NOVEL WEB Chapter 146- Hateful Man
Cruxius looked at Lira, his eyes calm as if the accusation passed through him like wind through an open hall. No flinch. No guilt. Just... a pause.
He turned to Ytrisia and spoke quietly, "Wear your clothes. Take a bath first."
His voice wasn't cold, nor kind. Just commanding.
Ytrisia, still trembling from whatever remnants of her climax lingered in her muscles, didn't argue. She clutched her robe tighter and bolted past him into the bathroom like a frightened animal. The sound of rushing water started a moment later.
Cruxius exhaled slowly and turned back toward the hallway.
And stepped out.
The old wooden door clicked softly shut behind him.
Lira's eyes locked with his.
And just as she parted her lips to speak—to shout, to accuse—he was in front of her.
Fast.
Too fast.
His hand clamped over her mouth before her voice could rise, pushing her back, pinning her to the stone wall with a quiet but undeniable force. His other hand braced beside her head, boxing her in.
His face leaned close. Shadowed. Hungry.
"Shut up," he whispered, voice smooth as venom. "You're going to mess this up, Lira."
Her golden eyes blazed with defiance. No fear—just fury. Her pink hair clung to her face, disheveled and wild, the tips brushing the collar of her dress as she struggled against him.
And then—
She bit him.
Hard.
Right into the meat of his palm, her teeth sinking deep.
He hissed and yanked his hand back, shaking it once. Blood welled up from the crescent marks. He stared at her.
She glared back, unflinching. Breathing hard.
"Oh?" His voice curled at the edge. "So you are going to attack."
"Of course I will," she snapped, her voice sharp with the heat of her anger. "What do you think I am? Some plaything for you to break?"
Cruxius tilted his head slightly. Then—he smiled.
Not cruelly. Not kindly.
Just knowingly.
"You're starting to show your true colors," he said slowly, eyes narrowing just a touch, like he was inspecting a blade finally unsheathed.
"True colors?" she spat. "You think you know anything about me?"
"No." His voice lowered. "But I know what lies beneath all that righteous noise."
He caught her wrist suddenly—soft, deliberate—and before she could wrench it away, guided her hand downward. Slowly. Casually.
Until it pressed flat against his pants.
Right over the bulge—still heavy, still swollen beneath the fabric. Warm. Solid.
Her eyes widened.
"What…?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What is the meaning of this?"
He leaned in again.
Breath brushing her ear.
"I still have stamina," he murmured, a faint amusement curling his lips. "If you want a turn."
The tension snapped in her like a struck wire.
"Don't you dare!" she snarled, yanking her hand back, fury burning in every word. Her palm slapped against his chest—but it didn't move him.
Just behind her—mere inches from where her back had hit the wall—was a carved wooden door.
Her room.
Cruxius didn't hesitate.
His hand snapped around her wrist again—tight, practiced, uncaring of her protests—and yanked her backward. The door swung open with a sudden jolt as he pushed her inside. The low-lit room swallowed them whole, casting long shadows against the satin-lined walls.
"What the hell do you think you're—!?"
The rest of her words broke apart in the air as he dragged her forward by the arm.
And threw her.
Hard.
Lira hit the bed like a tossed doll, her body bouncing once on the thick, down-stuffed mattress before settling in a sprawled mess of tangled limbs and frilled fabric. Her hair whipped around her face, strands of that soft, bubblegum pink splaying across her eyes as she pushed herself up on her elbows, glaring at him.
She burned.
Not with shame.
But fury.
"You're crossing a line, Cruxius," she snapped, her voice low and sharp, like a knife edge against silk.
Her maid uniform—regal in color but clearly designed for humiliation—clung to her body, too tight across the bust, pulling awkwardly at her chest every time she moved. The bodice was cinched by black velvet ribbons that pressed into her waist, exaggerating her hourglass figure, lifting her already ample breasts upward with every shallow breath she took.
A thin silver trim ran across the cups of the top, just barely hiding the swells of her cleavage, which now rose and fell rapidly from the adrenaline pumping through her. Her nipples pressed faintly through the tight satin—clearly braless beneath the fabric—and her skirt had hiked up dangerously high during the fall.
Her thighs—soft, pale, perfectly shaped—were now exposed up to her garters. White lace stockings clung to them tightly, the tops lined with delicate frills that had shifted unevenly, one slipping down just an inch to show the bare skin above it.
