The Lycan King's Wrong Obsession novel Sorin Carter (by Circeleari) novel Chapter 94

Chapter 94

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But I don’t. Because if I pull away now, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll ask questions. And I need him to not ask questions, not yet, not until I can figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.

Leaving, my brain supplies helpfully. You’re leaving Remember? You decided that on the rootsop.

Right. Leaving That’s the plan.

So instead of pulling away, I lean into him. Let my head rest on his shoulder, let his jacket cocoon me, let him think I’m just cold and shaken and in need of comfort instead of what I actually am, which is already gone.

The drive back to the villa is silent except for the swish of the wipers and the occasional French muttering from the driver. Alaric’s thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, slow and rhythmic, and I focus on that instead of everything else. It’s easier that way. Easier to just… floa

When we pull up to the villa, Alaric hands the driver what looks like several hundred euros and doesn’t wait for change. He helps me out of the cab, arm around my waist again, and I’m struck by how careful he is Like I’m made of glass and might shatter at any moment.

Joke’s on him. I’m already shattered. He just hasn’t noticed yet.

Inside, the villa is exactly as we left it, pristine, expensive, obscenely comfortable. The kind of place that costs more per night than I used to make in a month. Alaric guides me straight to the bathroom, sits me on the edge of the massive tub, and turns on the water.

I watch him move around the space, adjusting the temperature, adding some kind of bath oil that makes the water shimmer. His movements are efficient, practiced, like he’s done this before. Taken care of broken things. Put them back together,

The water fills, steam rising, and he comes to stand in front of me. His hands go to my shoulders, slipping his jacket off, then to the hem of my soaked shirt.

I let him undress me. Let him peel off the wet fabric, unhook my bra, slide my jeans down my legs. I’m naked and he’s still mostly clothed and there should be something vulnerable about this, something intimate, but I just feel… empty. Hollow.

He lifts me again–Christ, we’re making a habit of this–and lowers me into the water. It’s hot, almost too hot, and the shock of it against my cold skin makes me gasp.

“Better?” he asks softly.

I don’t answer. Just sink deeper, letting the water close over my shoulders. It’s blissfully warm, and for a second, I can almost pretend everything’s fine. That I’m just taking a nice bath after a night out. That my entire world hasn’t imploded.

Alaric strips off his shirt, and even through the numbness, I can’t help but track the movement. The flex of muscle, the water droplets still clinging to his skin, the sheer overwhelming presence of him. He’s beautiful in that dangerous, predatory way—all sharp lines and coiled power

And he killed your father.

Right That

12:11 Mon, Jan 19

Chapter 93

He steps into the tub behind me, settling in so I’m between his legs, my back to his chest. His arms com around me, pulling me against him, and I let him. Let him hold me like this will fix anything

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of water and breathing and the distant hum of the villa’s heat system. His chin rests on top of my head, and I can feel him thinking, can practically hear the gears turi

Finally, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

His voice is soft. Intimate. No pressure, no demand. Just… asking. He genuinely wants to know, like hel forever if that’s what I need.

Fuck you, I think viciously. Fuck you for sounding like you care.

But I turn anyway. Twist in his arms so I can look at him, water sloshing around us. His eyes meet mine- those impossibly dark eyes that have seen me at my best and worst, that have looked at me like I’m some precious–and I feel nothing.

“I finally know how my father died,” I say.

The words are flat. Factual. Like I’m commenting on the weather instead of dropping a bomb.

I watch his face. Watch his eyes go wide, watch something flicker across his expression–surprise? Guilt? Fe -before he schools it back to careful neutrality.

But it’s too late. I saw it. That one second of reaction that confirms everything.

He knew. Of course he fucking knew.

“Sorin-” he starts, but I see him swallow. See him look away, anywhere but at me. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

Not I’m sorry I sent your father to his death. Not I’m sorry I’ve been lying to you this whole time. Just… I’m

sorry.

Sorry it happened. Sorry you found out. Sorry for your loss, thoughts and prayers, better luck next time.

“The water’s getting cold,” he says abruptly, reaching past me to adjust the tap. “Let me make it hotter.”

And there it is. The deflection. The topic change. The we’re not going to talk about this right now move.

I turn back around, stare at the opposite wall, and feel the last fragile thread of hope snap.

He’s not going to explain. Not going to justify. Not going to do anything except avoid it and hope I’ll just… what? Forget? Forgive? Move on?

Fresh hot water pours into the tub, mixing with the cooling water, and Alaric’s arms tighten around me again. Holding me close. Keeping me warm.

And I space out. Let my mind drift away from this bathroom, this villa, this man and everything he represents. I’m already planning. Already mapping out exits and escape routes and how long I need to play

1211 Mon, Jan 19

Chapter 93

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But I don’t. Because if I pull away now, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’ll ask questions. And I need him to not ask questions, not yet, not until I can figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.

Leaving, my brain supplies helpfully. You’re leaving. Remember? You decided that on the rooftop.

Right. Leaving. That’s the plan

So instead of pulling away, I lean into him. Let my head rest on his shoulder, let his jacket cocoon me, let him think I’m just cold and shaken and in need of comfort instead of what I actually am, which is already gone.

The drive back to the villa is silent except for the swish of the wipers and the occasional French muttering from the driver. Alaric’s thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, slow and rhythmic, and I focus on that instead of everything else. It’s easier that way. Easier to just… float.

When we pull up to the villa, Alaric hands the driver what looks like several hundred euros and doesn’t wait for change. He helps me out of the cab, arm around my waist again, and I’m struck by how careful he is. Like I’m made of glass and might shatter at any moment.

Joke’s on him. I’m already shattered. He just hasn’t noticed yet.

Inside, the villa is exactly as we left it, pristine, expensive, obscenely comfortable. The kind of place that costs more per night than I used to make in a month. Alaric guides me straight to the bathroom, sits me on the edge of the massive tub, and turns on the water.

I watch him move around the space, adjusting the temperature, adding some kind of bath oil that makes the water shimmer. His movements are efficient, practiced, like he’s done this before. Taken care of broken things. Put them back together.

The water fills, steam rising, and he comes to stand in front of me. His hands go to my shoulders, slipping his jacket off, then to the hem of my soaked shirt.

I let him undress me. Let him peel off the wet fabric, unhook my bra, slide my jeans down my legs. I’m naked and he’s still mostly clothed and there should be something vulnerable about this, something intimate, but I just feel… empty. Hollow.

He lifts me again—Christ, we’re making a habit of this—and lowers me into the water. It’s hot, almost too hot, and the shock of it against my cold skin makes me gasp.

“Better?” he asks softly.

I don’t answer. Just sink deeper, letting the water close over my shoulders. It’s blissfully warm, and for a second, I can almost pretend everything’s fine. That I’m just taking a nice bath after a night out. That my entire world hasn’t imploded.

Alaric strips off his shirt, and even through the numbness, I can’t help but track the movement. The flex of muscle, the water droplets still clinging to his skin, the sheer overwhelming presence of him. He’s beautiful in that dangerous, predatory way–all sharp lines and coiled power.

And he killed your father.

Right. That.

12:11 Mon, Jan 19

Chapter 93

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He steps into the tub behind me, settling in so I’m between his legs, my back to his chest. His arms come around me, pulling me against him, and I let him. Let him hold me like this will fix anything.

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of water and breathing and the distant hum of the villa’s heating system. His chin rests on top of my head, and I can feel him thinking, can practically hear the gears turning.

Finally, “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

His voice is soft. Intimate. No pressure, no demand. Just forever if that’s what I need.

asking. He genuinely wants to know, like he’ll wait

Fuck you, I think viciously. Fuck you for sounding like you care

But I turn anyway. Twist in his arms so I can look at him, water sloshing around us. His eyes meet mine- those impossibly dark eyes that have seen me at my best and worst, that have looked at me like I’m something precious–and I feel nothing.

“I finally know how my father died,” I say.

The words are flat. Factual. Like I’m commenting on the weather instead of dropping a bomb.

I watch his face. Watch his eyes go wide, watch something flicker across his expression–surprise? Guilt? Fear?

before he schools it back to careful neutrality

But it’s too late. I saw it. That one second of reaction that confirms everything.

He knew. Of course he fucking knew.

“Sorin-” he starts, but I see him swallow. See him look away, anywhere but at me. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

Not I’m sorry I sent your father to his death. Not I’m sorry I’ve been lying to you this whole time. Just… I’m

Sorry,

Sorry it happened. Sorry you found out. Sorry for your loss, thoughts and prayers, better luck next time.

“The water’s getting cold,” he says abruptly, reaching past me to adjust the tap. “Let me make it hotter.”

And there it is. The deflection. The topic change. The we’re not going to talk about this right now move.

I turn back around, stare at the opposite wall, and feel the last fragile thread of hope snap.

He’s not going to explain. Not going to justify. Not going to do anything except avoid it and hope I’ll just …… what? Forget? Forgive? Move on?

Fresh hot water pours into the tub, mixing with the cooling water, and Alaric’s arms tighten around me again. Holding me close. Keeping me warm.

And I space out. Let my mind drift away from this bathroom, this villa, this man and everything he represents. I’m already planning. Already mapping out exits and escape routes and how long I need to play

12:11 Mon, Jan 19

Chapter 93

along before I can disappear.

I’m leaving, I think again, crystal clear and certain. I’m leaving and he doesn’t even know it yet.

His lips press against my temple–gentle, reverent–and I close my eyes.

Fuck.