The Lycan King's Wrong Obsession novel Sorin Carter (by Circeleari) novel Chapter 21

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The headmaid’s fingers are iron shackles around my wrist as she drags me across polished marble floors,

Both our steps are echoing too loud in this palace. Jeez, it’s like is announcing my doom. My pulse is all over the place–too fast, too loud, it’s betraying me. The scent of incense mixed with pine oil lingers in the air, clashing with the faint undertone of smoke that only comes from Lycans. Him.

Alaric, that bastard. He sure has away of getting to me.

We stop in front of the massive living hall. The doors are already wide open. The Omegas are lined up like obedient dolls,

who heads bowed, hands clasped neatly in front of them. I’m shoved into the line, nearly toppling over the girl next to me, hisses under her breath but doesn’t dare make it loud enough for anyone to hear.

Then he enters.

Alaric Hayes. The Alpha King.

Fuck. It’s like I didn’t see him in that closet alone. He looks another way dangerous.

The air thickens instantly. His presence hits harder than the whip Camila used on me–raw, suffocating dominance that has every Omega’s chin glued to the floor. He doesn’t even need to smarl. His very existence demands submission.

I don’t look up, not really. Just a flicker, a tiny glance from beneath my lashes. The meds, I think is still covering my scent.

And what I see nearly knocks the breath from me.

He’s furious. Not the smug, smirking predator who used to taun me in the letters, not the dangerously playful bastard whose amber eyes could pin me to walls without touching me. This is different. His face is carved with pure dread. His jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscle twitch from here. His eyes burn like molten fire as he stalks to the throne–like chair at the center of the room.

He sits with those broad shoulders rigid, power rolling off him in waves that make the Omegas fidget. But not in fear. No, the idiots are whispering, giggling even, because apparently murderous rage on him looks hot enough to melt underwear.

Disgust bubbles in me. Seriously? He looks like he’s one letter away from ripping out someone’s throat, and they’re swooning.

A tray is placed in front of him–thick envelopes stacked neatly. One of the Omegas scurries away so fast she nearly trips on her own skirt.

Alaric doesn’t hesitate. He tears through them, one after the other, movements sharp, precise, predatory. His fingers move too fast, snapping seals, eyes scanning the contents like he’s hunting for blood hidden in ink. Every time he finds nothing, his frustration grows. His breathing sharpens. The snap of the next seal is louder. By the fifth envelope, his hand is trembling. By the seventh, he slams it down hard enough that the porcelain tray rattles.

The Omegas flinch in unison.

The headmaid nods at one of them, whispering urgently. “Pour im tea. Now.”

But no one moves. Not a single girl dares step forward. The air ia minefield, and Alaric is the live grenade at the center of

1. it. The thought of going near him when his eyes look like that–ke he’d decapitate the next fool who breathes wrong- keeps everyone frozen in place. Even the headmaid swallows hal, taking a step back.

Great. Just great.

And of course, because fate has a twisted sense of humor, my boy betrays me. I step forward.

One foot. Then the other. The air is so thick I can feel it clawing my lungs. The girls beside me gape like I’ve lost my

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16:35 Sat, Dec 20 G GA

Chapter 21

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fucking mind. Maybe I have. But standing still isn’t an option–ot when his fury is curdling the air and everyone else is too chickenshit to do their job.

My hands don’t shake. Not visibly, anyway. Inside, I’m crumbling

The silver teapot is warm when I wrap my fingers around it. His cent slams into me–leather, smoke, pine, musk. It makes me dizzy. Makes me remember too much.

He doesn’t look at me. Not once. His eyes are still locked on the ile of discarded letters, jaw ticking, chest rising and falling like he’s holding something barely chained inside.

Slowly, carefully, I pour the tea into his cup. My voice comes ou quieter than I intend, but steady.

“Don’t worry too much, Your Highness,” I murmur, the words scraping out before I can stop them.

The cup fills. Steam curls up, brushing my face.

And then–his head lifts.

Shit.

My heart drops into

my stomach.

He’s looking up.

I’m already turning. My braid brushes against my back as I pivot away from him, not daring to let him see more than the curve of my cheek. My throat feels tight, like if I swallow, he’ll hear it.

Behind me, the weight of his stare burns hotter than fire.

But then it’s gone. He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t demand my name. Maybe he didn’t really see me. Maybe I’m safe for another day.

I set the pot down and step back into the line, head low, pulse hammering so hard I can feel it in my ears.

The moment shatters when Alaric suddenly slams both hands down on the table. The sound ricochets through the hall like a gunshot. The tray of envelopes and tea cups flips, crashing onto the marble floor. Porcelain shatters, liquid spills, a sharp bitter scent of black tea floods the air.

