The Lycan King's Wrong Obsession novel Sorin Carter (by Circeleari) novel Chapter 91

Chapter 91

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The rooftop tilted beneath my feet, and for a second I thought it was the alcohol still fucking with equilibrium. But no–this was something else entirely. Something worse.

Your father’s death.

The words echoed in my skull as a death knell, and suddenly I wasn’t on that rooftop anymore.

I’m thirteen years old again, and I’m not supposed to be here.

my

The realization hits me with the force of a freight train as the memory slams into focus–finally, finally complete after weeks of fragmented bullshit that never made sense. I’m crouched on the balcony of the palace as I’ve seen before, the one that overlooks the pack and where I trained last time, where all the important people make all the important decisions that fuck over everyone else’s lives.

My knees hurt against the cold marble. My dress is too tight around my ribs because the maids insisted I look “presentable” for the political dinner we’d attended earlier. I’d snuck away, bored out of my mind, looking for anywhere that wasn’t full of adults pretending to give a shit about each other.

And then I’d heard the voices.

Two of them, coming from the war room–the one with the huge table covered in maps and little figurines that represented real people who could really die. The door is cracked open just enough for sound to carry, and I freeze, because one of those voices is angry in a way that makes my stomach clench.

“I don’t fucking care!” The younger voice–a boy, maybe eighteen, his words sharp enough to cut. “Send them to the war! Send them”

This was the war. This is my memories. This is what father told me. They’re sending my father.

“We can’t.” The older voice is strained, tired, like this argument has been going on for hours. “You know what that means. The casualties will double if we send reinforcements now. We’ll lose-”

“I said I don’t care about your fucking numbers!”

The sound of something slamming–a fist on the table, maybe, or a chair kicked back. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. I should leave. I should definitely leave. But I’m thirteen and scared and frozen, and the conversation is about war, about people dying, and something about it feels important in a way I can’t name.

“You’ll send them.” The boy’s voice drops lower, and somehow that’s even more terrifying than the shouting. There’s something in it–not a request, not even a demand. A threat. “Or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Silence. The kind that feels like the whole world is holding its breath.

Then the older man sighs, and it’s the sound of complete defeat. Footsteps, moving toward the door. “Fine. Fine. Do what you want. You always do.”

The door swings open and I press myself flatter against the balcony railing, my heart in my fucking throat as a man―tall, greying, wearing the insignia of someone important–walks out. He doesn’t see me. Doesn’t even

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Chapter 91

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look in my direction, just stalks down the hallway like he’s trying to put as much distance between himself and that room as possible.

I should run. Should absolutely fucking run.

But I don’t.

Instead, like the stupid thirteen–year–old I am, I lean forward. Just a little. Just enough to see through the crack in the door, to catch a glimpse of whoever just threatened their way into sending people to die.

He’s standing with his back to me, shoulders tense, one hand braced against the war table. Dark hair. Tall, even at eighteen. There’s something about the way he holds himself–like violence is always just beneath the surface, contained but never quite controlled.

And then, because the universe has always hated me, a piece of gravel shifts under my knee.

The sound is tiny. Barely anything. A mouse could’ve made more noise.

His head snaps toward the balcony.

Shit. Shit shit shit-

I scramble backward, my dress catching on the railing, my hands slipping on marble that suddenly feels slick as ice. My breath is coming in short, panicked gasps, and I’m trying to be quiet, trying to disappear, but it’s too late, he heard me, he’s coming-

The balcony door swings open.

And there he is.

For a second–one single, crystalline second–I don’t recognize him. He’s just a boy, really, despite the height and the presence and the rage still simmering in his dark eyes. Just a boy who looks as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

Then the moonlight hits his face.

Dark eyes. Sharp jawline. That mouth I’ve kissed, that face I’ve memorized in the weeks since the bond snapped into place.

Alaric.

The name doesn’t come from my thirteen–year–old mouth. That version of me doesn’t know him yet, doesn’t know that in a few short weeks my father will be dead and this boy–this monster–will be the reason why.

But I know.

Present–day me, trapped in this memory like a ghost haunting my own past, knows exactly who he is.

“You,” thirteen–year–old me whispers, and it’s not a greeting. It’s an accusation.

