She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 316

Her last word had barely left her mouth when there came a knock at the door. A moment later, two plates of steak and fries were carried in.

Loyce’s eyes actually lit up at the sight of it. She dropped into the chair opposite Lucian, picked up her fork, and complained with theatrical misery, “Gavin really knows how to ‘take care of a patient,’ doesn’t he? All that bland, healthy food. My mouth’s been so bored these past few days I was about ready to jump in the ocean and catch dinner with my bare hands.”

She was obviously trying to loosen the mood—trying to melt some of the heavy, icy pressure rolling off Lucian—but he still watched her with that locked-in stare, not even bothering with a polite smile. The man had a way of filling a room just by existing.

Loyce raised an eyebrow, reached across the table, and pinched his cheek, tugging the skin to one side until his mouth formed a stiff, ridiculous “smile.”

“There. Smile. That expression you’ve got right now is criminally ugly.”

Lucian froze at her sudden touch. Then he lifted a hand, caught her wrist, and gently pulled her palm down into his. His thumb brushed over her skin in slow, absent strokes before the corner of his mouth finally tilted up—just a fraction, but enough to bring that sharp, distant face back to life.

Only when she saw his expression soften did Loyce pull her hand away and return to her food. Her hair was still damp, water dripping from the ends.

Lucian stood, went to fetch a blow dryer, and came back.

“You should dry it,” he said, voice low. “You just came back from the sea. You’ll catch a cold.”

He stepped behind her and lifted her hair, exposing the pale line of her neck—and the angry red slash across it.

His hand stopped midair. His eyes narrowed hard.

A bead of water slid down her hair and hit the wound, sending a sharp sting through her. Loyce reflexively raised her hand to touch it, but Lucian caught her wrist again, his grip firm.

“Don’t,” he said, the single word heavy with something that sounded a lot like pain. “It looks like you were cut by something sharp.”

Loyce tugged her hand back, unimpressed, and calmly popped two fries into her mouth. “Probably a splintered board. That wreck of a boat had jagged wood everywhere.”

When you were trading blows and playing cat-and-mouse on a hostile ship, scrapes were inevitable. To her, it wasn’t even worth mentioning.

Lucian didn’t respond. He carefully moved her hair aside and dried around the injured area, then set the dryer down and went to grab a medical kit.

He bent close, his warm breath brushing the back of her neck as the sharp smell of disinfectant filled the air.

“Hold still,” he murmured. “I don’t know if whatever cut you was rusty. We need to clean it properly.”

The way he treated her—like she was made of glass—made Loyce shift, uncomfortable. She wanted to tell him to stop fussing, to quit touching her like she might break.

But the words never came. She stayed still and let his fingers move over her skin.

Lucian’s rough fingertips grazed her nape with a careful tenderness, like someone soothing a skittish animal, kneading gently around the wound instead of on it. “You moved the timeline up,” he said quietly. “Was it because of those kids?”

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