Sold to My Killer Husband: His Concubine's Dilemma
Chapter 100: I can handle myself

Chapter 100: I can handle myself

"My apologies, Your Majesty. I came as soon as I received..."

"I didn’t call you to grovel," Ellora cut in, voice light but cold. "I wanted to see the girl who’s managed to tame a Blackthorne."

Liora blinked. "I haven’t..."

"Don’t lie to me." Ellora turned, her eyes sharp. "Lucien would’ve killed to keep his distance from any woman bearing the title of concubine. Yet he defends you in court. Hands you weapons. Sends Beatrice to tend to your needs."

So the Queen knew. Everything.

"You want something from me," Liora said carefully.

Ellora smiled. "Smart. I admire that. Then let me be direct. The nobles in court want Lucien removed from succession entirely. Not just disgraced, but discarded."

"And you?"

"I want what benefits me," Ellora said, stepping closer. "Keep him tethered, distracted. Loyal to you, and I can protect you both."

Liora’s lips parted. "And if I refuse?"

"You’ll find yourself back where you came from. Or worse."

Back at Lucien’s manor, a shadow moved through the corridor, slipping into the private study.

A gloved hand pulled a hidden drawer from Lucien’s desk and retrieved a coded scroll. Behind the curtain, a figure watched the thief... and smiled.

Liora walked the stone path from the Queen’s wing with her mind thick in thoughts. The Queen’s words hadn’t been a threat, they were a promise dressed in silk. Her fingers curled involuntarily around the edge of her sash, where the weight of the hidden dagger pressed gently against her waist.

Lucien had given her that. Not in affection, but in preparation.

Now she understood why.

By the time she reached the carriage, Rowan had already returned, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. He didn’t ask what the Queen said. He merely opened the door and stepped aside.

"She offered protection," Liora said once seated, voice quiet.

Rowan gave a single nod. "In return for loyalty."

"To her," Liora added. "Not Lucien."

He didn’t speak, and that said enough.

The ride was quiet, darker than usual. No torches lit the path beyond the main roads. They reached the estate to find the main hall dim, only the lower candles lit. But it wasn’t the emptiness that struck Liora, it was the absence of sound.

Lucien’s house was rarely loud, but tonight, it was too still.

She stepped inside, expecting to find him at the study or perhaps with Beatrice. Instead, Rowan stopped her with a motion of his hand.

"Stay here," he said.

"Why?"

He didn’t answer. His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

And then Liora noticed it—barely visible at first. A mark on the floor. Smudged mud. A footprint where there shouldn’t have been one.

The manor had been breached again.

Lucien stood in his study, his posture tense as he stared at the empty drawer. The coded scroll—gone. He had left it only this morning. A map of communication lines, names, dates. All tied to the underground work that still linked him to the capital’s information web.

A betrayal, but from who?

The window behind him opened with a creak. Rowan stepped inside and didn’t bother with formalities.

"She returned."

Lucien nodded. "I know."

"And the scroll?"

"Taken." Lucien turned slowly. "But not copied. They were desperate. Rushed. And foolish."

He crossed to the hearth and tossed a sealed note into the fire.

Rowan watched the flame consume the paper. "What was that?"

"A message," Lucien murmured. "For whoever is watching."

Meanwhile, in the servants’ wing, Liora followed Beatrice through the rear halls. The older woman’s face was pale, her hands fluttering with unease.

"You shouldn’t be walking around alone, child."

"I can handle myself," Liora replied, though her voice wavered.

They turned a corner and stopped.

A man knelt in the hallway, blood on his tunic, struggling to crawl toward the staircase. He was one of the house guards.

"By the gods," Beatrice whispered.

Liora ran to him, helping to turn him over. His eyes blinked rapidly, pain dulling them.

"They... they were looking for a door... underground... Your Grace warn... the master..."

And then his body went still.

Liora stared at the mark etched into the stone beside him. A small sigil. Foreign.

Not from their kingdom.

Not from any known noble house.

A sign.

One she didn’t yet recognize, but would soon learn.

Lucien arrived moments later, his cloak billowing behind him as he moved through the corridor where the injured guard had fallen. Rowan was already inspecting the sigil carved into the stone floor, his brow furrowed.

"Dead?" Lucien asked without ceremony.

Liora, still kneeling beside the guard’s lifeless body, nodded. "He tried to warn us... Something about an underground door. And this."

She pointed to the sigil. Lucien’s gaze narrowed as he knelt beside Rowan, brushing his fingers lightly over the mark.

"It’s not from the eastern provinces," Rowan murmured. "Nor the merchant guilds. I’ve seen something like this once, on a sealed letter that came from the far south."

Lucien rose slowly. "It’s a warning. Or a signature."

"A challenge?" Rowan asked.

