Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 112: Men make perfect villains

Chapter 112: Men make perfect villains

It grounded her. In a place where she was meant to wait quietly, her hands had found a purpose.

Still, each night, her gaze would drift toward the window. She would catch herself wondering whether Lucien had forgotten her or, worse, regretted her presence. But then she would remember how he’d looked at her before leaving, not with fondness, but with a strange kind of silence, like he was carrying a weight he couldn’t put into words.

That was enough to still the ache in her chest. For now.

Later that afternoon, she helped Beatrice set the dining table, a routine that had grown strangely comforting. Beatrice had softened somewhat, calling her "girl" a little less and "Liora" a little more.

"You’ll wear yourself thin, running about like this," Beatrice said, laying down the cutlery.

"I’m not used to sitting still."

"Hm. Neither was he."

Liora glanced up. "Lucien?"

Beatrice’s expression didn’t change much, but her eyes softened. "Before everything... before his disgrace, before the court cast him out, he was always moving. Looking for answers, he was pushing into things he had no business touching. You remind me of him."

"I don’t know if that’s a good thing."

"It is," Beatrice said, firmly. "The court needs more people who still have a conscience. Even if it burns them alive."

Before Liora could answer, the front gates groaned open.

A stable boy ran past the window. Hooves clattered against the cobbles outside.

Liora stepped toward the window, heart suddenly hammering.

She didn’t know why she was expecting it. She didn’t know why it mattered.

But when the dust began to settle, and the first rider dismounted, she knew.

Lucien had returned.

And for a brief second, before her heart steadied, she realized her fingers were trembling.

Lucien didn’t look like a man returning from a successful journey. Dust coated his cloak, his jaw was shadowed with stubble, and his expression, though unreadable to most, was clipped and weary.

But his eyes searched the courtyard the moment he dismounted.

Beatrice met him at the door, her arms crossed. "You’re back early."

"Petra wasn’t as quiet as we thought," he said, his voice low. "There’s unrest in the outer villages. Whispers that don’t make it to the capital."

"And you brought them back with you?" Her tone was sharp.

"No," Lucien replied. "I brought news. And questions."

Before Beatrice could prod further, his gaze lifted, past her shoulder. Liora stood at the edge of the hallway, hands clasped in front of her. She hadn’t meant to stare, but something in her heart tugged her forward.

"You’re back," she said softly.

He nodded. "You’re still here."

Her brows lifted. "Did you expect me to leave?"

"No," he said after a pause. "I hoped you wouldn’t."

Beatrice raised a brow at them both, then muttered something about "useless men and their riddles" before disappearing into the kitchen.

Lucien removed his cloak, every movement deliberate. He didn’t speak for a while, just glanced toward the fire as if unsure of what to say. Then: "Did the villagers give you trouble?"

"No," Liora said, "they were kind. Suspicious at first... but kind."

"You treated them?"

"I tried. With Beatrice’s help."

Lucien let out a quiet breath, something between a sigh and a sound of relief. "Good. I thought you might get restless."

"I did," she said with a soft smile, "but it wasn’t unbearable."

Their eyes met.

Something passed between them then, not quite tenderness, not quite comfort. Just... understanding. The air didn’t shift into something romantic, but it grew warmer somehow, quieter.

Lucien cleared his throat. "You’ve changed."

"Have I?"

"You seem..." He stopped, searching for the word. "Steadier."

"And you," she said gently, "seem heavier."

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stepped past her toward the stairs. But before he climbed, he turned back. "Will you join me in the study after supper? There are things I need to share. Things you should know."

Liora nodded. "Of course."

He held her gaze for a breath longer, then disappeared upstairs.

She stood in place for a long while after, her hand brushing lightly over her skirts, her heart beating a strange rhythm against her ribs.

No, this wasn’t love. Not yet.

But something was beginning. Something slow and uncertain and real.

Later that evening, the study was dimly lit, the hearth crackling softly against the quiet. Shelves lined with old scrolls and ledgers framed the room in orderly shadows. Liora stepped in cautiously, her eyes drawn to Lucien seated behind a low table, maps and parchment spread before him.

He didn’t look up immediately, but his voice welcomed her. "Close the door."

She obeyed, stepping closer, the scent of smoke and parchment familiar now. Lucien gestured to the seat across from him. "I thought you should see this."

Liora sat, her gaze dropping to the parchment he pushed toward her, a sketch of the Petra borderlands, marked in red ink.

