Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 114: Davoren

Chapter 114: Davoren

The morning dawned grey and brittle, with a sharp wind that raked through the courtyards and whispered along the stone corridors. Liora stood by the outer colonnade, arms crossed, watching the sky churn.

She wasn’t waiting for Lucien, but his approach was impossible to miss.

His stride was measured, his cloak rippling behind him, yet when he spotted her by the columns, he paused. Just for a second. Then he continued walking, past her, not toward her.

Still, he spoke.

"The southern orchards need inspection today. Beatrice says, You know the grounds better than the new steward’s boys."

It wasn’t a request, nor was it exactly an order.

Liora blinked, then nodded. "I’ll go," she replied, keeping her voice even. "The irrigation channels might still be blocked."

He nodded once in response, then added, after a beat too long, "Dress warm. The wind’s worse out there."

It wasn’t warmth. But it was something.

By midday, they stood under bare fig trees and brittle pomegranate branches, the brittle silence of winter all around them. Liora crouched by one of the irrigation trenches, brushing aside frozen leaves and stones.

Lucien stood nearby, his gaze distant.

She broke the silence first.

"Why me?" she asked softly, her hand still in the soil. "There are others more experienced with land work."

He didn’t answer immediately.

"You don’t complain," he said finally. "You observe. You act."

Liora looked up, a flicker of confusion on her face.

"I watched you, too," he admitted, his tone still neutral. "In the past weeks. You’re not what the palace made you out to be."

"Neither are you," she said before she could stop herself.

He turned toward her, his expression unreadable. She stood, brushing off her hands.

"I mean," she added, quieter now, "you’re... not the monster they whispered about."

A long silence.

Then, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, something not quite a smile.

"Monsters make useful stories," Lucien said. "People are more manageable when they fear what they can’t understand."

"And you?" she asked. "Are you still trying to be feared?"

He glanced toward the horizon. "I’m trying to be left alone."

Their eyes met, and in that instant, something unspoken passed between them, not fondness, not yet. But understanding. Recognition.

She didn’t press him further.

They finished the inspection in silence, their steps more in sync than before.

And when they returned to the estate, she walked a step behind him, not out of submission, but because she didn’t need to catch up anymore.

That evening, the household settled into a kind of calm that was more habitual than peaceful. The fires were lit, the kitchen clattered faintly, and Beatrice moved like clockwork through the halls, ensuring everything ran as it should.

Liora sat in the far corner of the small library, a woolen shawl around her shoulders and a book open on her lap. But her eyes weren’t on the pages.

She could still feel the cold from the orchard clinging to her skin and Lucien’s presence beside her, even in silence. The way his gaze softened when she mentioned the rumors. The flicker of something in his eyes when she said he wasn’t the monster they claimed.

She didn’t know what to make of that.

Lucien had not spoken to her again after they returned. He had disappeared into his study, door shut, guards posted at a distance as always.

Yet... it lingered. The conversation. The cold. The silence between them was slowly, imperceptibly, changing shape.

She closed the book and rose, walking toward the east window. Below, she could see the faint outline of the stables. Lantern light flickered near the entrance.

A figure moved tall, broad, and deliberate. Lucien.

Even from here, she recognized his walk.

He was speaking to Rowan, his voice low and firm. The steward nodded and passed him a scroll.

She lingered, watching.

Not because she was curious, she told herself, but because she was beginning to realize something else:

This place was no longer temporary.

She was no longer waiting to be dismissed, forgotten, or replaced.

And Lucien... he was no longer just the disgraced prince.

He was a man trying to keep something, maybe his land, maybe his sanity, maybe the remnants of something far more fragile.

And that night, as Liora finally allowed herself to sleep, the wind outside softened.

For the first time, the cold didn’t bite quite so deep.

Lucien stood at the edge of the stables long after Rowan had left, the cold wind brushing through the loose strands of his hair. The horses were calm tonight, their breath fogging in the cool air, the only sound a distant rustle of trees and the faint clatter of hooves in sleep-tossed stalls.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

His gloved hand rested on the scroll Rowan had given him, updates from Petra, something about a shipment, a stir among the council, nothing he hadn’t expected. But it wasn’t the ink on the page that occupied his thoughts.

It was her.

Liora.

Not the concubine. Not the unwanted girl sent to him in disgrace. But the quiet woman who had walked beside him that morning, unafraid of the cold or his silence.

She’d said he wasn’t what they called him.

A small thing, barely a whisper in the wind. But it had landed somewhere deep, somewhere untouched in a long, long time.

Lucien exhaled sharply and turned away from the stables. He wasn’t some lovesick fool. Whatever grew between them, if anything could had to remain unseen. The court still watched, even from afar. Even here, Petra carried eyes and mouths.

He didn’t have the luxury of tenderness. Not yet.

But the image of her in the orchard remained. The way she stood her ground. The flicker of resolve in her eyes.

It haunted him.

And perhaps... comforted him too.

He returned to the manor quietly, walking past the guards without a word, through the empty corridor where candlelight trembled on stone walls.

As he neared the staircase, something made him pause.

A faint sound ,the rustle of movement.

He glanced up.

Liora stood at the top of the stairs, a shawl wrapped around her, the book still in her hands. She hadn’t seen him yet. Her expression was distant, lost in whatever world she’d just read herself out of.

Lucien didn’t speak. He only looked at her for a moment longer than necessary, then turned away and climbed the opposite flight of stairs to his study.

Behind him, Liora slowly looked up... and wondered if he’d been watching her too.

Liora was in the infirmary hall with Beatrice, quietly folding linens when the doors opened.

A gust of wind swept in and with it, two guards flanking a tall man with bandaged arms and a limp.

Elric Davoren.

His hair was tousled, his jaw lined with exhaustion and travel dust. But he carried himself like someone used to battle with quiet command, not arrogance.

Beatrice looked up from her ledger. "Another one for the storm."

"Commander Davoren," the guard explained, "was wounded near the border. Lord Lucien approved his recovery here."

Beatrice nodded, but her gaze shifted subtly to Liora.

"You’ll be assisting him. Start with changing his bandages later today. He’ll need someone he can trust. And a reason not to fight his healers."

Liora said nothing, but when her eyes met Elric’s, he gave her a nod , polite, reserved... and curious.

Meanwhile, Elsewhere:

Lucien stood at his window, reading the scroll Rowan had placed on his desk. He’d seen the name Davoren and approved the transfer days ago. He hadn’t expected to feel anything about it.

But when he saw Liora walking beside the man later in the courtyard — laughing softly at something he said — his grip on the windowsill tightened ever so slightly.

Not that it mattered.

Not that it should.

Still... he watched.

And for the first time in a long while, he wondered if someone else could reach her before he ever dared to try.

The infirmary had grown quiet, the bustle of the morning replaced by soft footsteps and the rustle of herbs steeping in clay pots. Liora stood beside Elric’s cot, gently peeling away the linen bandages from his left arm. The wound was healing well, though the bruising still ran deep like spilled ink beneath the skin.

"You don’t win many battles by being stubborn," Elric said, his voice light but frayed at the edges.

Liora glanced at him, offering a half-smile. "You wouldn’t be the first knight to argue otherwise."

Elric chuckled, low and quiet. "No, I suppose I wouldn’t. But Petra isn’t what I expected. Neither are its people."

She paused mid-wrap. "Disappointed?"

"Not in the slightest." His gaze flicked to her, steady. "There’s something... grounding here. You. The way you work. It’s different from court life."

Her hands stilled for a moment before she continued binding his arm. "I’m not part of the court."

He tilted his head, watching her. "No. You’re something else entirely."

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