Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 109: You’re made of marble

Chapter 109: You’re made of marble

The candle near her door flickered once before dying out completely, leaving the corridor dim and still. He turned and walked back to his study, steps slow, mind tangled.

The letter had unsettled him, not just for what it revealed, but for what it stirred in her. Liora, for all her grace and gentleness, carried a storm within her. He’d seen it in glimpses: when she stood tall despite humiliation, when she spoke with fire despite fear. He knew that look in her eyes when she’d read the letter, recognition mixed with hunger. Not for vengeance alone, but for truth. Closure. Maybe even peace.

He couldn’t let her go alone.

Even if it meant retracing his own buried past.

Morning in Petra came not with a trumpet’s call or a grand procession, but with the quiet bustle of carts rolling over cobbled roads, the clang of the blacksmith’s forge, and the scent of fresh bread wafting through narrow alleyways. The manor’s east wing caught the earliest light, casting golden lines across Liora’s bed as she sat on its edge, already dressed.

Beatrice stood behind her, brushing her hair with a gentleness that betrayed years of practice and some small, unspoken affection.

"You didn’t sleep," Beatrice murmured.

"No."

"A letter did this?"

Liora didn’t answer directly. "Do you know anything of Eldhollow?"

Beatrice’s hands paused. Then resumed, slower. "Only what the old women whisper. A place where nobles once gathered in secret. It burned down years ago. Some say it was cursed. Others say it was silenced."

Liora met her eyes in the mirror. "Do you believe that?"

"I believe places remember. Just like people do."

That made Liora’s throat tighten.

She stood, taking the letter from the small chest beside her and tucking it back into her sleeve. "I need to go there."

Beatrice didn’t argue. But her hands lingered at Liora’s shoulders. "You won’t go alone, will you?"

A soft knock came at the door. Before Liora could answer, it creaked open, Lucien stood there, dressed in his dark traveling cloak, sword buckled at his side.

She looked at him, surprised. "Already?"

He offered a faint smile. "You said you needed to think. I gave you until dawn."

Her lips curved despite herself.

Beatrice stepped back, quietly gathering the hairbrush and the silence they left behind.

Lucien’s eyes fell to the sleeve where she’d hidden the letter. "It’ll be a day’s ride, maybe more if the path’s overgrown."

"You’ve been there?"

"A long time ago. I don’t remember much." He met her gaze. "But it’s not a place I’d send you into alone."

Their eyes lingered. No confession passed between them, but something settled. Not trust, not yet affection, but an agreement. A pact. One road, two travelers.

"Let’s go," Liora said.

And without further ceremony, they stepped out into the early light, cloaks brushing, footsteps aligned. The wind tugged at her scarf, and Lucien reached out, instinctively, to fix it. Fingers grazed fabric. Then withdrew.

Neither of them mentioned it.

The ride out of Petra was quiet.

Not the suffocating kind, nor the awkward one—they simply rode side by side, neither pushing for words that didn’t need to be said. The road ahead, though not treacherous, wound through forgotten woods and scattered villages that hadn’t heard a royal hoofbeat in years. Even the birdsong seemed hesitant, fading as they ventured deeper into territory swallowed by time.

Liora’s gaze stayed mostly ahead, but every now and then, she glanced sideways at Lucien.

He didn’t ride like a nobleman today. There was no pretense in the way he sat the horse, no stiffness. He moved like someone born to the saddle but not bound to it, familiar with roads that didn’t lead to thrones or courtrooms. It made her wonder about the years between the scandal and now. The time he never spoke of. The people he left behind. The wounds no one bothered to dress.

Once, she nearly asked.

But something about the way the light filtered through the trees, falling across his face, softening the lines of weariness near his mouth, made her hold back. This journey, she knew, wasn’t just hers.

Around midday, they paused at the stream that curled near the woods. Liora slid off her mare with a small sigh, stretching her legs as she approached the edge of the water. She knelt, cupping the cool stream in her palms and letting it wash the morning dust from her face.

Lucien stayed seated for a moment longer, watching her with unreadable eyes. Eventually, he dismounted too, leading his horse to drink.

"You ride well," he said casually, after a long stretch of silence.

Liora glanced back at him, droplets trailing down her chin. "So do you."

His lips twitched. "You’re deflecting."

"Am I?"

"You are."

She looked away, hiding her faint smile behind a sip from the waterskin. "Perhaps I’ve learned it from the best."

Lucien chuckled, low and brief, as he sat beside her on the mossy bank. "If I’m the best, Petra’s standards have fallen."

"You don’t think highly of yourself, do you?"

His fingers grazed the water, stirring tiny ripples. "I think realistically."

"That’s just another word for cruel when used against yourself."

He didn’t answer at first. But she saw something flicker in his jaw; a tightening, a hesitation. Then he met her gaze, quiet and level.

"And what about you?" he asked. "What word would you use for a woman who hides her pain under politeness, who bows to cruelty without letting her voice tremble?"

The question settled between them like a stone. Liora’s breath caught.

Lucien turned back to the stream. "You don’t have to answer that. Just...don’t pretend you’re made of marble."

"I’m not," she said quietly.

"Good."

They sat in silence again, but it wasn’t empty now. It was warm. Something unsaid curled at the edges; it was respect, perhaps. Understanding. Or the very beginning of something they couldn’t yet name.

As they mounted again and rode on, the trees thinned, giving way to a long stretch of forgotten land. Far ahead, a ruined spire peeked through the veil of green.

Liora’s breath caught. "Is that...?"

"Yes," Lucien replied. "Eldhollow."

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