Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 120: I will return by the third day.

Chapter 120: I will return by the third day.

Liora sat by the low table in the infirmary, carefully grinding dried petals of redroot into a fine powder. The fragrance of mint and clove clung to her fingers, soothing in its simplicity. Aeren stood at the opposite side, slicing dried ginger roots with meticulous focus.

"Lady Liora," he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence, "have you ever thought of becoming a court physician?"

She blinked. "Me?"

"You have the hands for it," he said with a small smile. "Steady. Gentle. And unlike most healers I’ve worked with, you listen."

She laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think I’d rather stay here, where I can breathe."

"Even if Petra isn’t always... peaceful?"

She glanced toward the open doorway, where shadows of soldiers passed and the air carried the faint scent of steel and sweat.

"Peace, I’ve learned, isn’t just the absence of chaos," she murmured. "Sometimes it’s the people who make it bearable."

Aeren’s gaze lingered on her face a second too long. "Then I hope we’re making it bearable."

Before she could respond, the door creaked open. Rowan entered, dust clinging to his cloak, a concerned crease between his brows.

"Lady Liora," he said, nodding briefly to Aeren, "the prince has left."

She looked up. "What?"

"He received a message from the capital. Left without much explanation. Took only Beatrice and two guards."

Her chest tightened. "Where did he go?"

"To the borderlands. He didn’t say why."

Aeren glanced between them, expression unreadable.

Liora stood, brushing the dust from her skirts, her heart beginning to race. "Did he... did he say anything else?"

Rowan hesitated. "Only that you should remain here. Safe."

She nodded slowly, but the knot in her stomach didn’t ease. It wasn’t like Lucien to leave without at least a word to her. Not anymore. Not after everything.

As Rowan turned to leave, Aeren spoke again, quietly this time.

"He doesn’t trust easily. But I think he trusts you."

Liora lowered her gaze. "That’s what frightens me."

The wind was cruel in the borderlands.

Lucien rode through it without flinching, the collar of his cloak drawn up against the sting of dust and cold. The terrain here was harsher, more unforgiving. Trees were sparser, and the villages they passed were wary, windows shuttered at the sight of approaching riders.

Beatrice remained silent beside him, her face shadowed beneath the hood. The guards kept a respectful distance behind, their horses’ hooves a dull thud against the packed earth.

Lucien pulled the reins at a low ridge. From here, he could see the sprawl of the valley—narrow farmlands, a river thinned by drought, and in the distance, the faint shimmer of encampments that did not bear his brother’s banners.

"They’ve crossed the border," he murmured.

Beatrice nodded. "Alden’s message confirmed as much. Mercenaries. Disguised as traders. They’ve taken refuge under a local baron."

"And Alden wants them dealt with quietly," Lucien finished. "So it doesn’t reach the court."

Beatrice’s eyes met his. "He trusts you to be discreet."

Lucien smirked bitterly. "Or he trusts I won’t survive it."

He tapped his horse’s flank and descended the ridge.

Back in Petra, Liora moved through the infirmary with a quiet purpose, but her thoughts were far from her work.

At night, she found herself wandering the silent halls. The absence of Lucien was a weight she hadn’t expected. She tried to ignore it. She told herself it didn’t matter, that he was nothing more than her master, her protector, a man with secrets and wounds far beyond her reach.

But the way he had looked at her that night, the soft defiance in his voice when he said her kindness frightened him, it haunted her.

She paused outside the old observatory, its roof long collapsed, the stars above raw and cold.

Behind her, footsteps.

She turned.

Aeren stood there, a cloak in his hands. "You shouldn’t be out here without this."

She accepted it wordlessly. He moved to stand beside her, their shoulders just inches apart.

"He’ll return," Aeren said.

"I didn’t ask."

"You didn’t need to."

Liora said nothing, only tightened the cloak around herself and looked back up at the stars.

The mercenary encampment was nestled in the shadow of an abandoned watchtower, its stones half-sunken into the earth, ivy climbing the crumbled walls like veins. Smoke curled lazily from their fires, too casual, too confident. They thought they were hidden.

