Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 32: Don’t need servants who think

Chapter 32: Don’t need servants who think

Lucien lay sprawled on his bed, his arm resting over his forehead as he stared up at the dark wooden ceiling. It had been long since sleep abandoned him. The dull throbbing in his arm had become a persistent irritation, not quite painful but it was unbearable for him. This wound should have hurt, not itched.

His fingers twitched against the linen sheets, resisting the urge to scratch at the cut. During the fight that soldier’s blade had grazed him, it was not that severe, but Lucien had enough experience with wounds to know this wasn’t normal. A deep frown settled on his lips. It wasn’t poisoned, at least not by any toxin he was familiar with, yet it burned beneath his skin in a way that didn’t sit right with him. Now his patience was wearing out.

The physician hadn’t come when asked; the man had sent word that neither he nor his assistants could attend to him at such an hour. Even the lesser doctors had refused, using the late night and the estate’s distance from the capital as an excuse. Their audacity was laughable even though his status as a former prince might be tainted, but he was still of royal blood. The same doctors who once groveled at his feet now dared to deny him.

Lucien let out a bitterchuckle. With a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand down his face, his fingers grazing the stubble along his jaw as the itching worsened.

"Tch.... Damn it."

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. He was smooth with that despite the exhaustion from the day. The soft moonlight from the window illuminated the defined ridges of his torso and his muscles honed from years of battle. Even though Lucien was a heavy drinker, despite his tendency for drinking, his body refused to betray him. But at the moment he needed something to stop the irritation. It can be anything.

Not having Rowan around, who will probably be somewhere grumbling his antics. And Samuel? At this hour, he is deep sleepers, so he would be of no use in this situation.

Lucien wasn’t about to wake the entire estate over something so trivial, so pulling on a white robe, he left it loosely draped over his shoulders, his collarbone and part of his chest still exposed. He stepped on the polished floors; he opened his door quitely, as the estate was silent, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight casting long shadows against the walls.

But then a faint sound of muffled but unmistakable sobs was coming through the room there, where his so-called concubines stay. Lucien’s steps faltered for a mere second; he glanced at the door and thought nothing before he continued walking.

A bitter scoff left his lips. How typical, but he must say his mother had chosen a weak one; ignoring it, he turned away and continued his way down the hall towards the kitchen If there was anything remotely useful to treat his wound, he would find it there.

In the kitchen, there was only a single lamp burning on the platform, near the window. The air was filled with the scent of charred wood and faint traces of spices lingering in the air. Most of the servants had retired for the night, except for one, One of the maids who looked like she must be in her 30s stood by the washbasin, rinsing her hands. Her blonde hair was tied in a messy bun; she looked like the work drained her all and now exhaustion took over her.

At the sound of footsteps that were coming from the door, she straightened up as her eyes widened.

"M-Master Lucien..." She hurriedly bowed, her voice slightly shaking. "How may I serve you, my lord?"

Lucien ran his hand through his hair; he was not used to being in the kitchen. Is there anything to eat?" His voice came out lower than always; his drained voice

The maid looked around frantically before her gaze landed on a pot sitting on the counter.

"Yes, my Lord! I—I just prepared some soup earlier," she said quickly.

Lucien nodded. "Heat it up and bring it to the dining hall."

She bowed deeply before rushing to reheat the food.

Lucien turned away, exiting the kitchen and making his way toward the dining hall.

The dining hall was quiet; it was the occasional crackle of the lamps flickering along the walls.

Lucien sat at the long wooden table, his gaze drifting toward the tall glass windows that overlooked the courtyard. The moon cast a pale glow over the barren land. It was lifeless, just like the rest of this estate.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his injured arm. The itch had not even dulled slightly, and the irritation still lingered.

Soon, the maid arrived, carefully placing the bowl in front of him.

She cleared her throat. "I prepared this just now, my lord."

Lucien didn’t acknowledge her as he picked up the spoon and took a sip.

The moment the taste touched his tongue, his body frozen as the taste of the soup lingered on his tongue and his grip on the spoon tightened as he gritted his teeth, swallowing the bitterness of his memories along with the soup he sipped,

His chest burned, and it was not from the heat of the soup but from something far worse than a soup.

"Pumpkin??"

His stomach twisted violently.

Without hesitation, he smacked the bowl off the table.

The porcelain shattered against the floor, the sound echoing through the empty hall.

The maid flinched, eyes wide with horror.

Lucien slowly stood, his gaze dark, his lips curling in disgust.

"Don’t you have any idea?" His voice was low and dangerous; he sounded like the dark day of the sky, thundering clouds,

The maid trembled. "M-My lord?"

Lucien’s fingers twitched. His breath came out slow and controlled, but his patience had already snapped.

"I hate pumpkin soup."

The maid turned ghostly pale, her hands trembling and slouching as she took a step back.

"I... didn’t know... sir."

"You thought," Lucien cut her off coldly. "I don’t need servants who think. I need servants who listen."

The woman swallowed hard, bowing so low her forehead nearly touched the floor.

"F...Forgive me, my lord! I...I only thought something warm and light would..."

"Get. Out."

She didn’t hesitate to stay for long too, gathering the broken pieces in a hurry; she nearly tripped over herself as she scrambled out of the dining hall.

Lucien exhaled harshly, his fingers dragging through his hair as he turned back to the windows.

Pumpkin soup.

He hadn’t tasted it in years, not since her and not since the woman who once sat across from him, smiling softly as she stirred a bowl of the same wretched soup ,,the same woman whose existence had been erased from his life.