Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 113: He’s my master

Chapter 113: He’s my master

That evening, as the sun dipped behind Petra’s worn stone walls, Liora found herself wandering the corridors without direction. Her hands itched for parchment, for routine, but her thoughts were too scattered to focus. The moment in the courtyard clung to her like a faint perfume. Not overpowering. Just there.

She ended up near the old stables, where the horses were quieter, more accustomed to the hum of dusk. Rowan stood at the edge of the paddock, arms folded as he watched the stable boys lead a colt into its pen.

"You’ve become a ghost lately," he said without turning.

"I could say the same for you."

He chuckled. "Ah, but I was always a shadow. You? You were sunlight, once."

She leaned against the post beside him. "And what am I now?"

Rowan finally turned to look at her. "Stormlight."

Liora raised a brow.

"Still bright," he said, "but sharp. Dangerous. You’ve changed."

"So has your prince."

Rowan didn’t reply immediately. His silence was weighty, layered with a thousand unspoken things.

"I don’t know what he is to me," Liora admitted softly. "I don’t know what I am to him."

Rowan’s smile faded. "He doesn’t need you to know yet. He just needs you to stay."

Liora looked away. "That’s a cruel thing to ask of someone."

"Not when it’s him asking."

She didn’t answer that. Couldn’t.

Instead, she watched the colt settle, watched the quiet strength in its limbs. Not wild. Just waiting for the right hand to reach for it.

Lucien didn’t ask where she had been that evening.

He merely paused as she entered the main hall, his eyes flicking toward her with something unreadable, somewhere between acknowledgment and curiosity. Then he continued speaking to Edgar about grain shipments and winter stores.

Liora took her place beside them, her face calm.

But her heart...

Her heart had begun to notice.

Not just the curve of his voice or the steadiness of his command.

But the silence in which he let her exist without asking her to prove her worth.

It wasn’t love. Not even close.

But it was something.

Something beginning.

The next morning arrived with the chill of early frost clinging to the stone windowsills. Petra was awakening slowly, and so was Liora.

She hadn’t slept well, not from nightmares, but from thought. She turned over her conversation with Rowan and the quiet glances Lucien had spared her. It wasn’t affection. She knew that. But it was no longer the biting indifference of when they first met.

Still, she wouldn’t allow herself to hope. Hope was dangerous. It made women foolish.

She had seen enough foolish women in her lifetime, starting with her mother.

Wrapped in her cloak, Liora made her way toward the outer garden, the one shielded from the wind, where Beatrice liked to gather herbs.

She didn’t expect to find Lucien already there.

He stood near a low stone wall, arms crossed, gazing at the sleeping valley beyond. The breeze toyed with his dark hair, and for once, he wasn’t dressed in formal black. A deep navy coat, simple gloves. Less of a prince. More of a man.

"Are you following me now?" he asked without turning.

"No," Liora said, folding her arms. "You’re in my spot."

He glanced over his shoulder, an amused glint in his eyes. "I didn’t realize I needed permission to stand in my own courtyard."

She walked past him and sat on the low wall beside the rosemary bush. "It’s not yours. Not yet."

A beat of silence.

Then, "You’re right."

She looked up in surprise.

Lucien studied the horizon, the morning sun casting faint shadows under his eyes. "This place was given to me like a cage is given to a beast that no longer serves the court. Petra is a gilded exile."

Liora let the words sit between them. She wasn’t sure if he expected a reply, or even wanted one.

"It doesn’t feel like a cage," she finally said.

"No?" he asked, eyes on her now.

She met his gaze. "It feels like a beginning."

Lucien was quiet.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

Just enough to leave the silence behind him, like an invitation left unanswered.

Liora sat there long after he was gone.

And for the first time since she’d arrived, she didn’t feel like a burden tucked into someone else’s disgrace.

She felt seen , not loved, but it was enough for now.

Beatrice found Liora later that morning, still in the garden, her fingers absently weaving rosemary stems into a crude braid.

"You’re up early," the older woman remarked, carrying a shallow basket filled with dried chamomile and mint. "Did the stones whisper you awake again?"

Liora smiled faintly. "No. Just... couldn’t sleep."

Beatrice sat beside her with a slow groan. Her knees were beginning to stiffen more often, but her eyes remained sharp as ever. "That means your mind’s working too much. Tell me, is it the past or the present keeping you up?"

Liora didn’t answer at first. Then, "Maybe both."

Beatrice didn’t pry. Instead, she offered her the basket. "Help me sort these. Your fingers are quicker than mine."

They worked in silence, a comforting rhythm between them. The air smelled of crushed mint and the faint iron tang of the approaching rain. Petra, for all its remoteness, had a strange way of softening its edges, perhaps because there were no eyes here waiting to judge, no whispers to trap one’s breath.

When Beatrice finally spoke again, her voice was gentler. "Lucien... is a difficult man. He doesn’t give his trust easily."

"I’m not looking for his trust," Liora said quickly.

Beatrice gave her a knowing look. "Aren’t you?"

Liora blinked. "He’s... my master. That’s all."

"And yet you watch him like he’s a riddle you want to solve."

"I only want to understand him."

"That’s the first step to something deeper, child."

Liora glanced away. "It’s not like that."

"No. Not yet. But feelings rarely knock before entering. They sneak in through the cracks you don’t notice." Beatrice dusted her hands off and gave her a look that was half affection, half warning. "Just be sure you aren’t looking for warmth from a fire that’s forgotten how to burn."

Liora sat with those words as Beatrice rose and walked away.

She didn’t want to fall for Lucien. She wasn’t even sure she could. He was distant, tormented, and powerful in a way that could crush a girl like her without meaning to. But there was something in him... something unspoken, yet familiar. Like she was staring into a broken mirror that somehow still reflected a part of herself.

That afternoon, Lucien didn’t speak to her.

But as she passed through the library to return a book, she found a cup of warm spiced tea waiting for her on the windowsill.

No note.

Just steam curling in the soft light, and a sprig of rosemary floating inside.

by the time Lucien returned to the estate, Petra’s distant silhouette was cast in a golden hue behind him. Dust clung to his boots and the hem of his coat, a quiet reminder of the miles he’d covered and the silence he’d stewed in along the way.

Liora stood in the herb garden, gently brushing soil from her fingertips as he passed. She didn’t greet him, nor did he expect her to, but her gaze briefly lifted, catching his before falling again. The wordless exchange lingered longer than either admitted.

Inside, Rowan waited, his expression unreadable. "The outpost commander confirmed suspicions," he said without pleasantries. "Petra’s supply chain has been tampered with. Grain shipments from the eastern border are weeks delayed, if not fully rerouted."

Lucien shed his gloves, his jaw tense. "So the rumors weren’t just whispers after all."

"No," Rowan said. "And they’ve traced the rerouting to a minister’s seal. High-level. Someone with access to royal stores."

Lucien let the implication sink in. Corruption inside the palace is nothing new, but dangerous now, with Alden so obsessed with maintaining a frail balance of power.

"I want names. And I want to know if Petra’s shortages are intentional or opportunistic." His voice dropped. "We cannot afford unrest in the countryside—not now."

Outside the chamber, Liora heard only fragments. She lingered near the hallway corner, unseen but not unnoticed.

Beatrice passed her slowly, the older woman’s tone firm. "Curiosity is a dangerous habit in the wrong places, child."

"I wasn’t..." Liora began.

"You were," Beatrice said, not unkindly. "You’re not just another girl here, whether you like it or not. Best learn when to listen and when to pretend not to."

Liora said nothing. The door to the chamber closed with a dull thud behind her, the discussion inside continuing, now muffled. Her fingers brushed the smooth fabric of her sash, a gift from the house seamstress, unsolicited. She didn’t belong here, not really. Not in this house, not in these halls.

But she wasn’t leaving either.

Later that night, a tray of tea arrived outside Lucien’s study. She hadn’t brewed it herself, but she’d added the pinch of lavender. A small thing. Meaningless, maybe.

Or maybe not.

Lucien didn’t notice the scent at first. But when he took the first sip, something shifted. It wasn’t trust. It wasn’t affection. But it was awareness of a quiet effort, of someone who wasn’t entirely what others thought her to be.

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