Lucien crouched behind a ridge, peering down with narrowed eyes. Beatrice was beside him, crossbow slung across her back, expression unreadable.

"There are more than we expected," she whispered. "Twenty, maybe more."

Lucien’s jaw clenched. "Then we split them. I’ll draw them toward the ravine. You take the archers on the far side."

"They’ll recognize your face."

"That’s the point."

She didn’t ask questions. Beatrice knew better. Lucien rose slowly, pulling the hood from his head and tossing his cloak aside.

A prince’s face, a disgraced one, but still dangerous. Still remembered.

He stepped into the clearing, and like wolves scenting blood, the mercenaries stood.

Back in Petra, Aeren was becoming a familiar presence in the infirmary, too familiar.

Liora had noticed it, even if she refused to acknowledge it.

He asked questions about herbs. About patients. About her. Always with a smile, always with a strange warmth that unsettled her more than it should.

Today, he lingered too long by her table, watching as she prepared a poultice.

"You’re quiet," he said.

"I’m working."

"You’re worried."

She stopped, her fingers tightening around the mortar. "If you have time to talk, help with the splints."

He obeyed without a word, but the silence that followed was thick with unspoken things.

Later, when she left for the courtyard to catch a breath of air, she found him again.

"You don’t have to carry it alone," he said gently.

"I’m not carrying anything."

Aeren took a step closer. "You’re waiting for him."

Liora’s eyes flickered. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

He tilted his head. "Don’t I?"

Before she could respond, a voice broke through the quiet.

"Miss Liora!"

A steward. Breathless. Holding a sealed letter.

She took it with trembling fingers. The crest was smeared with dried blood. Her stomach dropped.

Lucien’s seal.

Liora didn’t wait. She tore the seal, her eyes scanning the parchment with rising urgency. Her heart pounded with every word, her breath growing shallow.

I will return by the third day. Do not be alarmed if you hear otherwise. Trust no rumors. Trust only this.

—L

That was all.

Nothing about where he was. Nothing about what he faced.

But blood had dried on the seal. That told her more than the letter did.

She gripped the parchment tightly, chest tightening. Aeren approached quietly, having watched her expression pale.

"News?" he asked.

She folded the letter. "Nothing for you to worry about."

He didn’t press, but she caught the way his gaze lingered, it was curious, maybe even concerned. But there was something else. A flash of disappointment. A question he didn’t voice.

The ambush at the ravine unfolded like clockwork. Lucien led the mercenaries into the narrow gorge where Beatrice’s archers lay in wait.

Steel clashed. Screams echoed off stone walls.

Lucien’s blade danced, efficient and brutal, his movements honed by years of war and betrayal. But it wasn’t just anger that drove him now. It was purposeful.

He thought of Liora.

Not her smile or her kindness, but her silence. Her restraint. Her stubborn refusal to let anyone in, least of all him.

And still, he fought as if she were watching.

Night fell.

Petra slept.

Liora stood by the infirmary window, unable to rest.

She held the letter again, her thumb brushing over the final stroke of his name.

Somewhere in the night, Aeren passed the hallway. He paused, watching her silhouette, unaware that from the shadows outside the infirmary, someone else was watching too.

A rider cloaked in black. Dust-covered. Silent.

Lucien.

But he didn’t enter. Not yet.

He needed to see what had changed... before he stepped back into her world.

Lucien dismounted silently, eyes fixed on the lit window. Liora’s figure was outlined by the candle’s flicker, unaware. Her hair was loose, her hand still clutching the letter.

He took a breath but didn’t move forward. Just watched.

Inside, Liora finally turned from the window. The night was too quiet. She stepped out of the infirmary, arms wrapped around herself. A gust of wind carried dust and the faint scent of horses.

She paused.

Lucien stepped out of the shadows then. "You’re still awake."

She froze, disbelief flickering across her face. "You’re back."

He nodded once. "I said I would be."

"I saw the blood."

"It wasn’t mine."

She looked away. "I didn’t sleep."

A beat passed.

"You could have said more," she muttered. "One line. That’s all you wrote."

"I didn’t know what would reach you."

She met his gaze now, steady. "I would have waited."

Lucien didn’t respond. He only looked at her longer than he should have.

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