The Lycan King's Wrong Obsession novel Sorin Carter (by Circeleari) novel Chapter 27

Chapter 27

“You’ll be bathing me instead.”

The words are a chain around my throat. The steam is thick, clinging to my skin like it wants to drown me before the King ever can. The perfume those women left behind lingers–sweet, floral, cloying–and I pray to every goddamn star in the sky that it’s strong enough to mask my own scent.

I don’t move at first. My fingers are slick around the bar of soap, my knees are unsteady, but his command holds me like iron. The heavy door is shut, there’s no witnesses left but me. Him. And the faint echo of my sanity crumbling.

I force my steps forward. The marble under my bare feet is still warm from the steaming pool, my reflection rippling in the water’s edge as I stop behind him.

His back greets me like as a mountain carved from war itself. Broad, cut with muscle so defined it looks chiseled by the gods, scar after scar stretching across his skin like maps of every battle he’s lived through. The water slides off his shoulders, rivulets racing down into the line of his spine, disappearing under the surface.

Fuck. He’s even bigger this close.

I dip the soap into the water, rub it until it lathers, and press it to his back. Small circles. Careful and silent small circles. The steam makes my hair cling to my face, my lungs dragging air that tastes like herbs and musk and power.

I say nothing. I can’t say anything. My voice would betray me in an instant.

“You know,” his voice rumbles, breaking through the silence, “she’s stubborn as hell.”

My hand freezes on his shoulder blade.

“She’d rather bleed herself dry than let me help her. Rather face a death sentence than admit she needs me.”

He’s talking about me.

My pulse spikes so hard I almost choke on it.

I keep scrubbing, pretending my hands aren’t shaking.

“She writes to me as if I’m some stranger,” he continues, voice deep and low, words laced with something dangerous. “Like I’m not the one who could tear the world apart for her. Do you know how fucking ridiculous that is? To act like I wouldn’t burn entire kingdoms just to keep her breathing?”

I grit my teeth, press the soap harder into his skin.

He hisses, low, sharp. “Watch it.”

“Sorry, Alpha,” I mutter quickly, lowering my voice to something hoarse, rough.

He leans forward on his arms, muscles flexing. “And yet… despite how much she infuriates me… I can’t

12:28 Sun, Dec 21 #4

Chapter 27

stop” His tone shifts, softer, edged with something raw. “I adore her. Every stubborn fucking word, every refusal, every bruise she’s survived. I’d give anything to have her under me again.”

The air leaves my lungs, heavy, weighted.

But then his voice darkens, every word dripping like venom. “Maybe I’ve been too soft. Maybe when I find her, I should stop asking.”

My hand falters, soap sliding down his arm.

“Maybe I should take what’s mine. Chain her if I have to. Leash her. Make it impossible for her to run again. She’ll thank me one day when she realizes no one else could ever protect her like I can.”

My breath catches. My chest tightens. I can’t fucking move. The steam feels like it’s choking me now, like every molecule of air is laced with the obsession dripping from his mouth.

My hands tremble as I scrub down his forearm, my nails almost digging into his skin to keep steady.

Silence. Finally, silence. Except for the soft drip of water and my hammering pulse.

He flexes his fingers on the pool’s edge. Slowly. Deliberately. “You think I don’t know, do you?”

My heart stops.

His back is still to me, but his voice is sharp, too sharp, like he’s carving straight into me without turning around.

My stomach drops, my entire body going rigid. He knows. He knows. Fuck—

“You’re a rogue, aren’t you?”

The breath I’ve been strangling on finally rushes out. Relief hits me so hard my knees nearly buckle.

“Yes, Alpha,” I rasp, pitching my voice low again.

He hums, almost amused. “Did Luna Camila take you in?”

“Yes, Alpha.”

“And what are you doing here, scrubbing my back like a servant?”

“Yes, Alpha.”

His chuckle is humorless, a deep roll in his chest. “You’re boring when you don’t talk.”

I stay still, water dripping from my wrist into the pool, every muscle begging me to run.

Then he waves a hand dismissively, not bothering to turn. “Leave. You bore me.”

I don’t wait to be told twice.

I set the soap down, fingers numb, and walk out as steady as my legs will let me. The door is heavy, but the second it shuts behind me, my back slams against it.

My lungs finally expand, ragged and wild.

Fuck.

I almost got caught.

The steam clings to my skin, sliding down my spine like invisible fingers. The heat of the bathhouse seeps into every pore, carrying Alaric’s scent with it–cedar, smoke, and the faint sharpness of iron that always makes me think he’d taste like danger if I ever dared to put my mouth on him. I’m still catching my breath, still trying to collect myself, when the heavy door creaks open behind me.

Fuck.

I freeze.

And then–heels clicking on polished marble, the sound sharper than any blade.

Luna Camila.

Of course.

Her perfume hits me first, sweet and cloying, layered thick enough to choke. Behind her, Roslin follows like a dutiful shadow, head dipped, hands folded in front of her, eyes flicking once to me before darting away.

Camila’s eyes narrow when she sees me, standing too close to the King’s private quarters. Her lips curl into a smirk so sharp it could draw blood. “Well,” she drawls, voice slicing through the heat–thick air, “what do we have here?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

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