The thin panties underneath, matching the stockings in pure white, had ridden slightly up, creating a taut line across her groin.
She realized it too late.
And when she did, her legs snapped closed with a hiss.
She sat upright fully, hands planted on the bed behind her, her posture as tense as her gaze.
Every inch of her body, flushed and disheveled, painted a picture of fragile elegance wrapped in fire—and Cruxius simply stood at the doorway, unmoving.
His eyes scanned her.
Not lecherously.
But with surgical precision.
A strategist, not a pervert.
She hated that most of all.
That he made her feel seen—without touching a single inch.
"You think I'm afraid of you?" she whispered, her voice low, shaking—but not from fear.
He stepped forward once, closing the door behind him.
And smiled.
"You should be."
His fingers reached for the top of his shirt, undoing the first button with a quiet flick. Then another. Then another.
Lira's glare didn't falter, but her eyes flicked once—down.
Just once.
His shirt slid open down the center, revealing a wide, firm chest—sculpted like carved marble, skin faintly bronzed by light and travel, dusted with the faintest trace of hair across his sternum. His muscles were dense, coiled beneath the skin with an economy of motion—nothing excessive. Just strength built from discipline. Purpose.
The fabric peeled off his shoulders and dropped soundlessly to the floor.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it back, exposing more of his face to the weak morning light slipping through the open curtain. The gray-blue haze bathed his skin, casting sharp shadows across the ridges of his abdomen.
Eight hard lines curved over his stomach, each one flexing subtly as he moved his arms—first to his belt, then to his pants.
The buckle clinked.
He loosened it slowly.
Not for drama.
But for control.
Lira inhaled tightly, fingers curling into the sheets beneath her as he slid the fabric down his hips. His pants fell, pooling around his ankles before he stepped out of them—barefoot now on the cold stone floor.
And there he stood.
Completely naked.
The light kissed along the lean muscles of his thighs, highlighting the grooves of his V-line, the shadows under his hips. His cock—currently soft—hung between his legs, thick even at rest, resting against one thigh with weight and presence. Uncut. Smooth. The type of cock that didn't need to be hard to feel threatening.
Lira's throat tightened.
Not from lust.
But memory.
She remembered that body. She remembered what it had done. What it was capable of.
He noticed.
And smiled.
His eyes locked on hers, all the warmth of that grin hiding something darker—something familiar. Something she once leaned into, long ago.
"Do you remember those days, Lira?" he asked, voice calm. Gentle, almost.
Lira's breath hitched as Cruxius took his first step forward.
Bare. Unapologetic. Silent on the stone floor.
The morning light followed him—glinting off the sharp edges of his form, tracing each movement like a second skin. His cock hung loose between his thighs, swinging faintly with each measured step, completely unbothered by its exposed state.
She pushed herself back on the bed, hands dragging across the sheets as her legs shifted beneath the ruffled hem of her skirt, trying to gather space.
"Don't," she warned, voice hard but cracking at the edges. "Don't even dare."
But he didn't touch her.
Didn't even look at her.
Instead—he reached the side of the bed, and with the same casual grace he wore like armor, he lay down beside her.
Flat. Unbothered.
His back hit the mattress, arms folding behind his head, long legs stretched out, one knee slightly raised. The tension in his body melted instantly, muscles softening in the way only someone supremely confident ever allowed themselves to be.
He tilted his head toward her slightly—eyes still closed.
And smirked.
"Massage me," he said, voice thick with mock exhaustion. "My body hurts, dear maid."
Lira's jaw dropped.
Her hands balled into fists on the sheets, her whole body trembling from the sheer gall of the request.
"You—are insane," she hissed. "What kind of sick bastard—"
He didn't respond.
Just yawned.
As if her fury was nothing more than background noise.
She made a sharp move to rise—her legs kicking out from under her, trying to crawl across the bed toward the edge, toward the door. But his voice followed her like a leash.
"Don't you want money?"
She froze.
His voice wasn't loud. Just… pointed.
"Didn't you tell your sister you'd pay her academy fee by working as my maid?"
Her breath caught.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
He turned his head now, golden eyes open, gleaming lazily under the veil of his lashes. His smile deepened.
"Come on, Miss Maid. Massage me."