Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 121: It’s not jealousy

Chapter 121: It’s not jealousy

Lucien turned toward the sound slowly. Their eyes met.

Aeren offered a polite nod. "I see you made it back safely."

Lucien returned the nod, voice flat. "I always do."

Liora said nothing.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense, but something had shifted.

Lucien finally said, "You should rest. Both of you."

He walked past them then, vanishing into the hallway, the weight of silence trailing behind.

Liora didn’t move.

Aeren broke it softly, "He always walks away like that?"

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t know if it was distance... or something else entirely.

Liora stood still, the warmth of Lucien’s voice already fading into the night.

Aeren cleared his throat softly. "He must have seen the light in your window."

She nodded, but her thoughts were elsewhere. "He always notices."

Aeren tilted his head. "You care for him."

She didn’t answer right away. "He’s my master. I respect him."

"That wasn’t what I asked."

She looked at him then, her eyes sharp but tired. "It’s late, Aeren."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "So it is."

He didn’t push. He just bowed slightly before walking back toward the outer wing, his steps unhurried.

Liora turned and made her way inside, but her mind wasn’t calm.

Lucien’s eyes had been shadowed, guarded, but something had cracked. Something unspoken.

The next morning came with the sound of hoofbeats again, too early for routine, too loud for calm.

Beatrice met Lucien in the hallway. "You summoned the guards to the estate?"

"There’s word from the border," he said curtly. "Movement from the Eastern Range. Alden wants confirmation."

"And the girl?" Beatrice asked. "Will she be involved?"

Lucien’s jaw tightened. "She’ll stay where she is."

"You’re sure that’s wise?" Beatrice folded her hands. "She hears more than you think. People speak in front of her."

"She won’t be a pawn."

Beatrice’s eyes lingered. "You can’t protect her from everything."

He didn’t reply.

Meanwhile, in the infirmary, Liora ran her hand along a folded map she’d found, it was left behind by mistake or maybe on purpose.

Marked trails. Notations. The border towns near Petra.

She frowned.

Something was coming. And once again, Lucien was at the center of it.

She’d promised to stay away from palace politics. But it seemed fate had other plans.

By midday, the estate brimmed with quiet urgency. Footmen carried rolled parchments and crates of sealed supplies. Rowan oversaw the inspections, while Samuel double-checked every guard shift with the meticulousness only war-born instincts could command.

From the upper corridor, Liora watched them.

Beatrice’s voice came from behind. "You shouldn’t linger where war whispers."

Liora turned. "Is it war then?"

The older woman didn’t confirm. "You’re clever, girl. That can be dangerous in times like these."

"I only listen."

"And watching?" Beatrice gave a sideways glance. "You look at him as though you’d leap between him and a sword."

Liora flinched. "I owe him my safety. That’s all."

Beatrice chuckled, dry and unsentimental. "Then you owe a debt too large to repay. Because safety... is never free."

Before Liora could respond, hurried steps approached. Rowan arrived with parchment in hand.

"Liora, you’re needed in the lower chamber. A patient."

She followed, grateful for the distraction, only to find someone unexpected waiting.

A young man sat on the cot, his tunic travel-stained, a red gash across his forearm. His gaze lifted when she entered, light hazel eyes and a smile too calm for someone wounded.

"You must be the healer," he said. "I’m Rian."

She approached silently, cleaning his wound. "You’re not from the estate."

"No. A traveler." He winced slightly under her touch. "But perhaps fate wanted me here."

She didn’t look up. "You were hurt near Petra?"

He nodded. "Ambushed. Not just bandits, trained men. Someone’s stirring shadows in the Eastern provinces."

Her hands paused. "Did you report it to the prince?"

"Not yet," he murmured. "But I will... if he listens."

"You speak as though you know him."

"I know men like him. Hard. Sharp. And lonely."

She tied off the bandage with care. "He’s not..."

But she stopped herself. Rian’s smile curved again.

"No need to defend him. I’m only passing through."

Yet something in his tone felt too precise.

Too rehearsed.

And behind her quiet care, Lucien watched from the open doorway, eyes locked not on Rian’s wound but on Liora’s soft voice and how she smiled without realizing.

Samuel stood beside him, arms folded. "Should I send the boy on his way?"

Lucien’s answer was cold. "Not yet. Let him stay."

Lucien said nothing for a while after turning away. Samuel, however, remained where he stood, eyes narrowed as he watched the so-called traveler speak too comfortably to Liora.

