TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 226

CHAPTER 162: OPEN SECRETS

EMBER’S POV

There is something deeply unnerving about it. My stomach squirms, a bad feeling resurfacing and leaving

a taste in my mouth I can’t swallow away.

Nathaniel feels it too. He turns the slightest fraction toward Knox, catching his stare for a second, and a

subtle frown crosses his face – questioning, uncertain.

Knox’s grin only widens.

A chill runs down my spine. There is trouble here. I can just taste it.

“Knox, darling.” Rayana’s voice is carefully bright. “Come sit with us. We’re writing letters – things we’ve been carrying that we want to let go of. We write them, fold them up, and burn them together.” She holds up a blank page and a pen, waggling them in his direction. “I saved you a spot.”

“I’m fine here.”

“The exercise works better in the circle-”

“I said I’m fine.” He takes a drink from the bottle. “Go ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

Rayana watches him for a moment, reading something in his face that makes her expression flicker. Then

she turns back to the group.

“As I was saying. Letters. To anyone, about-”

“Actually.” Knox’s voice cuts across hers, and the room goes still. “I have a better idea.” He takes a long drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his ruined hand. “I’m fairly certain we’re all fucking tired of hiding behind papers and bullshit. So let’s skip the arts and crafts, shall we? No letters. No fancy folding. No cute little fire ceremony.”

He gestures with the bottle, a lazy sweep that takes in the whole room.

“Let’s just get it out. Our words. Our fucking little secrets. Right here, right now, out loud, and burn it all down ourselves.” His eyes land on Nathaniel, and that grin sharpens into something with teeth. “In fact – Nathaniel. Why don’t you go first.”

Nathaniel goes very still. “I don’t have anything to share-”

save

“Oh, don’t be modest. I’m certain you have plenty.” Knox swirls the bottle lazily. “Or better yet yourself the rigor of thinking too hard. Just read from that journal you’ve been keeping. You know the one. His voice is conversational. Almost pleasant. “Leather cover. Cramped cursive. A little hard to read, to be honest. Detailed entries going back – what, ten years? Twelve? I lost count somewhere around the section on dosage calculations.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

My heart slams against my ribs. Journal? Dosage calculations? What is he talking about? What has

Nathaniel done this time?

Nathaniel’s face empties all at once, like a screen going dark. Every trace of expression, every hint of the man under the mask, simply gone.

“You went through my things,” he says.

“I went through your things.” Knox chuckles and takes another drink, casual, like he’s discussing the weather. “Last night. While you were doing your patrol. Two AM, right on schedule as always. You’ve always been reliable, Nathaniel. I’ll give you that. Reliable as a fucking clock.”

“Knax, whatever you think you found-”

“What I found,” Knox says, and the pleasantness drops instantly out of his voice, “was a detailed record of every time my wolf has surfaced in the last decade. Dates. Timestamps. Duration of episodes. Trigger events. Proximity assessments.” He pauses and lets it breathe. “All organized, and cataloged with the kind of clinical precision you’d usually see in a research facility. Not in the personal journal of a man who claims to be my second.”

Queenie makes a small, choked sound. Her mug is shaking in her hands.

“Knox.” Rayana steps forward, her hands raised. “Maybe we should-”

“And the entries about Ember.” Knox talks over her like she isn’t there, his eyes never leaving Nathaniel’s face. “Her wolf. Some bullshit about her bloodline. Consultations with doctors you never fucking mentioned! Assessments of what happens when my wolf gets too close to hers.” He tilts his head. “You’ve been very thorough. Very scientific. I’m sure it would make a fascinating paper. ‘The Long–Term Behavioral Management of a Feral–Adjacent Lycan King, by Nathaniel Reid.“”

The whiskey bottle dangles from his fingers. He’s swaying slightly. The micro–adjustments of a man whose balance is compromised and whose pride won’t let him sit down.

“That’s not what it is,” Nathaniel says, eyes darting in concern to Rafael, and his voice is steady but something in his face has changed. A quiet desperation bleeding through. “You don’t understand the

[

context-”

“Then explain it to me.” Knox spreads his arms wide, the bottle sloshing. “Right here. In front of everyone. Explain why my beta – my brother – has been documenting my behavior like a handler tracking a dangerous animal for the past decade. Explain the containment protocols. Explain the dosage notes.” His voice drops. “Explain what you administered the night Celeste died.”

The room stops breathing.

Even Rafael, who has been watching this unfold with twisted amusement, goes still.

“That’s enough.” Nathaniel’s voice hardens. “This is not the place–”

“This is exactly the place. You chose to keep records? Fine! Now they’re public.” Knox turns to look at me,

and the devastation in his face is so total, so complete, that my shock falters for a half–second before I

can catch it. “He’s been managing me, Ember. Fucking studying me and deciding what I’m allowed to

remember and what gets suppressed. For ten years. He’s been tampering with my memories!”

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know what any of this means

dosages, containment protocols, the night Celeste died – and my mouth opens but nothing comes out, because what do you say to a man who just found out his own beta,

a man closer than family, has been treating him like a caged experiment?

Before I can find the words, a bitter chuckle fills the room, and every head turns toward the sound.

Rafael is leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his bruised ribs, shaking his head slowly, watching Knox with wicked intent.

“That’s rich.”

Knox turns slowly. “What was that?”

“I said that’s rich.” Rafael gestures at him at the bottle, the bloodied knuckles, the righteous fury radiating off him in waves. “You, holding Nathaniel to account for keeping secrets. Demanding transparency. All that righteous rage is truly ironic.” His eyes slide to me, then back to Knox, and the smile that forms is perfectly cruel. “When you’ve been choking on a secret of your own for weeks. One that would gut the heart of the woman standing right there, if she ever heard it.”

The room stops breathing, and I feel the shift in Knox’s body before I see it – something behind his eyes that has been holding on by its fingernails all morning finally letting go.

“One more word, Montenegro. I’m begging you. Give me the excuse.”

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