The Villains Must Win-Chapter 162: Lyander Wolf 12

"You were supposed to stay in the guest house," Lyander said, voice tightening. "This part of the forest isn’t safe."

"I needed a bath," Liora replied with a matter of fact tone, her lips curling into a faint smirk. "Is that a crime? Unlike you wolves, we humans can’t just lick each other clean. Some of us actually need water and soap."

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because she looked like sin and salvation all at once, and he hadn’t craved anyone like this in years. Not since the scars. Not since before the betrayal.

Not since their mate.

But Liora didn’t look at his scars. She didn’t look at him like he was broken or dangerous. She looked at him like she was daring him to take one more step.

And gods help him—

He wanted to.

He wanted to close the space between them. To feel her breath on his neck. To see if her lips tasted as fierce as her eyes promised. To touch her skin and know that she was real.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood there, aching, with every muscle tense and every instinct howling to move.

Liora turned back to the water, dipping lower until only her shoulders showed above the shimmering surface.

"Are you going to keep watching?" she asked without looking back. "Or are you going to turn around like a gentleman?"

He grinned—low, dangerous.

"I’m not a gentleman," he said.

Liora rolled her eyes, unfazed. "Right. You’re a werewolf—why would you care about a human girl’s privacy?"

"Just admit it—we like seeing her naked," his wolf whispered slyly in his mind.

Lyander growled internally, shoving the intrusive thought to the darkest, deepest corner of his mind, where it belonged.

And then, with a rumble in his chest. "How did you got out?"

"A girl never share her secrets."

Lyander could tell she was hiding something, but his wolf didn’t care in the slightest. "I want her," the beast growled in his mind, pushing hard against his control, desperate to surface through his eyes.

Lyander’s jaw clenched as she tilted her head, sensing his gaze even if she hadn’t heard him yet. The slope of her neck was delicate and maddeningly tempting, the quick pulse at her throat beating like a drum he wanted to press his lips against. Mark her. Claim her.

No.

Lyander forced himself to breathe through his nose, to anchor himself.

He was no boy to be ruled by lust. He was a warrior. A protector.

He was supposed to be spying her, not imagining how her soft curves would feel pressed beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her pussy clenching against his cock—

He growled low under his breath, and she startled slightly, wrapping her arms around herself too late to hide anything from him.

Those wide, wary eyes—like a doe caught in a snare—met his. And for a moment, neither of them moved. The world went silent. It was just her breathing, and him fighting against every savage instinct clawing inside his chest.

His wolf purred. "She’s not prey. She’s the hunt we’ve been waiting for."

"Shut up!"

"Do you have nothing better to do than stare at me?" Liora asked, tilting her chin with a defiant glint in her eye. "And do you ever sleep? I swear, you’re always lurking around. I’m only human, you know—hardly capable of running from your kind. You don’t have to guard me 24/7."

Her voice was calm, but there was a hidden tremor underneath—a current of awareness that matched his own. She made no move to cover herself, letting the water slide over her bare skin, shimmering under the moonlight. The silver glow made her seem almost ethereal. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Lyander’s eyes narrowed. "For a human, you got out here without anyone noticing."

"I used my brain," she said with a roll of her eyes.

His wolf reacted instantly—a low, primal growl rumbled deep in his chest.

"If she does that again," the beast warned, "I’ll show her just how dangerous we can be."

Lyander ignored him, keeping his expression unreadable, but he knew better than anyone how thin his wolf’s patience ran. Disrespect was one thing his other half never tolerated—and disobedience even less.

Liora lazily flicked water in his direction, a teasing glint in her eye. "Unlike you werewolves, who always rely on brawn over brains, I had to be clever if I wanted a bath. I figured most of your pack would be asleep by now—and let’s be honest, I reek. I’m practically one with the dirt at this point. You probably couldn’t even smell me, could you?"

His wolf rumbled in amusement. "She’s got a point," it said, voice low and smug in his head.

"Shut up," Lyander hissed under his breath, his jaw tightening. His wolf was borderline bipolar at this point—one moment seething at her insolence, the next nodding in agreement with her wit like an amused spectator, wagging his tail.

His gaze drifted back to her almost against his will. The water clung to her curves like silk, catching in the hollows of her collarbones, sliding down the arch of her back, and glistening over the soft swell of her breasts. Her skin was goose-pimpled from the cold, but she didn’t flinch or shy away from his stare. If anything, she seemed to relish it.

Lyander tore his eyes away with effort, as if it physically pained him to look elsewhere. He turned slightly, muscles tense beneath his skin, every instinct telling him to show her how dangerous he could be—and yet, another voice deep inside wanted to protect and comfort her.

"You shouldn’t be out here," he said, voice lower now, rougher. "It’s not safe."

"For me? Or for you?" she asked quietly, her voice losing some of its teasing edge. "Because I’m starting to think I’m the one causing trouble."

His mouth twitched. He couldn’t argue. She was trouble—soft, sharp, and stunning trouble. A walking temptation wrapped in wet skin and wicked comebacks.

And worst of all . . . he liked it.

Liked her.