TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 241

CHAPTER 175: HIS MOTHER’S LETTER–1

KNOX’S POV

“I’m fine, Mathilde.”

“You were always a terrible liar.” Her eyes drift toward the cemetery where Rayana is kneeling at her mother’s grave, whispering things and possibly sobbing.

Mathilde’s whole face changes, lighting up with pure delight.

“Is that – oh my. Is that your lady friend from years back? Rayana?” She clasps her hands together. “I can’t believe it. Look at the two of you, two mischievous peas as always. Your mothers would be beside themselves.”

“Rayana and I aren’t together,” I say, and the correction lands heavier than it should. “We’re just here for the graves. We won’t be staying long.”

Mathilde’s face falls – a quick, genuine sadness that she doesn’t bother to hide.

“Oh. Well. That’s a shame. Katherine and Beatrice would have loved that, you know. They had it all planned from the time you two were in nappies.” She sighs. “But I always told them – always told Katherine, always told Beatrice, rest her soul – you two would eventually decide for yourselves who you wanted to be. Just because your mothers were the best of friends didn’t mean the Goddess wouldn’t have her own choice to play in playing matchmaker.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I just smile, and even that small expression feels rusty on my face, like a hinge that hasn’t been used in too long.

“I wish you’d called the house before coming,” Mathilde says, already shifting into the practical model remember from childhood. “I’m the only one around these days and I’ve not been able to do as much cleaning as I used to. I’d have called some of the boys from downtown to help me get the place in order.” She waves a hand toward the house, which is glowing with warm light behind us. “But no matter, come inside, let me get you something. I still remember the recipe for those honey cakes you used to inhale as a

(* boy Honigkuchen, wasn’t it? I could have a batch ready in-”

“We’re not staying, Mathilde. Thank you, but we really are just-”

“Nonsense. You fly all the way to Zürich and you won’t sit down for a cup of tea? Your mother would box

my ears if I let you leave without feeding you. Come inside, let me-”

“I’m not going inside.”

It comes out harder than I mean it to. Sharp enough that Mathilde stops mid–sentence and the evening air

seems to freeze around us.

Mathilde looks at me for a long moment.

Really looks

the way she used to look at me when I was a boy and told her I was fine after a bad night,

the look that said she could see every lie I’d ever told written on my face in a font only she could read.

“You don’t want to go in,” she says without question.

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