TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 137

CHAPTER 91: THREE SLAPS–2

“For once,” I say quietly, “your father is right.”

I look at Gale, and for the first time since I walked into this room, I don’t feel afraid of him. I feel nothing

but contempt.

“You killed my baby,” I say. “And you never even acknowledged it happened.”

Gale’s expression twists into something ugly.

“You fucking set me up-

“Apologize. That child was Crawford blood you spilled.”

Harr son’s tone changes, and Gale flinches so hard he nearly knocks over his wine glass.

“Apologize to her,” Harrison repeats, and there’s something cold and terrible building behind his eyes. Right now.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Gale’s voice rises, taking on a desperate, pleading edge. “She’s lying. She’s always been a liar. She provoked me, she pushed me, she made me-”

“Apologize.”

“Father, please-”

“I said apologize.”

AVE

“I won’t!” Gale slams his palm against the table, and for a moment he looks almost like the man who used to terrorize me – all rage and self–righteousness and absolute certainty in his own victimhood. “I won’t apologize for disciplining my wife. I won’t apologize for trying to fix her when she was fucking incompetent. I won’t apologize for anything because I did nothing wrong!”

The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated only by the low growl building in Knox’s throat – the coil of a predator about to pounce.

I keep my grip tight on his hand, forcing a control know he’s not feeling, a wrestle between his will and

mine.

In that space, all that’s left is the Crawfords.

Harrison stares at his son for a long moment, his face completely expressionless, and something about his stillness makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Then, with a movement so fast I almost miss it, he picks up his fork and stabs it directly through Gale’s

hand.

My heart stops.

The entire room stops.

CHAPTER THREE SLAPS Z

The prongs pierce through flesh and sinew and pin Gale’s hand to the wooden table like a butterfly mounted for display.

Blood wells up around the metal, dark and red, spreading across the white tablecloth in a rapidly growing

stain.

For a moment, there’s nothing but stunned silence and held breaths.

Then Gale starts screaming.

The sound is inhuman, a high–pitched wail of agony that echoes off the walls and makes my ears ring.

He tries to pull his hand away but the fork holds him in place, and every movement just makes it worse,

makes more blood pour out, makes him scream louder.

“Father!” he shrieks. “Father, please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

“Are you?” Harrison’s voice is calm, conversational, like he’s discussing the weather rather than watching his son bleed out on the dinner table. “Are you really sorry, Gale? Or are you just sorry that it hurts?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry for everything! I’m sorry I hurt her, I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry-”

“You’re not sorry.” Harrison picks up his knife, examining it in the candlelight, and the reflection dances across his pale eyes like flames. “You’re scared. I’m displeased.”

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