Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 117: I should check your wound

Chapter 117: I should check your wound

For the first time, there was something almost too perceptive in Elric’s gaze that was not of arrogance, not even flirtation, but curiosity sharpened by recognition.

Before she could answer, footsteps echoed from the hall.

Lucien appeared in the doorway, silent, his presence like a shift in the wind.

Elric straightened up immediately. "Commander."

Lucien’s eyes flicked between them. "You’re supposed to be resting."

"I was," Elric said quickly. "Lady Liora’s tending fixed me up fast."

Lucien didn’t answer. He only looked at Liora, She met his gaze, calm as ever.

"I’ll be going," Elric muttered, sensing the change in atmosphere. "Thank you, Lady Liora."

When he left, the door creaked closed behind him, leaving the room in quiet tension.

Lucien didn’t move.

Liora turned back to her shelf.

"He’s a good soldier," she said, lightly. "And a reckless one."

"You don’t owe him conversation."

"I didn’t offer it."

Lucien stepped inside now, the door falling shut behind him. "He looks at you."

Liora glanced at him over her shoulder. "Many people look, Lucien. Not everyone sees."

He didn’t reply at first. Then...

"And what do you see?"

She paused.

"You’re not as unreadable as you think," she said softly.

And she left it at that, brushing past him, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, not mockery, not flirtation. Just something real. And fleeting.

He watched her go.

This time, he didn’t stop her.

The clang of steel rang across the training field, rhythmic and sharp. Soldiers moved in formation, grunting under the weight of practice blows. From a shaded corner near the armory, Lucien stood with arms crossed, his eyes not on the drills but on the figure by the edge of the grounds.

Liora was kneeling beside Elric, wrapping a fresh bandage around his arm. Her voice was soft, calm. She said something that made him chuckle, and he leaned in a fraction too close.

Lucien’s jaw twitched.

"You’re staring again," Rowan murmured, appearing beside him.

Lucien didn’t glance at him. "He dislocated that arm five days ago. He shouldn’t even be lifting a sword."

"And yet, there he is. At least he’s got a good reason," Rowan said dryly. "Or a pretty one."

Lucien shot him a look.

Rowan grinned. "What? She’s kind, she’s quiet, and she has enough spine to hold her own around you. Men aren’t blind."

Lucien turned away, striding toward the barracks.

Rowan called after him, "Jealousy makes terrible armor, Lucien. Even on you."

The light was fading into rose and lavender. Liora stepped out into the courtyard, brushing loose strands of hair behind her ear. She paused when she saw Lucien leaning against the wall near the herb garden, arms folded again, always watching.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Should I be asking you that?"

She arched a brow. "Because I treated a soldier?"

He didn’t answer right away.

Liora let the quiet stretch, then said gently, "You’re not subtle, Lucien. Not about him. Not about... this."

His gaze didn’t shift. "He’s careless."

"And I’m not," she replied. "I know what I’m doing."

"I never said you didn’t."

She tilted her head. "Then why are you here?"

A beat.

Then Lucien’s voice, quieter. "I don’t like the way he looks at you."

The words hung in the air, stark and unguarded.

Liora’s breath caught, not from shock, but from the weight of them.

She stepped closer, not challenging, just... near.

"Then don’t watch him. Watch me."

Lucien looked at her fully then, something raw flickering behind his calm.

Liora’s gaze softened, not yielding, not quite inviting, but acknowledging the space between them.

And then, she stepped past him.

"Goodnight, Commander."

Lucien turned his head slightly, watching the swing of her braid, the measured steps that never faltered.

"Goodnight, Liora."

The air inside the command tent was tight with heat and low murmurs. Maps sprawled across the central table, ink still drying on revised routes.

Lucien stood at the head, sharp-eyed as his officers spoke, but his mind wasn’t entirely present, it was not when his gaze occasionally flicked to the side of the tent where Rowan whispered something into Liora’s ear and she laughed, softly, covering her mouth.

And not when Elric stepped in unannounced, his arm still bound but his posture overly confident.

Lucien’s jaw clenched.

"Didn’t I dismiss you until you healed?" he asked flatly.

