride at dusk. If we act now, we can trap them before they vanish."

Lucien turned, already barking orders to his men in the courtyard.

But as he strode past Liora, he paused for the briefest moment. His voice was low, meant only for her.

"You did well."

She didn’t answer with words, just a nod. But for the first time, there was the faintest flicker of something in her chest.

Not affection. Not yet.

But maybe... trust.

The Petra guard mobilized with a swiftness that impressed even Rowan. Within the hour, a quiet unit of riders dressed in muted leathers and silent as dusk departed under Lucien’s orders. Liora stood just beyond the gates, watching the last of the men melt into the forest shadows.

She hadn’t expected to be asked to stay behind. But Lucien had been clear. "You’ve done your part. Rest. Let me handle the rest."

It shouldn’t have stung. But it did only a little.

She lingered on the steps of the outer hall, the night wind tugging at her shawl. Beatrice, ever watchful, approached from the side with a cup of warm tea in hand.

"You’ve got that look," the older woman said, offering the cup.

"What look?"