The Villains Must Win-Chapter 155: Lyander Wolfhart 5

Liora wasn’t here to make jokes or cause chaos. She was here with a mission. And to complete that mission—to save Henry from the fate of becoming the villain of this twisted otome world—she needed Lyander alive and by Henry’s side to protect him.

Which meant . . . she needed Lyander to care.

And if there was one thing she’d learned about male werewolves from the lore, the books, and yes—those slightly unhinged hentai otome games—it was this:

Nothing short-circuits a werewolf’s logic like a sudden punch of hormones.

Yes, it was shallow. Yes, it was manipulative.

But if seducing a dangerously sexy lone mercenary with abandonment issues was what it took to save a twelve-year-old boy from spiraling into full villain mode, then so be it.

Liora watched Lyander from a safe distance as he left the territory’s edge, stalking something for dinner. His movements were silent, lethal, and painfully mesmerizing. This was her opening.

Showtime.

Liora melted into the shadows and began to shift. Her fairy-like wisp form condensed, bones rearranging, features blossoming into what she hoped passed for a fantasy among wolfkind.

She crafted a human guise: long, inky-black hair that tumbled in soft, effortless waves—like she’d just rolled out of a moonlit dream. Her eyes gleamed a dusky ash-grey, mysterious enough to hold secrets. She made herself petite, yet curvaceous in all the "biologically optimal" ways, based on werewolf pack standards.

Apparently, big hips and bust meant "healthy," which in werewolf logic translated to "excellent baby maker" and "might survive a winter." Weird, sure. But hey—whatever got his attention.

"Ugh, I feel like a fertility ad," she muttered, adjusting her flowing dress for maximum elegance with just a hint of please don’t murder me, I’m pretty.

Still, this was war. And in war, one must arm themselves with whatever weapons necessary. Be it swords, spells . . . or really, really good hips and large breasts.

She stepped softly into the clearing, making sure to catch the moonlight just right on her cheekbones.

"Alright, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Battle-Scarred," she whispered with a mischievous smirk, "let’s see if you fall for the bait."

She wasn’t proud of it. . . . Okay, she was a little proud of it.

But this was war. And in war, you did what you had to. Even if it meant weaponizing your cheekbones and mysterious aura to break through a brooding werewolf’s emotional firewall.

"Step one," she whispered, pulling her breasts upward, cleavage almost sipping out, "activate the pheromones."

Time to make a lone wolf notice her without actually trying to be noticed. Easy.

=== 🖤 ===

Lyander didn’t believe in fate. He believed in instincts, in survival, in the tug of a blade and the howl of the wind. Life was simple when you were a lone wolf—until it wasn’t.

He’d been hunting.

It was supposed to be an ordinary kill—scenting a deer, moving through the trees like smoke on the wind—but then he caught something else. A ripple. A presence. The kind that made the hairs on his arms rise before his mind could catch up. It was soft. Feminine. But not mortal, not quite.

He turned.

And there she was.

Standing barefoot in a clearing bathed in moonlight, like a painting forgotten by the gods. Her long, dark hair tumbled around her shoulders in waves like midnight silk. Her eyes—those eyes—huge, ashen pools that shimmered with fear, but didn’t flinch. Not even when he stepped into view, shirtless and bloodstained from the hunt.

She didn’t run.

She stared back, like a deer refusing to acknowledge it was prey. Her lips were pressed tight, her chin held high. Defiant. Almost proud. But her breath hitched, and her fingers trembled ever so slightly by her sides. Like she didn’t want to be saved, or seen, or touched. Like she was ready to burn if he tried.

Beautiful didn’t cut it.

She was haunting.

And it wasn’t just her beauty—it was the way the forest quieted around her. How the air itself stilled, like nature held its breath for her. She didn’t smell like anything he could place, which was unnatural. Wrong. And yet his wolf stirred. Curious. Hungry. Protective.

His steps slowed.

Who was she?

A witch? A trap? A hallucination crafted by the moon?

And why . . . why did she look like she was made of wild things and sorrow? Like a spirit pretending to be flesh, and failing just enough to look heartbreakingly human.

He should’ve walked away.

But he didn’t.

He stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully.

Because for the first time in years, something called to him—not with words or promises, but with silence and a stare.

And damn it all . . . he wanted to answer.

"You . . ." Lyander’s voice came low, a growl dragged from somewhere deep in his chest, "What are you?"

It wasn’t suspicion, not entirely—it was curiosity. Confusion. His wolf stirred for the first time in years, pacing inside his head like a beast waking from hibernation.

"Pretty," the wolf whispered in his mind, practically purring. "Pretty neck. Pretty scent. Pretty curves. Want to bite—"

"Shut up, you horny mutt." Lyander snapped back mentally, gritting his teeth.

The girl—no, the woman—took a step back, eyes wide, as if sensing the war inside him.

Then she ran.

Wrong move.

"Bad idea," Lyander muttered, something primal flickering in his gaze. His wolf let out a low, delighted growl.

"It’s a chase."

And like that, he moved—one fluid blur of motion.

He was on her in seconds, his body pinning hers to the forest floor before she could even scream. She gasped, breath stolen by both fear and something else—something electric.

"Don’t ever," Lyander said, voice rough, "ever turn your back and run from me."

His eyes glowed like embers, burning through the dark. She looked up at him, trembling—not just from fear, but something she didn’t understand.

"You . . . your eyes . . . what are you?" she whispered.

Instead of answering, he leaned in and inhaled deeply at her neck. Her scent hit him like a punch—sweet, warm, and layered with the delicate notes of blooming wildflowers.