Chapter 52
Chapter 52
The palace is too damn quiet for how loud my heart is beating.
Early sunlight spills through the tall arched windows, warm gold brushing across the marble though someone painted the world in honey. I walk down the hallway with, every step measured. Not because I’m nervous- but because the outfit Alaric picked out is a fucking felony.
Low–cut enough that I can practically feel the morning breeze on my sternum.
High–slit enough that one wrong step will expose my entire bloodline.
Sheer enough that everyone is going to need therapy after this.
The corset is tight enough that my spine sits straighter than usual, black leather hugging everything it shouldn’t, lifting my breasts and pushing them forward as if I’m about to lead a rebellion with cleavage alone. The skirt? If you can even call it one–is sheer, slit high on both sides, fabric floating around my legs like smoke.
I feel the eyes before I see them–servants stopping mid–bow, guards choking on their own spit, courtiers freezing so hard they might crack like statues. Whispers explode behind me like a lit fuse, but I don’t look back.
They already know that the woman they thought was nothing but an Omega was chosen on the night of the ritual. The entire pack knows my face now and everyone’s far too scared to even acknowledge me anymore.
I have no news of Rosaline and Camilla but I figured they’d be somewhere plotting something.
A guard almost drops his spear when I pass. Another swallows so hard I hear it. A third bows, stiff and awkward, eyes glued to the floor as if looking at me is a sin punishable by death.
Honestly? Could be.
I wouldn’t have done this if those two are still here.
But Wade and Ariel aren’t here anymore.
And I’m done hiding.
So I keep my chin high, veil gone, hair loose around my shoulders, the faint gold flecks in my eyes catching the light. Let them stare. Let them choke. Let them run to the elders with shaking hands.
This is the woman the Goddess chose for your King anyway.
Last night’s conversation follows me like heat under my skin.
“But in exchange, you will be mine. All mine p>
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His scent was thick around me. I could sense this man’s obsession practically vibrating off the walls.
He wanted to name me Queen at dawn.
No ceremony. No council vote. No discussion.
Just mine and a crown shoved onto my head because he said so.
He stood there like a beautiful psychopath–shirt undone, hair a mess from my fingers, eyes glowing molten gold. The kind of glow that meant he wasn’t just thinking it… he was about to act on it. Force it on me if he had to.
“You’ll take the crown,” he’d said, voice low enough to ruin a girl’s knees. “Or I’ll put it on you myself p>
Gods, I should’ve been scared. Any sane wolf would be.
But I was furious. And flattered. And fucking tempted. Everything would be forgotten if I became his queen. I’d be above anyone. But that would shatter the revenge I have for myself. For my father.
My pulse went insane. My thighs are worse.
But pride is a bitch with sharp teeth.
“No,” I whispered.
I remember trailing a finger down my own chest–right where the neckline dips to sinful territory–and watching his pupils go blown, throat working though he was swallowing curses.
“I was already a Luna,” I told him. “I’m not taking a throne someone hands me out of obsession p>
His jaw flexed. His wolf clawed right under his skin.
“If you want me as your Queen…” I leaned in, lips brushing his jaw, “I’ll earn it myself p>
The growl he let out traveled straight through the floor. His grip locked on my waist like he wanted to drag me into his madness and never let me out.
Then his hands.
Hard. Desperate.
Dragging me closer, pressing me to the wall, his breath hot against my neck.
“You’re going to kill me,” he rasped, voice cracked with lust and rage and something unhinged. “Fucking kill me, Sorin p>
His hungry lips find mine, hard enough that my knees nearly buckled, soft enough that I could feel the restraint shaking in his arms. His fingers dug into my hips, thumbs brushing the edge of my lace underwear, trying to memorize the shape of me.
He didn’t touch me below the waist.
Didn’t push.
He just…
hovered.
Tormenting himself.
Tormenting me.
A worshiping kind of hunger.
He pulled back first, barely.
“Sorin,” he whispered, forehead pressed to mine. His breath is ragged and from the large bulge of his cock pressing into my stomach, I know exactly what he would do in the bathroom right after this.
“Walk into that court tomorrow however you want. I don’t care. Just… let them see who owns you p>
I shoved him lightly, breathless.
“No one owns me p>
His smile was pure sin.
“Then I’ll just have to earn it p>
Back in the present, I reach the eastern corridor–the hallway that leads to the council wing. It’s already buzzing with movement. High–ranking warriors, attendants, and elders‘ aides are gathered like nervous bees, shuffling papers, holding morning reports, preparing to kiss Alaric’s ass for the day.
Then they see me.
Silence punches through the air.
A warrior drops the file in his hands. Another actually steps aside like my presence might physically knock him out. A noblewoman’s mouth falls open so wide her pearl necklace clinks against her collarbone.
Someone whispers, panicked, “Is she–is that–Sorin Carter p>
One can whisper my name now. Wade isn’t here to know anymore.
Another whispers back, “The woman chosen on the night of the ritual. I heard the bed broke when they did it p>
And someone else, “No, she… she looks like she’s about to kill someone p>
Good. I hope so.
“Sorin? ”
Chapter 52
Two familiar voices tumble into my left ear.
Tully and Marg rush over, skirts of their uniforms swishing, both looking like they just finished running laps in panic.