Everyone jumps. Someone gasps.

“Enough,” he snarls, voice guttural, dangerous. His chair screeches back as he rises, towering, his fury barely contained. “Call the Gamma. We leave at dawn.”

The headmaid stumbles, nodding so fast I think her head might snap off. Panic flickers across her features. She bolts toward the doors, barking orders, her earlier suspicion of me completely forgotten.

The Omegas scatter like terrified mice, whispering as they clutch their skirts and scuttle out of the hall.

“He’s never been this angry-”

“Maybe something happened to the Queen-”

“Or maybe he hasn’t brought her at all-”

Their voices fade as we file out, the tension still coiled tight in m chest.

I almost make it out unscathed. Almost.

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Chapter 21

Until Roslin changes that. That botch just can’t get enough.

She sidles close, her perfume cloying and sour.

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“Ah!” A sharp jolt as her elbow deliberately bumps into my back right where the wounds are. My body jerks, breath hissing between my teeth.

She smirks, lips curling mean and ugly. “Should I add more whis?”

Her whisper drips venom.

There will be a time I get that bitch. There will be.

By the time I drag the broom across the attic floor for the tenth damn time, I swear the dust multiplies just to spite me. My arms ache, my back still throbs, and the other omegas are whining to themselves like children forced to do chores.

“Attic duty again. Fucking perfect,” one of them mutters under her breath, throwing her rag down before snatching it back up when the head maid barks from the bottom of the stairs.

I don’t bother answering. I keep sweeping, eyes catching on a comer shelf tucked behind old trunks stacked so high it looks like they’re one nudge away from collapsing on top of us all. Something pokes out–brown and frayed.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I shove a trunk aside, ignoring the dust cloud that invades my lungs, and pull it free. A notebook. The leather is cracked, the pages yellowed, but it’s still whole. I flip it open, smiling despite myself at the faint lines inside. Untouched. Blank. A treasure in this hellhole.

Finally, something that’s mine.

The day bleeds on, slow and dull, every second stretching as I keep waiting for a flash of amber eyes, for that suffocating, magnetic presence to show up in the halls. But Alaric never does Probably busy–king duties, deals, threats, the usual.

By the time night settles, my body’s so tired it feels boneless. In the medical wing, I sit on the edge of a cot as Marg presses a steaming poultice against my back.

“More of that paste, please.” I whisper, my voice tight.

Marg’s wrinkled face pinches like I just cursed her entire family. It stinks to the heavens, Sorin. I swear even the spirits complain.”

Tully, sitting nearby, fans the air dramatically. “She’s right. It smells like something crawled out of a swamp, died, then came back for revenge.”

I grit my teeth as the paste burns and numbs at the same time. “Meah, well, better swamp revenge than infection.”

They crinkle their noses, muttering prayers, but I smile weakly Marg in thanks. She’s one of the few who doesn’t treat me like I’m cursed.

Back in the bunks, bodies are already tangled in sheets, snores choing like a symphony of misery, Roslin, two beds away, sounds like she’s choking on rocks. I shove my pillow over my had but it does nothing.

The notebook burns against my chest where I tucked it under my shift. After tossing for what feels like hours, I give up.

Quiet as possible, I slip out of bed, clutching the notebook and half–dried pen I’d stolen. The small lamp by the door flickers, barely enough light to guide me through the narrow hallways until I reach the balcony.

Cold air hits my skin the second I step out. It smells different he–clean, sharp, like pine and marble stone. The Moon hangs heavy above, silver spilling across the tiles, across me.

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Chapter 21

I settle on the bench, flipping the notebook open, my fingers trembling.

What the hell do I even write?

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A test, maybe. To confirm if it’s true–that the Alpha King is waiting for me to put words on paper. That somehow, across all this madness, he’s been looking for my handwriting like a starving man hunting for scraps.

I chew the end of the pen, trying to string together something clover. Instead, my mind drifts. Back to when Wade was gone to war, and I wasted months filling parchment with nonsense jus to keep myself sane. And Alaric–damn him–he was always there, stealing pieces of me through letters I never admitted I enjoyed writing.

A laugh escapes, bitter and quiet. I was so fucking naïve waiting foro Wade back then.

The memory pulls something else forward–a lullaby. One I wrote, stupid and soft, half song, half prayer. I dind’t reallyu know why I sent the song to Alaric. Maybe because he was the only one there for me when I was expecting letters from Wade about the war.

And he was out there fucking Ariel.

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