TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 279

CHAPTER 208: 17 HOURS–2

“What?” I snort out a laugh. “The olive trees?”

“They’re very private trees. They won’t appreciate the noise.”

“What noise?”

“My love.” His voice drops. His eyes darken. “The noise I intend to make you make every morning on that terrace will be heard in Spain.”

My face heats and he sees it and the delight in his expression is filthy.

“Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You’re blushing. The woman who screamed my name in a river is blushing in a kitchen.”

“That was different. That was-”

“That was what? Less embarrassing than breakfast–terrace sex in Portugal?”

“I hate you.”

“My love,” he says, tender and teasing and warm, “you just told me you loved me. You can’t take it back. I

have witnesses.”

“What witnesses? We’re ALONE.”

“The stale crackers are my witnesses. They’ve been very supportive during my vigil.”

I press my face into his neck and laugh until the laughing turns to something softer and his arms wrap

around me.

We hold each other in the kitchen in the stillness and this silence is golden now. Warm and full and ours.

“Come to bed,” I say after a while. The simplest, most human request. “You haven’t slept in thirty–one hours and you’re being held together by stubbornness and ceiling crack statisties and I need you

functional for whatever Nathaniel is going to tell us.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re swaying on the stool.”

“That’s a stylistic choice.”

“Knox Volkov. Bed. Now.”

He lets me pull him down the hallway and lets me push him onto the mattress.

He lets me arrange the pillows and pull the covers over him and when I sit up against the headboard with his head in my lap and my fingers in his hair, he looks up at me with an expression that is so unguarded it

X CHAPTER 217 1916

makes my heart clench.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs.

“Watching you sleep.”

“That’s my job.”

“Not tonight.” I stroke his hair back from his forehead, gentle. “Tonight you sleep and I watch. Thirty–one hours, Knox. It’s my turn.”

He wants to argue.

I can see it in his jaw, the instinct to resist, to stay alert, to position himself between me and the door because that’s what he does, that’s what he’s ALWAYS done.

“I’ll count your breaths,” I say softly. “Every four minutes. Obsessively. To a degree that would concern a medical professional.”

His own words, given back to him, and the smile that crosses his face is small and wondering and

exhausted and full of love.

“If I stop breathing,” he says, his eyes already closing, “wake me up.”

“Deal.”

“And Ember?”

“Mm?”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify