TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 238

* CHATTERIA MURITUS LANE ARALINE T

CHAPTER 173: TURN THIS PLANE AROUND–1

KNOX’S POV

The thing about self–destruction is that it requires commitment. You can’t half–arse it.

You can’t run toward the fire and then fich at the heat – you have to walk in and let it take you, and you have to do it with enough conviction that the people watching think it was intentional.

A choice. A power move.

The Lycan King, choosing Switzerland with the easy nonchalance of a man who has somewhere important to be, rather than the truth, which is that I strapped myself into a metal tube hurtling toward the one place on earth that could finish the job Ember started this morning.

Because I am a coward, and between confronting the truth of her words and running, I choose running.

I always choose running.

Rayana is across the aisle and she hasn’t spoken in two hours, which is a record for a woman who once

talked through an entire root canal.

She’s curled in the leather seat with a blanket pulled up to her chin and her face turned toward the window,

and in the cabin light she looks smaller than she did yesterday. Thinner.

Like the stress of watching my life explode has been feeding on whatever’s left of her, and there’s a greyness to her skin that has nothing to do with the altitude and everything to do with something neither of us is willing to name out loud.

I pour another drink.

The whiskey is starting to taste like nothing, which means I’m either approaching the correct level of numbness or my body has stopped processing the alcohol and is simply storing it for a more convenient

breakdown.

Either outcome is acceptable.

(‘

My phone sits on the armrest between us and I have checked it eleven times in the last hour like a man pressing a bruise to see if it still hurts.

It still hurts.

Ember’s name sits in my contacts and the silence beside it is deafening. There are no missed calls, no

texts, no voicemail.

She told me to never come back and she meant it, and the absence of her messages is louder than

anything she could have typed.

I open the chat. The cursor blinks.

Then the bubble appears.

CHAPTERS HEMANTHA PAUL AROUND

Cheem

The three small dots that mean she’s typing, and my heart does something so pathetic I’d be ashamed of it if there were anyone left to be ashamed in front of.

She’s typing. She’s THERE, on the other side of the world, with her phone in her hands, and she’s-

The bubble disappears.

I stare at the screen. The dots come back. She’s typing again.

My chest constricts around something that feels like hope and I hate it, hate the involuntary lurch of it, hate that after everything I said and everything she said and the way I smirked at her like she was nothing when she was everything – after all of that, three typing dots on a screen can make Knox Volkov hold his breath like a teenager waiting for a message from his first crush.

The bubble vanishes again.

It comes back. Goes away. Comes back. Goes away.

She’s writing something and deleting it. Over and over.

–

Reaching for me and pulling back, and I am watching it happen from thirty thousand feet with a glass of

whiskey in my hand and the absolute certainty that whatever she’s trying to say any hateful, blistering

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