“Oh my goddess,” Tully whispers, eyes bulging, “Are you naked p>
I lift a brow. “Not completely. Sadly p>
“What is what are you wearing? No–wait–more importantly–why are you headed to the council wing? Did the King summon you? Are you in trouble? Is the world ending p>
Marg plants a hand on her hip, looking me up and down with zero shame. “Holy shit, Sorin. You look like sex on a battlefield. I mean that in the best way p>
I snort. “Thanks p>
Tully grabs my wrist with a serious look on her face, “Sorin, seriously–what’s going on p>
I let the tension simmer, let the silence stretch just long enough for curiosity to burn.
Then I smirk.
“Revenge p>
Both of them blink. Hard. Of course they wouldn’t have the slightest idea.
Marg’s lips curve. Tully looks horrified and supportive at the same time. “Okay, um–good luck? I guess? Please don’t die p>
“Not planning to,” I say.
I leave them behind and continue toward the council wing.
Servants press against the walls as I pass, like I might breathe on them and ruin their entire family lineage. Warriors shift uncomfortably, not in hostility but in something more primal–like my scent or my confidence or my sheer audacity is messing with their instincts.
Good.
I should feel embarrassed.
And I do. Just a pinch.
It sits in my stomach like a spark.
But over it–drowning it—is the Luna in me lifting her chin. The woman who lost everything and is now walking straight into the heart of power wearing something that guarantees no one will ever see her as small again.
The tall double doors of the council chamber come into view–massive, carved, guarded by two elite warriors
Chapter 52
who look like they’d rather be anywhere else than witnessing this.
One of them clears his throat. “L–Lady Sorin p>
I don’t stop.
I don’t slow,
I let the morning sun hit me from behind, shadow stretching long and sharp across the marble.
Their eyes widen. One of them grips his spear a little too tight.
And for the first time since I was dragged from my old pack in chains, I feel it-
My Luna pride settling back into my bones.
My spine straight.
My name heavy again,
My power–not given by Alaric–but reclaimed by me.
I reach the door.
Lift my hand.
And push it open.
I push the doors open.
Dozens of heads snap toward me.
And the room…
stops.
You could hear a pin drop. You could hear a heart flatline.
Immediately, the council chamber hits me with its stink of old wood polish, burning candles, and the faint copper tang of sweat from men who think their power is untouchable. Every head snaps toward me. Every eye. I feel it, like a tangible weight pressing against my chest, daring me to blink.
My heels click against the marble. Sharp. Loud. Echoing. Each step, deliberate, slicing through their murmurs, their shock, their “how the hell did she get in here” gasps.
I can feel them. Men frozen, jaws slack on their seat. A few elders clutch at their canes, faces blanching. The senior advisor–he’s red, veins popping–leans forward, voice sharp like a whip.
“You! What is your meaning–interrupting the council? Who allowed p>
I don’t slow. I don’t even blink at him.
Chapter 52
“-You there!” an elder barks, recovering faster than the others. “Servants don’t enter through the main doors! Out. Now p>
Cute.
Another one waves a hand at me like he’s shooing a stray cat. “Who allowed this girl inside? This is a restricted meeting.
Restricted my ass.
I keep walking. He can choke on his own outrage.
The room shifts, uncertain. Some of the warriors glance at each other, tension radiating from them, hands twitching toward weapons, but none of them move. None dare.
I reach the head of the table. And there he is.
Alaric.
Sitting like a monument carved from midnight, broad shoulders squared, eyes molten crimson flickering in the candlelight. His gaze locks on mine.
That smirk–half amusement, half hunger–creeps along his lips, and my gut twists, my pulse hammering. I can smell him. Pinewood and leather and something feral, something that tells me he could break me or leave me burning and I’d thank him for it.
The chamber is a storm around us. Advisors shout, some freeze mid–gesture, warriors shift, swords half- raised, jaws tight. The elders are so close to fainting I expect one to keel over any second.
Someone shouts, “My King, should we escort her out p>
I don’t hesitate.
I don’t even think.
I step forward, my hand brushing the table. My eyes never leave his.
I lift a knee.
And climb straight onto his lap, straddling him.
The room detonates.
Gasps, curses, orders–all collide.
“Lady, have you lost your mind p>
“You cannot approach the King p>
“Keep your distance p>
“You are out of line–
“Guards p>
Alaric’s hands find my hips instantly, fingers pressing just enough to anchor me but not restrain me. His scent hits me full force, rich and dark, and I have to fight not to tilt my head back, not to lean closer, not to give him what he wants–the absolute thrill of my audacity pressed against his restraint.
“Damn it, Sorin,” he mutters, voice raw, the kind that makes my blood burn like fire in my veins.
I lean forward just enough to whisper, so close his amber gaze locks with mine. “I’ve been waiting to do this for a very long time p>
Chairs scrape. Men shout. Elders gasp.
And I sit there, straddling him, heels digging into the wood floor, hips pressing just enough to feel his bulging length, leaning close enough to see his pulse in his neck, feeling his chest rise under my hands, his body coiled beneath me, every muscle aware, every nerve alive.
Alaric’s smirk deepens, amber–gold eyes smoldering. One hand slides up my back, firm, possessive, claiming.
And I let the council burn.
Cedella
Cedella is a passionate storyteller known for her bold romantic and spicy novels that keep readers hooked from the very first chapter. With a flair for crafting emotionally intense plots and unforgettable characters, she blends love, desire, and drama into every story she writes. Cedella’s storytelling style is immersive and addictive—perfect for fans of heated romances and heart-pounding twists.