The Lycan King's Wrong Obsession novel Sorin Carter (by Circeleari) novel Chapter 80

Chapter 80

Alaric doesn’t raise his voice.

That’s how I know I fucked up.

He steps back instead of forward, hand already reaching for the chair where his clothes are draped. His movements are controlled, precise–like every inch of him is being held on a leash he forged himself.

“I’m going to get dressed,” he says, calm enough to sound polite. “I’ll sleep in the east wing.”

The words hit wrong. Too measured. Too final.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say immediately, the apology already tripping over itself on the way out of my mouth. “Alaric, I was angry. I was-”

“I know what you were,” he says, still not looking at me. He pulls on his shirt, buttons it slowly. One. Two. Three. “And I don’t want to fight you right now.”

That’s worse than yelling. Worse than slamming a door.

I push off the bed. “Don’t do this.”

He finally looks at me then. His eyes are gold, steady, guarded. No wolf. No fire. Just restraint layered over something sharp and bleeding underneath.

“You need sleep,” he says. “If you’re going to fight tomorrow, you can’t do it exhausted.”

“I don’t need-”

He cuts me off with a glance. Not harsh. Just firm. King–level final.

“We’ll talk later.”

Later is a lie dressed up as mercy.

He moves toward the door.

“Alaric,” I say again, louder now, frustration cracking through my voice. “You don’t get to just walk away.”

He pauses with his hand on the handle. Doesn’t turn around.

“I’m not walking away,” he says quietly. “I’m giving us both space before we say something we can’t take back.”

Then he opens the door and leaves.

No slam.

Just a soft click as it shuts behind him.

零

Chapter 80

I stand there like an idiot for a full five seconds, staring at the door as if it might reopen out of guilt alone. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. Alaric Hayes doesn’t do dramatic reversals. When he chooses distance, he commits to it like it’s a strategy.

My knees give out before I realize I’m sinking. I slide down the side of the bed until I’m sitting on the floor, back pressed to the mattress, arms wrapped loosely around myself.

I don’t cry.

I just breathe through my nose and stare at the rug, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.

Nice going, Luna. Real fucking diplomatic.

After a minute–or maybe ten–I shove myself up and head straight for the balcony. The doors are cool beneath my palms as I push them open, night air slapping against my skin like it’s offended by me too.

I grip the railing and lean forward, staring out at the pack grounds below. Torches burn in neat rows. Guards patrol in perfect intervals. Everything is orderly. Controlled. Loyal.

Just not to me.

The moon hangs overhead, bright and unapologetic.

“Well?” I mutter up at it. “What do you want from me now?”

It doesn’t answer. Typical.

I tilt my head back anyway, letting the cold seep into my bones. My breath fogs. My scars itch faintly, like they always do when I’m tired or angry or both.

Is this worth it?

The throne. The trials. The whispers. The way everyone looks at me like I’m a problem Alaric hasn’t solved yet.

I think of Woodridge. Of thinking loyalty was automatic. Of believing love meant safety.

Yeah. Learned that lesson the hard way.

Eventually, the night stops being dramatic and just gets cold. I go back inside, crawl onto the bed fully dressed, and stare at the ceiling until exhaustion knocks me out without permission.

Morning arrives like it’s afraid of me.

I wake up warm. Too warm. The blankets are pulled up properly. Pillows adjusted. My body positioned comfortably instead of twisted like I remember falling asleep.

I lie still, heart stuttering.

He came back.

11:13 Mon, Jan 19

Chapter 80

At least long enough to tuck me in.

The thought softens something in my chest before I can stop it. I press my face into the pillow and let myself smile like a fucking fool for half a second.

Okay. Fixable. This is fixable.

Food. Apology. Something normal.

I shower, braid my hair back, and head to the kitchen with a plan and a stubborn streak.

The moment I step inside, the room freezes.

Not dramatically. Just… subtly. A spoon pauses mid–stir. Someone stops chopping. Two maids exchange a glance that’s quick and tight.

I keep smiling anyway.

“Morning,” I say. “Can I cook?”

Silence.

A senior attendant clears her throat. “That won’t be necessary, Your Grace.”

Your Grace. Not Luna.

“I know,” I say lightly. “I want to. Please let me.”

More glances. A ripple of unease.

