The Villains Must Win-Chapter 182: Lyander Wolfhart 32

Liora’s fingers curled into her lap. She had no words yet—none that could possibly meet the depth of what he was revealing. So she let him keep going.

"I left," he said. "Bleeding. Alone. I didn’t even bury her. I left my previous pack to ruin and never look back ever since."

He looked up at Liora, something fractured in his gaze. "But I loved her. With everything I had. Even when she stood against me."

"It’s strange, isn’t it? How the mate bond kicks in, and suddenly—within a week—this complete stranger becomes your whole world. It was unsettling. And when I found out she was the enemy’s daughter . . . it felt like the goddess was playing a cruel joke."

The fire’s glow flickered across his face, casting long shadows that seemed to echo the pain written into every line of him.

"Months later. When I’d stopped bleeding. When I could finally look at a blade without seeing her blood on it. I moved on with life."

There was no pride in his voice. No satisfaction. Just a bitter kind of closure.

"And after that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I didn’t go back. To anyone. I didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Not without her. I was the mate who killed his own. What pack would want that kind of curse walking among them? And honestly, after everything that happened, I didn’t want a pack. I wanted to be alone."

The silence returned—but it wasn’t awkward. It was full of understanding. Of weight. Of truth.

Liora moved closer, just a little. Enough to make sure he knew she hadn’t pulled away.

"I thought you were cold," she said. "When I met you. Distant. Angry. But now I see . . . you’re grieving. Still."

Lyander didn’t deny it.

"And the worst part?" he said. "Is that some nights, I still see her. In my dreams. In shadows. In the corner of my mind when I close my eyes. I see her reaching for me. Not with hatred. But with . . . sadness. Like she knew it would end like this. Like she accepted it."

Liora reached out. Her fingers brushed against his.

"Maybe she did," she whispered. "Maybe she knew what choosing him meant. And maybe, deep down, she still chose you."

He looked at her, startled by the softness in her voice.

The belief.

"I’m not her," she said. "And I’ll never try to be. But I’m going to be here for you. And I see you. All of you."

He didn’t speak. Just let his hand stay under hers, trembling slightly.

"I don’t hate or judge you for what you did," Liora said gently. "And I won’t walk away."

A long breath left Lyander, like something had been exorcised—like the telling had cost him something, but freed something else in return.

"I’m not asking you to understand me," he said.

"I know," she replied. "But maybe one day, you’ll forgive yourself."

And for the first time in years, the weight in his chest loosened—just a little.

The fire had dwindled to glowing embers, casting a low, amber pulse between them. The wind had quieted too, like the forest itself was holding its breath.

Liora’s fingers were still resting lightly on Lyander’s hand. Neither of them moved. They just stayed like that, two broken pieces that somehow fit, both stunned by the silence that followed truth.

She looked up at him, and for the first time, really saw the man behind the scars—the grief-split warrior who’d carried his guilt like armor for too long.

"You don’t have to be alone," she said quietly.

Lyander met her eyes. Slowly. Searchingly.

"You don’t know what you’re saying."

"I do." Her voice was steady now, even as her heart raced in her chest. "I saw the worst of you—and I’m still here."

His jaw twitched. "Why?"

"Because I see the best of you too," she whispered.

He looked like he might say something—argue, deflect, run—but instead, he reached out. Just a single hand at first, calloused and rough, and cupped the side of her face like she was something fragile. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, and the touch sent a tremble through her spine.

Liora leaned into it. Slowly. Deliberately.

And in that breathless moment, everything shifted.

The bond between them—the one they never acknowledged—pulled taut. Not like the searing, immediate connection that a true mate bond would with a wolf to his mate.

No, this was different. This was slower. Deeper. Wilder. Like roots tangling together in the dark, ancient soil.

His thumb traced the corner of her lips. Her breath hitched. Neither of them looked away.

Then—slowly, as if gravity had made the decision for them—he bent his head, and their mouths met.

The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Testing.

But it didn’t stay that way.

As soon as her lips moved against his, something cracked open between them. Hunger, long buried. Ache, long ignored. It surged up, molten and uncontrollable.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, drawing her closer. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him in like she’d wanted this longer than she’d ever admitted—even to herself.

His kiss deepened, and her body responded without thought. She gasped when he nipped her lower lip, and he swallowed the sound like it was something precious.

When they finally pulled apart, both were breathless.

Lyander’s voice was rough. "Tell me to stop."

"No," she breathed, eyes blazing with something fierce and beautiful. "Don’t."

And then she kissed him again—harder this time. Desperate.

He groaned low in his chest, a sound that sent shivers across her skin. His hands were on her now—her back, her waist—tracing the curves of her body like he needed to memorize them.

Somewhere between breaths, she climbed into his lap. Their bodies pressed together, all heat and tension. Her cloak fell from her shoulders, and his hands slid under the hem of her tunic, splaying across the bare skin of her back.

The night wrapped around them like velvet. The moon above cut through the trees, casting silver across their skin. Shadows danced, flickering like spirits bearing witness.

Liora felt every nerve in her body come alive.

She trailed kisses along the stubble of his jaw, the curve of his neck, drinking in the sound of his breath catching. He tilted his head, giving her more access, and his hands clutched her hips as if anchoring himself to the moment.

She tasted salt and pine and fire on his skin.

Lyander’s lips found her collarbone, and she gasped when he bit lightly, marking her like instinct demanded it. There was nothing rushed in the way they moved. Every touch was slow. Every brush of skin against skin a question and an answer all at once.

They didn’t speak. Words would’ve ruined the purity of it.

Clothes fell away, one layer at a time, discarded with trembling fingers and reverent silence. When she was bare beneath him, he paused—just long enough to look.

And gods, the way he looked at her.

It wasn’t lust, though there was plenty of that. It was awe. Worship. Like he couldn’t believe she was real and in front of him, choosing him.

"You’re sure?" he asked, voice low, threaded with restraint.

Liora nodded. "Yes. I want this."

She pulled him down, and the world narrowed to the sensation of their bodies fitting together, to the heat coiling low in her belly, to the thrill of anticipation humming beneath her skin.

When they joined, it wasn’t frantic or wild—it was slow, molten, searing. The kind of connection that lit stars behind her eyes and pulled breathless gasps from her throat. She moved with him, matched him, met every thrust with a fire that had been building for too long.

The sounds of the forest melted away. There was only the rhythm of their bodies, the soft cries and rough growls, the scrape of hands and teeth and lips on skin.

He kissed her like a storm. Touched her like she was made of lightning and flame.

And Liora—gods, she burned for him.

Each movement sent waves of heat crashing through her. Her body arched into him, chasing every spark he ignited. His mouth found her throat, her chest, her shoulder—biting, kissing, leaving trails of fire wherever he went.

And when the crest came, it wasn’t just physical—it was soul-deep.

Her body shook beneath him, breath catching in a cry that she tried and failed to stifle. He followed her seconds later, burying his face in her neck as his own release tore through him with a shudder that seemed to unravel something deeper inside him.

They lay tangled together beneath the moonlight, skin slick with sweat, chests rising and falling in time.

Neither of them spoke right away.

Liora’s head rested against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. It sounded strong. Steady. Alive.

Lyander stroked her hair in slow, lazy motions, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. His other arm was wrapped protectively around her waist, keeping her close, as if letting go might undo what had just passed between them.

"You still with me?" he murmured into her hair.

She nodded against him. "More than I’ve ever been."

He chuckled softly, a low rumble she felt in her bones. "You’ll ruin me."

"Too late," she whispered. "We already ruined each other."

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