TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 251

CHAPTER 183: HOPELESS ROMANTIC

EMBER’S POV

“Because the last time they were free, you tried to take my eyes out.” A smile, wry, almost self–deprecating. “I adore your fire, querida. But I’d like to keep my vision.”

“What if I promise to behave?”

The words hang between us and I watch what it does to him- his pupils dilate, his breath catch, the careful composure wavers just enough for something vulnerable to show through.

He wants this. Goddess, he wants this so badly – the willing version, the choosing version, the Ember who sits across from him at dinner and smiles and touches him because she wants to and not because her

because wrists are bound.

“I want to try the wine,” I say softly. “I want to eat dinner with you without these on my wrists. I want to have one evening where someone treats me like a person and not a child.” I hold his gaze. “Can you give me that?”

He searches my face for the lie and I give him nothing to find because I have spent years under Gale Crawford’s roof learning how to make my face say things my heart doesn’t mean, and that training – the one thing Gale gave me that’s worth anything is about to save my life.

Rafael reaches for the silk on my right wrist.

His fingers work the knot slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time, and when the fabric falls away I

feel the air hit my skin and the relief is so immediate that the gasp I give is genuine.

He reaches for the left, then pauses. “If you hit me again, I won’t be this gentle next time.”

“I won’t hit you.”

The second knot falls away. My hands are free.

I bring my wrists together in my lap and rub the marks the silk left–thin red lines that will bruise by

morning and Rafael watches me do it with an expression that lives somewhere between regret and

–

fascination, like a man watching the aftermath of his own creation.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome.” He reaches for the wine bottle and pours me a glass – the same deep red as my dress, catching the candlelight in the crystal- and holds it out to me.

I take it. Our fingers brush on the stem. I don’t pull away.

“Try it,” he says. “It’s a Barolo. 1996. I’ve been saving it for a night that deserved it.”

I bring the glass to my lips and pretend to sip, letting the wine touch my mouth without swallowing, because Harrison Crawford has taught me a lesson or two on dinners like this.

CHAPTER HOPELESS POKE

MANTIC

The wine is rich and warm against my lips and I set the glass down with a small appreciative sound that makes something in Rafael’s jaw clench in a way that tells me exactly how much control he’s exerting right now

“It’s lovely,” I say.

“You’re lovely.” He says it without flourish, without drama, the way you’d say the sky is blue.

I look at the table. At the candles. At the staff playing their parts.

“You did all this for me?”

“I would do considerably more.” His voice softens with a sincerity that would be devastating if it weren’t terrifying. “I have planned far better dinners than this, actually. A reservation in Buenos Aires has been set for us in the coming weeks.”

I let the surprise show on my face not entirely performed, because the audacity of this man is genuinely staggering.

My palm drifts to his hand where it rests on his thigh, settling there lightly, and I feel his fingers twitch

under mine.

“Wow…” I let my voice catch. Let it go breathy and small. “That’s-” Ambitious. Entitled. Completely unhinged. “-charming, Rafael.”

His eyes light up like a child on Christmas morning, and the sincerity of it is painful to watch.

“I’m really glad you think so.” He ducks his head slightly and something almost sheepish crosses his face.

“I’ve been told I can be a little… too much. But I’m working on it. Therapy and things.”

He almost seems embarrassed to admit it, like confessing to therapy is more vulnerable than confessing

to drugging someone.

I squeeze his hand gently.

“I don’t think you’re too much.” I tilt my head and let my eyes go soft. “There’s nothing to apologise for in giving as much as your heart allows. You’re simply… a hopeless romantic.”

The light that spreads across his face reaches his mouth in a slow, wondering smile.

“That’s the first time I’ve thought about it that way. A hopeless romantic.” He turns his hand under mine, threading our fingers together, and his grip is warm and eager and trembling slightly. “Fitting, I suppose, for the man most hopeless for the woman he loves.”

The smile becomes a grin, boyish and bright and so completely at odds with the monster who strapped

me to this chair.

“I can’t wait for you to see Buenos Aires at night. I’ve booked the entire restaurant for the day when we arrive. It’s on the waterfront – private terrace, candlelight on the water. The chef prepares a seven–course tasting menu based on whatever you tell him your favourite childhood meal was.” His thumb strokes

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