Elric grinned. "Just here to see if Lady Liora might clear me for drills tomorrow."

"She’s a medic. Not your commanding officer."

Liora raised her eyes slowly. "He’s improving. I can look at the wound after this meeting."

Lucien’s gaze met hers. Something in it asked more than the moment allowed.

The rest of the council felt the undercurrent and shifted uncomfortably. Rowan cleared his throat and pushed the conversation back to tactics.

But Lucien’s mood had shifted.

The flame in the lantern threw flickering shadows across the canvas walls. Lucien stood by the open flap, arms tense at his sides.

When a soft knock sounded, he already knew who it was.

"Come in."

Liora entered, tucking loose hair behind her ear. "You wanted to see me?"

He nodded toward the chair. "Sit."

She did.

"I’m reassigning you," he said simply.

Her brows lifted. "Why?"

"You’ll treat only my men from now on. No rotating through general infirmary."

She looked at him. "Is this about Elric?"

"It’s about protocol. Efficiency."

She didn’t believe that, not for a second.

"Lucien," she said gently, "you can’t move people like pieces on a board just because something unsettles you."

His voice was cool. "Is that what you think I’m doing?"

"I think you’re not used to feeling unsure. And you are. Around me. Around him."

His eyes flashed then, barely, but it was enough.

"I don’t like distractions," he said.

"And what am I?" she asked, the quiet challenge in her voice soft but steady.

Lucien stepped closer, just enough to let her feel the heat radiating from him.

"Something I didn’t plan for," he said.

The silence stretched between them.

But Liora didn’t lean back. She didn’t lower her gaze. "I’ll treat your men. But only if you stop trying to guard me like some possession."

He didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

The sharp scent of herbs hung in the morning air as Liora carefully inspected the salve she had prepared. Her hands moved with practiced grace, but her mind lingered on the words Lucien had said the night before.

"Something I didn’t plan for."

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

And yet.

"Lady Liora," came Elric’s voice from behind.

She turned to find him standing just inside the flap, a crooked smile on his face and a tray of dried fruit and flatbread in hand.

"For you," he added, placing it on the corner of her desk. "A small thank you."

She blinked. "You didn’t have to..."

"I know. That’s what makes it a gesture and not a bribe," he said, grinning.

Liora chuckled under her breath, despite herself.

Elric settled on the stool across from her, watching her crush herbs into a powder. "You don’t talk much about yourself."

"Not much to say."

"Is that so? You’ve managed to soften the captain’s scowl. That’s worth a story or two."

Her hand paused mid-motion.

"I doubt that," she said, attempting to dismiss the implication.

But Elric wasn’t blind. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "He looks at you like a man watching something he’s trying hard not to want."

The pestle slipped from her fingers, clattering softly in the bowl.

"I should check your wound," she muttered.

"Of course," Elric said, sitting up straighter.

As she peeled back the bandage, she didn’t see Lucien standing outside the tent, partially hidden behind the flap. He hadn’t planned to come; he only meant to check if she was up yet.

But the sound of her laughter and Elric’s voice had rooted him in place.

He watched her reach forward, hand brushing against the soldier’s bare shoulder as she adjusted the bandage. The touch was clinical. Professional.

Still, something about it gripped Lucien’s chest too tightly.

A voice at his back startled him.

"You’ll wear a hole through the tent if you keep standing there like a ghost," Rowan muttered.

Lucien didn’t reply.

Rowan eyed the captain. "Jealousy doesn’t suit you. Especially not when you haven’t even admitted what you want."

Lucien’s response was a long, heavy silence before he turned away from the tent.

Lucien’s stride slowed as he approached the infirmary’s outer garden. His boots crunched against the gravel, but it wasn’t the noise that drew his attention. It was the soft sound of laughter; it was Liora’s, unmistakably.

She stood by a bench under the old magnolia tree, her face turned up, smiling at someone seated. A young, dark-haired man with a sling over his arm spoke animatedly, gesturing with his free hand. His robes marked him as a noble, likely minor, but his ease around her was gratingly familiar.

Lucien’s brows furrowed.

He didn’t approach immediately. Instead, he observed, arms crossed.