CHAPTER 462: THE MIND OF A VILLAIN 2

Lirea’s wrist burned in his grip, the iron clamp of his fingers impossible to break. She struggled, twisting, but Turik’s hand didn’t budge.

"Release me," she hissed, her voice sharp as a blade, but beneath the steel, there was a flicker of unease.

Turik’s smile deepened, cruel and deliberate. "You command me as if I am your lapdog. But tell me, Princess... which of us is trapped here? You standing in my chamber, or I holding you in place?"

Her breath caught, and though she glared at him, her pulse betrayed her, hammering in her throat.

"You forget yourself," she spat, straining against his hold.

"No," he murmured, drawing her closer, his breath hot against her ear. "I remember all too well. You came to me once... seeking more than alliances. Do you deny it? Do you deny how your body betrayed you even then?"

Lirea stiffened, fury flashing across her face. "Lies!"

Turik chuckled, the sound low, vibrating through the air between them. His thumb brushed against the inside of her wrist, slow, taunting. "Your anger is delicious, but your fear... that is sweeter. You see, Princess, power is not only in thrones or crowns. It is in knowing how easily I can break you, even from this bed."

Her lips quivered slightly, parting as if to unleash a torrent of words, yet silence prevailed. In that moment, Lirea’s composure shattered like glass, her eyes wide with unspoken fears. The hush hanging between them became more accusatory than any outright denial, each heartbeat amplifying the weight of her unexpressed thoughts.

Turik leaned back, dragging her hand down until it hovered over his chest. His heart beat steady, defiant. "Feel that? Still strong. Still unyielding. My legs may be shattered, but everything else—" his eyes burned into hers, black pits glinting red "—everything else works just fine."

Lirea jerked her hand back, but he only released her when he chose to. She stumbled a step away, her cheeks flushed with fury and something far darker.

Turik’s voice followed her like smoke. "Do not fool yourself, Princess. You may hold court in this palace, but I still hold the battlefield. My men obey me, not your father. And that concubine you mock? She may prove the blade I’ll drive through Northem’s heart. When that day comes, you will remember this moment—that you stood before me, trembling, and knew the truth."

Lirea’s hand tightened on the doorknob, her knuckles white. She forced her voice steady, though it rang brittle. "You disgust me."

Turik’s laugh was soft, dangerous. "Disgust? You didn’t feel disgusted when you sought me out night after night, when your useless husband could not satisfy you."

Her breath caught again, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reply. She yanked the door open and swept out, the echo of her retreating footsteps betraying the haste she wished to conceal.

Alone at last, Turik leaned back against the pillows, a predator’s smile curving his lips despite the pain radiating from his shattered legs. Broken, yes. But not defeated. Never defeated.

...

The next time Lirea came to him, she entered with armor invisible but palpable—her chin lifted, her gown chosen with precision, her steps echoing with cold authority. Two guards flanked the door outside, proof that she wasn’t willing to be left alone with him again.

Turik was propped against pillows, his splinted legs stretched before him. His eyes flicked to her immediately, dark and hungry.

"So soon, Princess?" His voice was low, mocking. "Did you miss me?"

Lirea ignored the barb, seating herself with regal poise in the chair beside him. "I came to deliver news. My father has decreed that your command will be reassigned until your... recovery. Estalis will no longer depend on a general who could not get out of bed."

The words sliced through the air like a dagger, crafted with the intent to inflict pain. Yet, Turik merely grinned, a slow, sinister smile that oozed malice, as if savoring the sting of each syllable that had been thrown at him.

"And yet here you sit, in my chamber, bringing this decree yourself. Curious, isn’t it? You could have sent a servant, a messenger. But you chose to face me. Why?"

Her lips parted, then pressed tight. "I am here because my father commanded it."

Turik chuckled, leaning forward just enough to make the air between them tighten. "No, Princess. You are here because you cannot stay away. You came to remind me of your power. But instead, you sit close, close enough that I can smell your perfume... close enough that you remember what it feels like when I touched you here."

He reached out and touched her breast, gentle at first, then he squeezed it.

Her breath hitched before she masked it with anger. "You, pervert!" She leaned back away from the bed.

"Am I?" His eyes gleamed red in the lamplight, a predator savoring the chase. "Tell me, did you think of me after you left this room? Did you lie awake, furious with yourself for letting me unsettle you?"

Lirea stood abruptly, her gown rustling like whispers of silk. "You are nothing but a broken man. Soon to be discarded."

Turik’s hand shot out again, seizing her wrist with startling speed for an injured man. The guards at the door stirred, but Lirea raised her chin, refusing to call them in—refusing to show weakness.

"You call me broken," Turik murmured, pulling her closer until her knees brushed the edge of his bed, "yet your pulse betrays you every time I touch you. Your skin burns under my hand. You despise me, yes—but you cannot deny the pull."

Her chest rose and fell sharply, fury warring with something she refused to name.

"Let me go," she said, her voice trembling despite herself.

Turik’s smile deepened, predatory. He guided her hand slowly, deliberately, until it rested against his manliness. "Feel that? I am not done, Lirea. Not by a long measure. And when I rise again, when Northem falls, you will remember that I warned you: disgust fades. But fascination... that lingers."

For one dangerous heartbeat, she did not pull away. Then, with a violent jerk, she tore herself free and stormed toward the door.

"You, Pervert! Delusional!" She barked angrily, her face turning crimson with anger. "Enjoy your illusions while they last," she snapped, though her voice cracked at the edge.

The door slammed behind her, and Turik’s laughter—low, cruel, triumphant—echoed in the chamber long after she was gone.