"Possibly." He looked down at the sigil again. "But also a declaration. They’ve moved from shadows to open threats."

Liora felt the chill in his words. "You knew this would happen."

"I knew the moment we stirred the Queen’s court, others would stir too," he replied quietly.

That evening, the estate was locked down. Guards doubled. All visitors barred. Even the kitchens fell silent, cooks instructed to keep to their quarters until further notice.

Liora sat alone in her chamber, staring at the fire. The quiet rattled her more than noise. The thought that someone had bled through this house her new home, unsettled her deeply.

There was a soft knock. She turned.

Lucien stood in the doorway.

"May I?"

She nodded, slightly surprised.

He stepped in, closing the door behind him but not fully entering the room. He remained near the hearth, the flames lighting the sharp planes of his face.

"I should have warned you," he said.

Liora stood too. "About the danger?"

"No." He looked at her, tired but intent. "About what you were stepping into. My world isn’t made of silk and court dances, Liora. It’s made of secrets. And debts."

"You think I don’t know that by now?"

A flicker of amusement touched his expression. "You’ve held better than most would. But I can’t promise it won’t get worse."

She didn’t answer for a long moment. Then:

"I wasn’t sent here to be safe, was I?"

Lucien looked at her sharply.

Liora stepped closer. "I was sent here because no one else would survive long enough to be useful to you."

He exhaled softly. "And yet... you’re not just surviving."

"Nor am I obeying blindly."

"Good," he said. "Because I’ll need someone who doesn’t flinch."

There was a pause, their eyes locked in understanding. Not affection. Not yet.

But something.

Respect. Restraint. A flicker of trust earned through fire.

Lucien straightened. "Get some rest. We’ll need to move before dawn."

She nodded. "You’ll tell me where?"

"Only if you promise not to act like my shadow."

She tilted her head. "Only if you promise not to treat me like a pawn."

That earned a faint, fleeting smile from him.

Then he turned and left, leaving the door slightly ajar.

And Liora, for the first time, didn’t feel like a guest.

She felt like part of the storm.

The world was cloaked in mist when Lucien and Liora rode out under the hush of the fading night. Only Rowan accompanied them, no guards, no banners, no torches to betray their path. Their destination lay beyond the city’s southern wall, where forgotten ruins slumbered beneath wild overgrowth and time-worn stone.

Lucien hadn’t spoken much since they departed, but Liora didn’t press. Her gaze remained alert, hand near her dagger, her senses sharper than usual after the murder the night before. The silence wasn’t cold, it was calculating.

"Here," Rowan said at last, dismounting near a crumbling estate wall. "This used to be one of the king’s hunting lodges. Abandoned after the old war."

Lucien approached the moss-covered stones and knelt, brushing away dirt and leaves. The same sigil gleamed faintly on the base of a broken column.

"This wasn’t just a warning," he muttered. "It’s a meeting point."

Liora raised a brow. "For what?"

"Those who deal in the forbidden. Mercenaries. Information brokers. And worse," Rowan said, lowering his voice. "There are things even noble houses won’t admit knowing."

They stepped over the threshold of the old lodge. Inside, dust and decay filled the air, but under it, the faint smell of oil and ink lingered.

Liora’s fingers brushed against a table where fresh parchment lay beneath a broken glass. "Someone was here recently."

Lucien’s eyes swept the room. "Check the walls."

Rowan pulled a torch from his pack and lit it. The flare cast uneven light over the stone, revealing carvings, partially hidden beneath vines.

Liora’s breath caught.

"This...this is a map."

A web of lines connected different points, most too faded to read, but some marked with fresh ink. Symbols. Names in a language she didn’t recognize.

Lucien leaned in, muttering, "They’re charting movement. Positions."

"What kind?" Liora asked.

He pointed to a symbol near the northern border. "This... is the royal prison."

"And this?" she asked, tracing another to the west.

Lucien’s mouth hardened. "The Queen Dowager’s private estate."

Liora straightened. "So whoever is behind this isn’t just watching you. They’re watching everyone."

"No," Rowan said grimly, "They’re preparing to move."

A creak of stone startled them. Rowan doused the torch. Liora froze. Footsteps, soft but swift sounded above.

Lucien gestured, and they moved silently toward the back stair. As they ascended, the sounds faded too soon.

They reached the upper floor.

Empty.

But a message had been left scratched into the frost-dusted glass of a windowpane.

"You’re late, Blackthorne. She’s watching too."

Lucien’s jaw clenched. "Who the hell is ’she’?"

Rowan didn’t answer.

But Liora noticed the faint outline of a sigil next to the message, different this time. Feminine. Sharp-edged and unfamiliar.

"This isn’t the same hand as last night."

"No," Lucien agreed. "It’s someone else. And she’s already ahead of us."

They left as the sun began to rise, the shadows of the trees long and cold behind them.

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