The Villainess Needs a Hug (Ivy Windsor) novel Chapter 323

Ivy was beautiful–everyone knew it.

Back when she was trapped in Silverfen, there was no telling how many men in the village leered at her, their minds running wild with sordid fantasies.

The reason she carried such deep psychological scars, unable even now to accept intimacy with any man, was because of the humiliation she’d endured at the hands of those lecherous old scoundrels.

If it hadn’t been for Silas and his son, who’d grabbed kitchen knives and fought those men off with reckless courage, she would have been violated in the most brutal way imaginable.

Later, when Silas deliberately let her escape, the villagers grumbled and mocked him behind his back–saying if he didn’t want her, he could’ve at least traded her away. After all, plenty of men would have lined up for their chance.

Those thuggish townsfolk never imagined the “bird that escaped the cage” would come back of her own accord months later.

And now, she was even more stunning–her beauty almost criminal, tempting

yone who laid eyes on her to claim her as their own.

The ringleader of the mob was the notorious village bully, swaggering around like he owned the place. He relied on his connections in the county, making him fearless, impossible to intimidate.

Riled up by his shouting, the villagers surged forward, brandishing shovels, rakes, and whatever other tools they could find. But Warren and his team were police officers, trained and strong, yet unwilling to truly hurt civilians. All they could do was handcuff people and try to contain the chaos.

Jamison, on the other hand, felt no such qualms.

He shielded Ivy, pulling her behind him, and ordered his bodyguards to step up and deal with the ruffians.

But most of these villagers were elderly or frail–no match for the bodyguards‘ fists. If anyone got seriously hurt, there’d be lawsuits, criminal charges… So the bodyguards held back, focused on defense, never striking with full force.

Still, things went wrong.

An old man, wild–eyed and waving a thick stick, charged at the police. Before he

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could get close, his foot caught a gnarled tree root. He pitched forward, crashing hard to the ground.

At first, everyone assumed he was faking an injury, putting on a show. But Jamison’s sharp gaze caught the truth immediately: the old man’s limbs jerked uncontrollably, his eyes rolled back–he looked as if he’d been struck by lightning.

Years of clinical experience told Jamison this was either a stroke or a heart attack–critical, life–threatening. He needed to act, now.

“Grandpa Walter’s in trouble! They killed Grandpa Walter!” someone shrieked.

“There’s been a death! The police killed someone!”

“We’re finished! The police are beating civilians!”

The village bully seized the moment, howling accusations. The crowd, who’d moments before been grappling with the police, now rushed over to check on the fallen man.

Warren’s face went grim as he hurried forward.

Before he could say a word, Jamison had already dropped to his knees beside the old man, beginning a quick assessment.

“Clear the area! He needs air–everyone, move back!” Jamison barked, unbuttoning the man’s collar, checking his pulse, and examining his pupils as he worked.

But the villagers didn’t trust him. They shouted suspicions and accusations, their voices angry and frantic.

“Who are you? Aren’t you with Daisy’s family?”

“You’re trying to hurt Grandpa Walter!”

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