The Lycan King's Wrong Obsession novel Sorin Carter (by Circeleari) novel Chapter 82

Chapter 82

Alaric’s hands are still on me.

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Not gently. Not carefully. His fingers dig into my shoulders like he’s trying to anchor me to the fucking earth, like if he lets go I’ll vanish or throw myself back over the railing just to spite him. His face is right there–too close, eyes blown wide, gold burning hot enough to make my stomach twist.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps, voice sharp, raw. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

I suck in air that tastes like metal and chalk and sweat. My lungs feel stupid, like they forgot how breathing works for a second. My heart is still punching my ribs from the inside, echoing that memory–sunlight, a younger face, my name spoken like it mattered.

“I wasn’t—” My voice comes out hoarse. I clear my throat, hate that he can hear it. “I didn’t jump.”

“Bullshit.”

Before I can react, his arms come around me, hard and fast. He pulls me into his chest like instinct overrides rank, pride, every line he’s drawn between us. My face hits warm fabric. My cheek presses against his sternum. His heartbeat is loud. Too loud. Like he’s the one who almost fell.

For half a second, I let myself stay there.

It’s grounding. Annoyingly so. His scent–smoke, leather, something dark and clean–cuts through the static in my head. My hands curl in his shirt before I can stop them.

Then reality snaps back like a rubber band to the face.

I shove him. Both palms flat to his chest, pushing hard. He stumbles a step, more surprised than hurt.

“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t do that.”

He stares at me like I just slapped him. Good. Maybe now we’re even.

The gym presses in around us–steel walls, the boxing ring looming to the side, the balcony rail cold and accusing behind me. Sweat slicks my skin, my gloves half–loosened and useless. I rip them off and fling them onto the table. The crack of leather echoes too loud.

I drop onto the bench and bend forward, elbows on knees, hands over my face. Like if I squeeze hard enough, everything will shut the fuck up.

Tomorrow. The fight. The throne hanging by a thread. My father’s truth rotting in the dark. Camilla’s hands on Alaric’s chest, her mouth too close to his. And now that memory–young me, young him, close enough to touch.

Great. Just pile it on. I love a full emotional breakdown. Really rounds out the day.

Alaric’s boots stop in front of me. The floor creaks. He kneels.

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Chapter 82

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That does it. That’s the thing that makes my jaw clench.

“Talk to me,” he says, quieter now. Tight Like he’s holding something back with his teeth.

I don’t answer. I can’t trust my mouth.

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He reaches for my hands and peels them away from my face. His grip is firm, thumbs brushing over my knuckles, grounding and intimate and way too fucking much. He forces me to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” he demands.

Everything. You. Her. Me. The past I don’t remember but my body apparently does.

I stand abruptly, breaking the contact. Tomorrow,” I say flatly. “You judge fairly?

His brows pull together.

“No favors,” I continue. “No interference. No saving me. No handing me anything because you feel guilty or possessive or whatever the hell this is.”

I move past him before he can answer, already heading for the door.

“Sorin.”

I stop.

“The arena will be sealed.” he says, and his voice shifts. Clinical. Kingly. The tone he uses when people die. “Divine magic. Bound by priests inside the stands.”

My spine stiffens.

“My power won’t cross the barrier,” he continues. “Not with what it’s tainted with. Once the fight starts, I can’t step in. I can’t stop it. I can’t pull you out”

I turn slowly.

This is your last chance to back out,” he says. “I could give you the throne right now if you’d just trust me.”

Trust.

The word tastes like rust.

All I see is Camilla’s smug smile. Her fingers laced with onto his face and how she has his lips onto her. What if I back out and he crowns her instead? What if I was just a challenge—someone forbidden, someone to conquer–and now that he’s had me, the thrill’s gone?

The thought hardens something in my chest.

I smile and turn back onto him with grit as stubborn as a mule. “I’ll fight. No matter what it takes.”

I turn and walk back to the door. I’m about to pull the knob in and open it when it slams shut.

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Chapter 82

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His arm shoots past my head, palm bracing the wood. I’m trapped instantly–back to the door, his body close enough that heat rolls off him in waves. Shit. This is why I don’t like it when I’m angry at him. I know damn well it’s not gonna last long.

“Move,” I snap, breath already shallow.

He leans down, mouth near my ear. “Listen carefully.”

His free hand slides up, fingers gripping my jaw and forcing my head to turn. His touch is firm, deliberate. Controlling and yet it doesn’t hurt at all yet I shouldn’t let my guard down.

Afterall, no one wearing a crown comes in the name of peace.

“If a single scratch lands on you tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice calm enough to be terrifying, “I’ll hunt down every priest who sealed that barrier and kill them one by one until that stupid fucking magic falls.”

My pulse explodes.

“Then,” he continues, “I’ll go down that arena and kill Camilla myself and declare you the winner.” He adds. A shiver runs down my spine as I imagine every bit of word he has uttered.

Not a threat. A consequence.

“Make sure this choice is worth the lives I’ll take for you.”

His mouth drags along the back of my ear. Slow. Teeth grazing skin. Then his lips press to my neck, deep and deliberate. And I know–I believe. Alaric Hayes always gets what he wants.

A sound slips out of me before I can stop it. A sharp, traitorous little moan.

I hate my body for reacting. Hate the way my knees soften, the way heat coils low in my gut.

He pulls back just enough to smirk. “Moya. Vse moya, darling,” he murmurs in russian.

Then he steps away and I’m pulled with him–almost as my body searched once more for his kisses. He’s in my veins like pretty poison.

Before I do anything more stupid than I have already done, I yank the door open and leave without looking back.

