The Villains Must Win-Chapter 156: Lyander Wolfhart 6

Liora’s scent hit Lyander like a punch—sweet, warm, and layered with the delicate notes of blooming wildflowers. Normally, he hated floral scents—too cloying, too artificial, too soft. But this . . . this was different. Earthy and alive, like the memory of spring clinging to skin.

He inhaled again, slower this time, letting it fill his lungs. Something about it made his instincts stir, not just with hunger—but fascination.

And it made his blood heat.

When her breath hitched and her hips shifted beneath him, a sound slipped from her throat—half gasp, half moan.

Lyander cursed inwardly as his body responded specifically his cock stirred. His wolf went still, shocked—and then pleased. This horny beast.

She was beautiful. Ashen eyes wide and shimmering with emotion, soft lips parted, chest rising and falling beneath him. She didn’t scream. She didn’t fight. She just looked at him like he was something terrifying and holy all at once.

Like she was trying not to want him.

"Are you human?" he rasped, voice strained.

She opened her mouth, hesitated for a beat—then tilted her chin up and growled, "Yes. What do you think I am?

Actually, I’m the one who should be asking you that. You’re not human . . . are you?"

And gods, the way she said it . . . like a secret, like an invitation wrapped in fear and pretend bravado. He didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss her or rip through the false bravery she wore like a second skin.

Lyander’s lips curled into a slow, wolfish grin. "And what’s a human like you doing in these parts, sweetheart?" His tone was casual, but his eyes sharpened with suspicion.

She was hiding something—he could feel it. The way her pulse ticked nervously in her neck, the tremble in her breath—it wasn’t fear. It was caution. A kind he’d seen from warriors before a sword draw.

"I . . . I don’t know," Liora said softly, squeezing her eyes shut as if to block something painful. "I woke up here with nothing. No memories. No past. Just a mission . . . that I need to find Henry and tell him something important."

First she needed to make sure that Lyander was on Henry’s side, and not go sell his claws and fangs to Rhett.

At the name, Lyander’s expression darkened like a storm rolling in. His gaze narrowed. "What do you want with the kid?" His voice dropped lower, colder. "Depending on your answer . . . you might live or not."

Liora’s spine straightened, her fear replaced by quiet defiance. "I can’t tell you that," she said, voice steady despite the danger radiating off him. "I don’t even know whether you’re friend or foe."

That surprised him. Most people quaked in his presence, but she . . . didn’t flinch. Was it because she really didn’t know the danger? Or was she that good at pretending?

His fangs bared as he said, "I don’t think you understand the severity of your situation, so let me make it crystal clear."

In a blink, Lyander shifted.

His skin tore with a flash of silver, bone reshaping, fur sprouting. The man was gone—replaced by a monstrous, majestic wolf. Towering. Broad. Impossibly large. His fur was snow white with streaks of ash-grey, and his eyes still glowed that same molten ember.

Liora gasped, wide eyes in awe.

It was the biggest wolf she had ever seen.

And yet—despite his sheer size and obvious power—he didn’t growl, didn’t bare his fangs and claws. Instead . . . to her shock, gave her face a big, wet lick.

She froze, utterly stunned.

"Talk," the wolf growled in her head, voice deep, gravelly—intimidating. "Or you’ll be punished . . . with fifty licks."

His tail was wagging.

Wagging.

Like a puppy asking for threats.

Liora blinked. What the hell?

Then, with a huff, Lyander shifted back—muscles rippling as his human form emerged once again. Shirtless, skin damp with exertion, chest rising and falling from the shift. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back, ears tinged red.

"That idiot," he muttered under his breath, glaring somewhere inside his own mind.

Liora just stared, wide-eyed. "W-what . . . was that?"

She was trying to stay in character, but the soul inside her was howling with laughter.

Was that supposed to be the infamous, terrifying Lyander Wolfhart?

Because so far, he was looking a lot more golden retriever than bloodthirsty war-wolf.

Still . . . her heart hadn’t stopped racing.

His wolf was so beautiful. Maybe it was the heat that radiated off his bare chest. Or maybe—it was the way his wolf hadn’t tried to bite her.

He’d wanted to play.

Aww . . . The soul inside Liora sighed and shook her head, forcing herself back into character before she gave away how absurdly adorable the fearsome Lyander had just been.

Still, her pulse hadn’t settled.

She shuffled back slightly, eyes still wide as they lingered on his bare chest—then back to those burning ember eyes that hadn’t left her for a second. "You . . . you’re a werewolf, aren’t you?"

Lyander tilted his head, wiping the edge of his jaw with the back of his hand. "Took you so long to realize that, sweetheart? You’re going to Henry, right?" he asked, voice low and tight with suspicion. "Don’t you know he’s a wolf? And you’re marching straight into Wolven territory?"

Liora’s mouth parted in a silent gasp, her eyes widening in stunned realization. But then—like a veil being drawn over her features—she grew solemn, spine stiffening with a kind of quiet, unshakable resolve. "Then so be it," she whispered. "I will still go to him. I have to deliver a message. It’s my mission."

Her words hit him like a sharp wind.

Lyander’s brows furrowed, something in her tone needling at the corner of his thoughts. This woman . . . there was something off. Off about her.

"You don’t remember anything, right?" he asked, circling her slowly. Not threateningly—but watching her the way a predator might observe something unfamiliar and fascinating. "Not even your name? And yet you’re so dead set on this mission. Isn’t your first priority supposed to be recovering your memory?"