TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 140

CHAPTER 93: A TERRIBLE FATHER–1

EMBER’S POV

I lock the door behind me and lean against it, pressing my palms flat against the cool wood, trying to

remember how to breathe.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow.

Knox’s voice echoes in my head, grounding me even when he’s not here, and I cling to it like a lifeline.

The tears come anyway.

Not the hysterical sobs I was expecting, but something quieter. Slower.

Tears that leak down my cheeks in steady streams, carrying with them years of grief I never let myself

feel.

For the girl I used to be. For the life I could have had. For the baby I lost and the dreams that died with it.

I cry for all of it, silently, my shoulders shaking, my reflection in the mirror looking back at me with mascara–streaked cheeks and red–rimmed eyes.

I look like a disaster.

I feel like one too.

A soft knock on the door makes me jump.

“Occupied,” I call out, my voice thick and raspy.

“Birdie.”

My whole body goes rigid.

“Birdie, please. I just want to talk.”

Dad.

“Go away,” I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds. How young.

“I know you don’t want to see me.” His voice is muffled through the door, but I can hear the tremor in it. The desperation. “I know I don’t deserve a single second of your time. But please, Birdie. Please. Just let me say what I need to say, and then I’ll leave you alone forever if that’s what you want.”

I should tell him no. I should tell him to go to hell, to take his apologies and his regrets and choke on

them.

I should protect myself the way I’ve learned to do, building walls so high that no one can ever hurt me again.

But something in his voice something broken and raw and achingly familiar – makes me reach for the

CHAPTER 2310IBLE FATHER 1

lock.

The door opens, and there he is.

Maurice Aragon looks even worse up close than he did across the dinner table.

His eyes are bloodshot, his face is gaunt, and there’s a tremor in his hands that speaks to years of damage

that can’t be undone.

He’s been crying – I can see the tracks on his cheeks, the wetness clinging to his lashes – and when he looks at me, his expression crumples like a paper bag in the rain.

“Birdie,” he breathes, and the nickname sounds devastating. Like the last word of a dying man.

“Don’t call me that.” My voice comes out harder than I intended. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

He flinches, but he doesn’t argue.

“Can I come in?” he asks quietly. “Just for a minute. Please.”

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