The Villains Must Win-Chapter 166: Lyander Wolfhart 16

"I came here to save you. That much, I know deep in my bones . . . and I intend to stand by it."

Henry blinked, as if the words had caught him off guard.

His gaze softened. The hardened lines of his face eased, just a little. And then, without thinking, he reached out and took her hand—calloused for someone his age, but warm, wrapping around her fingers like a silent vow.

"For what it’s worth," he murmured, "I’m glad you’re here."

And for the first time since arriving in the werewolf territory, Liora didn’t feel like prey. She felt like she had somehow gotten into Henry’s good side.

It was a good start after a month of waiting.

=== 🖤 ===

A week had passed since that heavy conversation with Henry, and life in the pack had settled into a new rhythm—one that, surprisingly, included Liora.

She had begun to move more freely through the camp, no longer kept strictly under watch, and while the wolves still gave her cautious glances, something in the air had shifted.

Perhaps it was the way she treated them not like beasts, but people. She didn’t flinch when they bared their fangs in laughter or lowered their ears in frustration. She asked questions. She listened. She helped.

Liora had discovered that the younger wolves—those barely past their first shift—struggled with control. So she spent her mornings assisting the pack trainer, a grizzled she-wolf named Mara, whose patience was short and voice loud.

But where Mara barked, Liora soothed. She coaxed the nervous ones through their transformations, held their hands—sometimes literally—when the pain became too much. Her presence calmed them in a way no one expected, like her soul had a tranquil hum that resonated deep inside their beasts.

By afternoon, she helped the healers sort herbs or carried water to the warriors returning from patrols. She even fixed the broken hinge of one of the training dummies by borrowing tools and figuring it out herself—earning a few grudging nods of approval.

There was something unshakable in her gaze, and though she didn’t talk much about herself, the way she moved said one thing clearly: she wasn’t here to play the damsel.

That was the moment Lyander saw her.

He had returned from a spying mission earlier than planned, and as he crested the ridge overlooking the heart of the camp, his sharp eyes caught sight of her—kneeling beside an injured pup, bandaging its paw with gentle hands and a furrowed brow.

His wolf stirred instantly.

She was laughing softly at something the pup said, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. Her clothes were dusty. Her cheeks flushed with sun. She smelled of smoke and wildflowers.

"She’s changed," his wolf murmured. "I like her this way."

"No . . . she’s just showing who she really is," Lyander thought.

But even as that thought crossed his mind, he noticed something else. She was being watched. Not by him. Not just him. A few of the younger wolves followed her with their eyes—one even brought her a fresh canteen, awkwardly lingering as she thanked him.

Jealousy was a strange, sudden burn low in his gut.

He walked down into the camp, silent as a shadow, his presence sending a ripple of alertness through the wolves. They straightened. They acknowledged him with nods or subtle dips of their heads—but Liora didn’t even glance up.

Not until he stopped right beside her.

"I see you’ve made yourself at home," he said, voice low and calm.

She looked up, startled—but not rattled. Her eyes met his, bright and clear. "Someone had to do the work while the mighty wolves were out playing guard dogs."

The pup snorted a laugh. Lyander didn’t.

Instead, he crouched beside her, gaze narrowing sharply. "Who let you out?"

Liora didn’t flinch. She tied off the bandage around the pup’s paw and stood slowly, brushing her dusty palms against her skirt. "Alpha Henry, of course. Who else would it be that have that kind of authority?"

A long silence stretched between them. Lyander’s eyes, sharp as blades, didn’t waver from her face. Then, slowly, a ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I don’t know what spell you cast to make him agree to that, but I’m not buying it. Not until I know who you are . . . and what your real motive is."

The weight of his words pressed against her chest, but Liora didn’t back down. She inhaled deeply, then finally met his eyes—really met them. And the moment she did, something primal stirred beneath Lyander’s skin. His wolf, so tightly chained inside him, shoved against the walls of his control. He took it as a challenge. He gritted his teeth and pushed it down. Not here. Not now.

"Listen here, Mr. Overly Suspicious," she said, folding her arms. "I’ve been here for over a month. Henry’s still fine. He’s safe, healthy, breathing. I haven’t done a damn thing to harm him or this pack."

"That’s what they always say," Lyander growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Right until the moment they strike."

Her eyes narrowed. "Who hurt you to make you like this?"

That stopped him cold.

His jaw clenched, the air thick between them. For a heartbeat, everything stilled—no wind, no sound, just that question lingering in the space like a crack of thunder waiting to fall. His expression shifted from cold suspicion to something darker, haunted. But only for a second.

"None of your business," he said, voice rough with the edge of something he clearly didn’t want to feel.

Then he turned and walked away—his strides heavy, his shoulders stiff. He didn’t look back.

Liora watched him go, the faintest trail of dust kicked up by his boots. He headed straight for the pack house, likely to speak to Henry. She could practically feel the storm brewing behind that brooding scowl of his.

And yet . . . her heart didn’t still, not even after he vanished around the bend.

She’d struck a nerve, that’s for sure.