This is not the Woodridge Pack I have known so much. No one relaxes around me. No one jokes. Or maybe they do, just not around an outsider like me. No one automatically shifts aside to make space. They comply because I’m mated to the king–not because they want me here.

I reach for a pan anyway.

Someone hesitates, then hands it over like they’re afraid it might bite them.

I cook. Clumsily. I add herbs Alaric apparently doesn’t like. Forget he prefers his eggs softer. Muscle memory fails me because this kitchen isn’t mine and neither is this pack.

When it’s done, I plate everything carefully, ignoring the way the room feels like I’m a guest overstaying her welcome.

I lift the dish, straighten my spine, and turn toward the door.

I’ll apologize. I’ll fix it. I always do.

Even if I have to earn my place one awkward step at a time.

I lift the plate, straighten my spine, and walk out of the kitchen like I don’t feel every single pair of eyes

Chapter 80

drilling into my back.

The hallway smells like polished stone and old money. Clean. Cold. Imperial. My bare feet make soft sounds against the floor, and suddenly I’m very aware that I don’t know where to walk like I belong. No one stops me. but no one smiles either. They bow. Just enough. Not warm. Not hostile. Polite in a way that reminds me I’m tolerated, not claimed.

Fixable, I remind myself again. Jesus Christ, I really cling to that word.

The stairs up to Alaric’s office curve like they’re meant to intimidate. Long. Wide. Dramatic. Because of course they are. I’m halfway up when someone steps into my path.

Rosaline.

She looks… different. Not softer. Just less sharp. Her hands fold in front of her, eyes flicking to the plate Em holding, then back to my face.

“My lady,” she says quietly. “You shouldn’t go up there.”

I stop. Blink once.

“Oh?” I say, keeping my voice light. “That’s new. Usually I get escorted like a criminal or ignored completely.”

Her mouth tightens. She doesn’t rise to it. Progress.

“He’s busy,” she adds. “It’s not a good time.”

I glance past her toward the upper floor. “It’s never a good time. That’s kind of been my experience.”

She shifts. Fingers twisting together. Nervous habit. I recognize it because I used to do the same thing when I was still trying to survive by being agreeable.

Instead of snapping, I ask, “Why are you still working for Camilla?”

The question lands between us, heavy and plain.

Rosaline’s eyes drop to the floor immediately. She fidgets harder now, thumb rubbing into her knuckle like she’s trying to erase herself.

“She’s my Luna,” she says simply.

Not defensive. Not apologetic. Just… factual.

The words hit harder than I expect. Heavy. Settling.

Oh.

I finally get it.

This isn’t a divided house. It’s already chosen. Every bowed head. Every stiff smile. Every door that doesn’t quite open for me. They aren’t waiting to see who wins.

They already know.

Camilla belongs here.

I don’t.

Something in my chest tightens, then stills. Acceptance is quieter than hope. Less dramatic. More final.

I keep smiling anyway. Because of course I do.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” I tell her honestly. “I didn’t know if you would be.”

Her head lifts. Surprise flickers across her face. She nods, awkward, unsure what to do with sincerity.

“I just need to give him this,” I say, lifting the plate slightly. “Peace offering. I promise I won’t start a war.”

She hesitates. Looks torn. Then steps aside.

I move past her before she can change her mind.

Each step up feels lighter than it should. Like my body’s ahead of my heart, floating on sheer stubbornness. I rehearse it in my head–something normal, something stupid. Sorry about last night. I made food. Don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me.

The door to Alaric’s office is ajar.

I slow.

I’m about to say his name. About to knock. About to pretend this is still fixable.

Then I hear her voice.

Soft. Familiar. Confident in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

My stomach drops before my brain catches up.

I stop in the doorway.

Camilla is there.

Close. Too close.

Her hand is on his chest. Her mouth on his.

Alaric doesn’t shove her away.

Time doesn’t explode. It doesn’t shatter. It just… stops. Everything goes very quiet. The plate feels heavy in my hands. My fingers numb. My pulse loud in my ears.

I don’t know how long I stand there. Long enough to understand exactly what I’m seeing. Long enough to feel something cold and old crawl up my spine.

11:13 Mon, Jan 19

Chapter 80

This isn’t misunderstanding.

This isn’t timing.

This is placement.

Belonging.

The pie slips a fraction in my grip.

And that tiny sound–ceramic shifting–feels loud enough to ruin everything.