"These villages...two of them had no guards. No coin from the crown. And no proper grain stores, even after the last harvest," he said. "But someone’s been collecting taxes from them."

Her eyes narrowed. "From whom?"

"That’s the question," he murmured. "Someone in the capital is bleeding them dry, under Alden’s nose."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "And they think it’s me."

"What?" She blinked, stunned. "Why would they think..."

"Because I’m the disgraced prince. And disgraced men make perfect villains." His jaw clenched, bitterness edging his voice.

Liora’s fingers brushed the edge of the parchment. "Do you believe Alden knows?"

"I don’t know what Alden knows anymore," Lucien muttered. "But the people don’t trust him. And they certainly don’t trust me."

Silence fell between them, heavy and uncertain.

Liora’s voice broke it gently. "You went there to protect them, didn’t you?"

He looked at her, tired eyes locking with hers. "That’s what I’ve always done. Just... not well enough, it seems."

She shook her head. "I think you’ve done more than most ever would."

Lucien studied her, really studied her, for a long, quiet moment. There was no blush in her cheeks, no fluttering gaze, but something steady in the way she looked back at him. She wasn’t trying to comfort him; she was telling the truth.

And somehow, that steadiness reached him.

His voice softened. "I didn’t think you’d last here, Liora."

"I didn’t either," she replied. "But I don’t run from shadows. Not anymore."

Another silence passed. Then, as if testing the weight of it, Lucien asked, "And if those shadows come for me?"

"I’ll still be here."

He didn’t smile. But something subtle shifted in his face, like the beginning of one.

He leaned back in his chair, the lines of weariness around his eyes softening just enough to let a flicker of trust through.

"Then we keep going," he said.

"Yes," Liora whispered. "We keep going."

Outside, the wind brushed softly against the windows, like the hush of something watching, waiting for the next step they’d take together.

The days in Petra moved slowly, yet with purpose.

Liora spent most mornings with the steward reviewing supply requests and labor rosters. Edgar, once stiff and formal, now occasionally grumbled less when she asked to cross-check ledgers. In truth, she had begun to understand the rhythms of this place, not just the people, but the silence between their needs. The unspoken anxieties.

But even in the routine, something between her and Lucien had begun to shift.

It wasn’t affection, not yet. Not warmth. But a quiet awareness.

He no longer avoided her presence. He expected it.

Today, as she entered the courtyard with the latest correspondence from the border officers, she spotted him by the archery range. Alone.

No guards. No, Rowan.

Lucien stood with his back to her, bow in hand, his form still and focused. His cloak rested on a low stone wall nearby, sword propped beside it. He drew and released. The arrow struck dead center.

Liora didn’t announce herself. But he must have sensed her because he lowered the bow and glanced over his shoulder.

"You’ve been avoiding the kitchens," he said casually.

She lifted the papers. "Only because the steward needed me."

"Mm," Lucien hummed. "Edgar seems to think you’ve become his replacement."

"I think Edgar secretly likes being bossed around."

He allowed a faint smirk before returning to the bow. "Come here."

Liora blinked. "I’m not..."

"I didn’t say shoot. Just... come."

She walked to his side, the earth soft beneath her slippers.

Lucien handed her the bow.

She hesitated.

"I said I wasn’t going to shoot..."

"And you won’t." His tone was calm. Not teasing, not commanding. Just... expectant.

She took the bow.

He moved behind her, too close, and adjusted her stance, his hand brushing her wrist as he guided her fingers around the grip. She could feel the heat of him at her back, but he said nothing more than, "Hold it like this. Balanced."

Liora focused. She didn’t breathe.

"You’re too tense," he said, quietly now. "The bow won’t fight you. You’re fighting yourself."

Her jaw clenched. "That’s not helpful advice."

"It is," he murmured. "You just don’t like hearing it."

They stood like that, her gripping the bow, him close behind, the silence heavy.

Finally, she exhaled. A long, steady breath.

"Better," Lucien said, and stepped away.

She turned slightly, brows furrowed. "Was that the lesson?"

He met her gaze. "No."

"Then..."

"It was about seeing if you’d let me guide you."

That stopped her. Not because of the words, but the quiet honesty in them.

She lowered the bow. "And did I?"

His expression was unreadable. "You did."

Then he turned away, retrieving his sword and cloak, leaving her in the silence of the courtyard.

Liora stared at the target. She hadn’t released a single arrow.

But something had shifted.

Not in the bow.