Outside, my legs wobble. I catch myself against a mirrored pillar, palms pressing to cold glass. My reflection stares back–flushed, furious, shaken. I touch my neck and see it. Damn it. He left a mark. It’s getting dark already.

“Bastard,” I mutter. He really do have a chilling lack of ethics.

Tomorrow, the whole fucking world will be watching.

And I will not fall. The throne will rightfully be mine.

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Chapter 82

The corridor smells like metal and old sweat.

It’s not the clean kind. The kind that seeps into stone and never leaves.

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My boots echo as I walk, each step sharp and final, as if the place is counting me down. The training wing is empty now–there are no guards, no spectators–just me and the sound of my own breathing bouncing off steel walls.

Good. I don’t need an audience yet.

A door slides open ahead, and the private boxing arena yawns wide. Sunlight filters through the high slats near the ceiling, catching dust in the air. The balcony above looms like a throat waiting to swallow me whole.

I roll my shoulders once. Then again.

Everything aches. Not fresh pain–old pain. The kind that never really heals, just waits.

“Don’t get sentimental,” I mutter to myself. “You’re not here to feel.”

I step inside. This decision is wholly mine. I’ll die with honor if I have to. Like my father before me.

The mat is scuffed, stained, scarred from years of bodies hitting it hard. There’s a mirror along one wall, cracked down the center. I catch myself in it and stop.

Fuck.

I look… different.

Not pretty. Not regal. Not the polished Luna they dragged through ceremonies and silk dresses.

This version of me looks like she bites back. Well, a name afterall, is earned.

My hair pulled tight. Wrists wrapped. Jaw set. Eyes cold enough to scare myself.

Good.

The door behind me opens again.

I don’t turn.

“I said I didn’t need a babysitter,” I say.

A familiar sigh answers me.

“You never do,” Beta Cassian says gently. “And yet.”

I glance over my shoulder. He’s holding a towel, a bottle of water, and the kind of expression people get when they’re trying very hard not to say this is a terrible idea out loud.

“I’m not dying,” I say.

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Chapter 82

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“Statistically,” he replies, stepping closer, “the arena and that woman’s years of experience disagrees.”

I snort and turn fully to face him. “I’m fighting a wolf, Cassian. Not taking a bubble bath. But I’m also a wolf.”

He hands me the water anyway.

I take it, twist the cap, drink once and just enough to wet my mouth, I hand it back.

Silence settles between us. Thick. Finally, he speaks. “You know the King would give it to you.”

I stiffen.

“I don’t know him much but I know he already told you,” Cassian continues. “The crown. The title. No blood has to be shed. No spectacle.”

“And?” I say.

“And I don’t understand why you’re choosing this.”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Because if he gives it to me, they’ll never shut up about it.”

Cassian frowns. “They won’t shut up about this either.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “But they’ll remember it.”

His eyes soften. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

I look past him—through walls, through stone, through memory.

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

I want it. Raw, bloody power. I don’t just want any crown.

The roar hits before the doors open.

It comes through the floor first, vibrating up my legs, rattling my bones. Chants. Screams. A name being shouted over and over like a prayer.

Camilla.

Cassian winces. “They’re… enthusiastic.”

“Let them scream,” I say. “Loud mouths don’t win fights.”

A horn sounds. Low. Ancient. It crawls through my chest and settles there, heavy and final.

The doors grind open.

Light floods in.

And the noise-

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Chapter 82

Fuck.

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The arena is massive. Stone carved into tiers upon tiers of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. Banners hang from the walls, heavy with old symbols and older blood. The sand below is darkened in places that no amount of cleaning ever fixed.

I step out and the cheers stumble.

Not silence–never that–but confusion. Murmurs ripple outward, spreading like rot.

I lift

my chin and walk anyway. Somewhere high above, two voices cut through the noise.

“SORIN!”

“SHOW THEM!”

I glance up.

Tully is on her feet, fists raised, shouting like her life depends on it. Marg beside him is also raising her voice which is already big for someone who doesn’t talk unless it’s to save her life.

Something tight in my chest loosens.

I find the throne without meaning to and my heart drops for a moment when I find that those crimson eyes are already looking at me.

Rigid and still, his hands are gripping the armrests as if the stone might run if he lets go. His jaw is clenched so tight I wonder if his teeth will crack. The center of this monster’s attention surely is a bad place to be.

Beta Cole stands beside him.

I give the Beta a short nod. Not gratitude. Not reassurance. A promise that I won’t let all those training go down the drain. Although, it has simply been a week.

The noise explodes again as the opposite gate opens.

Camilla steps out like she owns the fucking place.

White armor. Gold trim. Hair braided perfectly. She lifts her arms, smiling wide, soaking in the love like sunlight.

She looks… radiant.

I hate her for it. It’s not as if we need those armor. We’re wolves and we might as well just shift and fight.

Her gaze finds mine and the smile sharpens.

The announcer’s voice booms across the arena, echoing off stone.

“By decree of the Crown and Council, the Luna Battle returns–after two hundred and seventeen years-— called by conflict over the rightful Queen of the Imperial Pack.”

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Chapter 82

My heart pounds. Slow, Heavy,

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“Victory by submission or incapacitation. No interference. No withdrawal. The winner claims the title.”

Camilla rolls her shoulders, still smiling, I dig my nails into my palms.

The crowd chants again. Louder, Wilder,

I plant my feet in the sand.

Across from me, Camilla’s eyes glitter. Above us, the throne looms. Behind me, every mistake I’ve ever made.

Ahead-

The signal horn lifts.

The world narrows and so does mine.

Let the games begin.