She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 339

"Stop," Lucian's low voice commanded, leaving no room for argument. His eyes, however, remained fixed on Cyrilla. "Not you."

Cyrilla flinched as if struck. An overwhelming wave of shame, coupled with the undisguised dismissal in Lucian's tone, plunged her into an icy abyss.

Why did Loyce always have to appear whenever she was at her most pathetic and humiliated?

The man's blatant favoritism was the final blow. Covering her face, Cyrilla let out a sob, scrambled to her feet, and stumbled out of the room.

Soon, only the two of them remained. The butler, who had followed them to the door, breathed a quiet sigh of relief as he saw Cyrilla flee in tears. He then carefully closed the bedroom door, thoughtfully standing guard outside.

The air inside the room seemed to quieten, the silence broken only by Lucian's slightly labored breathing.

In the dim lamplight, the open collar of his robe revealed the defined muscles of his chest, which rose and fell with each breath. A bead of sweat traced a path down his taut skin, disappearing into the shadows below, exuding a potent mix of raw masculinity and a feverish, dangerous allure.

Loyce's gaze rested on his exposed chest for less than half a second before she calmly looked away, her eyes landing on the bowl of porridge Cyrilla had left on the nightstand. "The medicine is delivered. I'm leaving."

"Wait." Lucian's voice was weaker now, raspy from the fever. He frowned slightly, as if even lifting his arm was an effort. "I'm sick."

Loyce turned back, raising an eyebrow. "I know. Your butler told me. From a medical standpoint, you're not going to die. It'll just take some time to recover, so there's nothing to worry about."

Not going to die?

A knot formed in Lucian's chest, and he almost choked out a laugh at her words. "You're heartless."

Loyce tilted her head, realizing he was accusing her of not caring about him.

She gestured toward the warm porridge and side dishes. "You should eat something."

"My hands are weak," Lucian said, his gaze shifting from the bowl to her. In the dim light, his deep-set eyes seemed particularly dark as he emphasized, "My whole body feels weak."

However, as she brought the next spoonful to him, Lucian, whether intentionally or out of genuine weakness, tilted his head slightly.

The warm porridge didn't quite make it into his mouth. Instead, a few drops trickled down from the corner of his lips, landing squarely on his exposed, sweat-dampened chest. The grains of rice and the thick broth clung to his bare skin, stark in the dim light.

Loyce's hand froze.

Lucian seemed to notice it too. He glanced down at his open robe, then looked back up at her. His expression was one of innocent, playful weakness. "It's messy. Could you wipe it?"

Loyce pressed her lips together, set the bowl down, and pulled a tissue from the nightstand.

She leaned in, her hand reaching out to wipe the stain from his chest.

Her fingertips, separated only by the thin tissue, inevitably brushed against his scorching, solid skin. His skin was burning hot, and the heat of it stood in sharp contrast to her cool fingers.