Too Lazy to be a Villainess novel Chapter 89

Chapter 89: I Am Not a Royal Football

[Lavinia’s Pov]

"You okay?"

I gave him my best regal nod, like a queen who had just dropped her crown and pretended it was on purpose. "Perfectly fine. Just... reevaluating my life choices."

Osric blinked. "At five years old?"

"You’d be surprised."

He stared at me with that you-need-constant-supervision-or-you’ll-set-the-palace-on-fire look again, arms crossed like some disapproving royal nanny. Honestly, if he had a clipboard, I’d be on a government watchlist.

And then—BOOM—a shadow loomed over us like the dramatic entrance cue of a villain in a soap opera.

Before I could blink, I was yeeted off the ground like an overripe turnip. "HUH?!"

I blinked, limbs flopping like an annoyed cat, suddenly cradled in arms that were way too careful, way too tight, and, honestly, too extra.

I tilted my head up.

Lysandre.

Looking like a thunderstorm had stolen an Elven nobleman’s wardrobe and decided to make a fashion statement. Ruffles, high boots, and the expression of someone who just caught a mosquito hovering near a Fabergé egg.

He held me like I’d just been cursed by an evil sorcerer or turned into a frog by an envious duke.

"Lavinia. Who. Is. He?" he growled, eyes locked on Osric like he was already planning his funeral playlist.

Osric raised a brow. "And...who. are. you? And how dare you hold the princess like she’s your emotional support plushie?"

Now they’re glaring at each other like two enemy gods locked in an ancient, unspoken battle of superiority.

And me?

Yeah, just dangling in Lysandre’s arms like an annoyed cat in a designer tote, looking up at Lysandre, down at Osric, and seriously wondering who I should bet money on.

Lysandre or Osric? This glare-off was heating up faster than my bathwater when Marella forgot to check the temperature.

I couldn’t choose. This was high-stakes drama, and I was living for it.

Then—Lysandre puffed out his chest like a very insulted swan in battle armor.

"I am her second elder brother." He paused for dramatic effect, eyes blazing. "HER. FAMILY."

Osric recoiled like someone had flung a raw onion directly at his pride. "Family?" he repeated, like it was a personal insult. Then his lip curled into a slow, dangerous smirk—one of those cold enough to refrigerate soup with just a glance kind of smirks.

"...I am her first and ONLY close friend. Since she didn’t even know how to talk. I was there. Interpreting her baby grunts."

I blinked slowly. When did he... Wait... are they actually flexing their titles over me? Like I’m a shiny trophy in a very dramatic game of ’Who Gets To Hold The Princess?’

Before I could open my mouth, Lysandre whipped his gaze down to me and barked, "Lavinia. Tell him you only belong to me."

I choked on air. "What?!"

That came out of nowhere! Like, bro, do I look like a limited-edition collector’s item?

But plot twist—before I could process whatever Lysandre was on about, BAM, I was suddenly yoinked from his arms like a sack of sugar with too many opinions.

"HUH—AGAIN?!" I yelped.

Now I was smothered—hugged, I mean hugged, definitely hugged—in a very warm, very firm embrace. I tilted my head, and there he was:

PAPA.

Standing tall and terrifying, cloak fluttering, expression carved from stone and storms. His eyes—jealous. His grip—possessive. His tone?

Ice-cold tyrant, served fresh from the underworld.

"My daughter," he growled, glaring daggers at both Lysandre and Osric, "is only. Mine."

. . .

. . .

. . .

The silence was deafening. Even the wind paused to see how this would play out.

I blinked. Then blinked again. Okay, can we all just take a moment to STOP GRABBING ME LIKE A ROYAL FOOTBALL?!

They keep grabbing me like I’m the last piece of cake at a wedding.

I looked up at Papa and caught those jealous little sparks still crackling in his eyes, and honestly?

Oh. He was pouting.

Adorably.

And just like that—my tiny royal heart melted. I leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and whispered with all the sweetness I could muster:

"Yes. I only belong to Papa."

Boom.

Lysandre looked like he’d been stabbed in the heart with a hairbrush. Osric physically flinched.

And from somewhere behind them—Theon’s voice floated in like a delighted breeze. "Ohoho, this is better than the court dramas."

I could already picture him lounging with a smug grin, munching roasted nuts, wearing imaginary 3D glasses, and watching the chaos unfold like it was a front-row seat to royal reality TV—limited edition, drama deluxe.

Then Papa looked down at me with that soft, rare smile he only wore for me—and only when no one was looking.

And off we went—me, Papa, and the storm cloud of unresolved tension trailing behind us.

I gave the two abandoned gladiators behind us a sunny little wave over Papa’s shoulder. "See you later!"

Big smile. Zero regrets. Let them sort out their pride.

***

[Throne Room, Later....]

I blinked, kicking my tiny feet in the air. Traitors always run. Very original.

I had planned to play outside with Marshi or sneak into the training grounds to watch Osric swing a sword at some poor dummy.

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