He takes a step forward and I skitter back, my shoulders hitting the railing. “What are you doing here, Sorin?

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Chapter 91

This area is restricted-”

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“You killed him.” The words burst out of me, out of both versions of me–past and present bleeding together until I can’t tell which one is speaking. “You killed him, you sent him to die, you threatened your father and forced him to send my dad to war-‘

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

But I’m not listening. Can’t listen. The memory is crystallizing, sharpening, every fragmented piece I’ve carried for years suddenly clicking into place with the precision of a blade sliding between ribs.

This is the conversation I overheard. This is the argument that ended with my father’s orders being changed. This is why the official story never made sense, why no one would answer my questions, why I’ve spent years trying to piece together what happened.

Because he happened.

Alaric―my mate, my soulmate, the person I’m supposed to trust above everyone else in this godforsaken world–sent my father to die.

“This is all your fault!” I’m crying now, tears streaming down my face, and I can’t tell if they’re from the thirteen–year–old who’s about to lose everything or the twenty–three–year–old who just lost it all over again. “This is all your fault!”

I lunge at him, my fists hammering against his chest–uselessly, because he’s bigger and stronger and I’m just a child, just a stupid fucking child who couldn’t stop anything, couldn’t save anyone-

“This is all your fault!”

***

The rooftop snaps back into focus with the violence of a rubber band breaking.

I’m on my knees. The concrete is cold and hard beneath me, and I don’t remember falling but I must have because Camilla is standing a few feet away, watching me with those calculating eyes.

“No,” I whisper. Then louder: “No.”

My whole body starts to shake. Not delicate tremors–full–body convulsions that rattle my teeth and make my vision blur, Denial crashes through me in waves, each one trying to drown the one before it, but the memory won’t let go. Won’t release me.

It was him.

It was always him.

“You’re lying.” The words come out broken, desperate. “You’re lying, you fucking bitch-”

“Am I?” Camilla’s voice is soft. Almost gentle. Somehow that makes it worse. “Search your memories, Sorin. You were there. I was there. You heard it yourself.”

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Chapter 91

“No!”

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I press my hands against the concrete, trying to ground myself, but the world is tilting again and this time there’s no memory to fall into–just the horrible, crystalline clarity of the present.

The first drops of rain hit my face. Cold. Shocking.

Then more.

Within seconds, it’s pouring.

The water soaks through my clothes, plastering my hair to my face, and I can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop seeing thirteen–year–old me pressed against that railing while Alaric–eighteen–year–old Alaric–stood in that war room and demanded they send reinforcements to a battle that would kill my father.

“He knew,” I choke out. The rain mixes with the tears on my face until I can’t tell which is which. “He knew they were sending my dad, and he didn’t stop it, he made it happen-”

My stomach heaves.

I barely manage to turn my head before I’m retching, everything I drank tonight coming back up in violent waves. The alcohol, the victory shots, the celebration that now tastes like fucking ashes.

When it’s over, I collapse forward, my forehead pressed against the rain–slicked concrete.

I can’t breathe.

Can’t think.

Every memory I have of Alaric–every smile, every touch, every moment I thought meant something— recontextualizes itself into a lie. The bond that felt like fate now feels like the universe’s sickest fucking joke.

Your soulmate killed your father.

How’s that for destiny?

“I know it hurts,” Camilla says, and she actually sounds sympathetic. That’s what finally breaks me. “But now you know the truth. Now you can make a real choice.”

Choice.

The word echoes in my head, hollow and meaningless.

What fucking choice is there? Stay with the man who killed my father? Pretend the bond means more than blood? Love the monster who destroyed my family?

My body convulses again, harder this time, and I curl in on myself as the rain pounds down. The rooftop, the city, Camilla–it all blurs together into meaningless noise.

All I can see is Alaric’s face in that memory.

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Chapter 91

All I can hear is my own voice screaming, This is all your fault.

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And the worst part–the part that makes me want to claw my way out of my own skin–is that the bond is still there. Still pulling. Still singing in my chest like nothing has changed.

Like it doesn’t care that my mate is a murderer.

Like love and hate can somehow exist in the same breath.

I laugh, and it comes out as a sob.

Because of course they can.

Of course they fucking can.