Later that evening, as dusk painted the estate in hues of deep blue, Rian sat by the servant’s hearth, charming the kitchen staff with light tales of his travels. His wound was neatly wrapped, his posture relaxed, too relaxed for a man who had been attacked, Rowan thought. He watched from a distance, pretending to inspect the firewood.

"He’s staying longer than necessary," Rowan muttered as Lucien joined him in the corridor.

Lucien said nothing. His eyes were locked on the glowing window where laughter occasionally slipped out. Not Liora’s...Rian’s.

"She’s polite," Rowan added. "Too polite."

Lucien gave him a sideways look.

"It’s not jealousy, Highness," Rowan said with a grin. "It’s instinct. That man didn’t just stumble into Petra. He came looking for something."

"Or someone," Lucien muttered.

Beatrice, standing behind them unnoticed, cleared her throat. "The girl is kind. Don’t mistake her mercy for affection."

"I don’t," Lucien said tightly. But even he wasn’t convinced.

The next morning, a letter arrived from the northern borders. An official missive sealed with a golden crest, not from the military but from the Council of External Affairs.

Rowan unrolled it with practiced urgency and read aloud. "Reports of foreign riders spotted in the province of Aveyron. They passed as traders but carried eastern weaponry."

"Let me guess," Samuel added, stepping in, "The High Minister of Trade still insists on opening routes to the Eastern coast?"

Lucien took the letter, his jaw clenched. "And Alden’s court is entertaining their talks."

"They’re courting war," Rowan said grimly. "The East’s involvement in the last rebellion was buried, not forgotten."

"We need someone at court," Lucien said suddenly. "Someone who can speak without being noticed."

Beatrice stepped forward again. "You have someone. And she’s already earned their eyes."

"You mean Liora?"

"She’s not just a concubine in their eyes. She’s the girl from the Miral family. The court hasn’t forgotten what her aunt whispered to the Queen Dowager."

Lucien’s brow furrowed. "You want me to send her into court politics?"

Beatrice smiled. "You said it yourself. She’s not weak. She’s already standing in the fire."

Lucien looked toward the east wing, where Liora was likely preparing fresh salves. The memory of her laughter around Rian stung sharper than he cared to admit. He wasn’t ready to send her into the lion’s den, but perhaps she was already surrounded by wolves.

The next few days unfolded with subtle tension. Lucien hadn’t spoken much to Liora, though he watched her interactions, particularly those with Rian, more closely than ever. There was no confrontation, no accusation, only silence that stretched longer than usual. He wasn’t the kind to express unease in words, but it lingered around him like a storm building in a still sky.

Rian, on the other hand, recovered swiftly. Too swiftly. He’d taken to helping in small tasks around the estate, charming stablehands and maids with his stories, and offering to assist in Liora’s work. She refused his help more often than not, but his persistence remained soft and respectful. Just enough to avoid suspicion, just enough to earn trust.

Rowan kept a watchful eye. So did Samuel. But it was Beatrice who noticed the subtle shift in Liora, her distracted movements and the quiet pauses as if something troubled her mind. It wasn’t Rian, not entirely. It was something deeper. The kind of unease that came from carrying a burden she couldn’t speak aloud.

One evening, as rain drummed against the stone walls and the estate hushed to a lull, Beatrice found Liora in the small apothecary room. The younger woman was grinding herbs, the scent of rosemary and pine filling the air.

"You’re quiet," Beatrice said softly.

Liora didn’t glance up. "I usually am."

"Not like this. You seem... pulled apart."

Liora’s hands slowed. After a moment, she murmured, "Is it wrong to feel unsettled even when nothing terrible is happening?"

Beatrice tilted her head. "It means your instincts are sharper than you think."

There was a silence. Then Liora said, "I don’t trust him. Rian."

Beatrice let out a slow breath. "Neither do we."

Liora looked up. "Then why is he still here?"

"Because Lucien’s waiting," Beatrice said. "Waiting for the right misstep."

That night, a new letter arrived, this time not from court but intercepted en route. Rowan placed it on Lucien’s desk, his expression grim.

"No seal," Rowan muttered. "But it’s in code. Eastern script."

Lucien’s gaze darkened. He opened it, scanning the contents.

After a long silence, he whispered, "It’s about her."

"Liora?" Rowan asked.

Lucien folded the letter carefully. "She’s being watched. Not just by the court. Someone from the East wants her alive."

Rowan stiffened. "Why?"

"I don’t know yet," Lucien said. "But I’ll find out."