TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 282

CHAPTER 211: THE GREAT EAST

EMBER’S POV

“But… It’s been ten years.” I swallow. “Have they… Did they ever come looking?”

“Not yet. Which means either they don’t know she’s dead, or they know and they’re biding their time. That’s one of the reasons the cover–up had to be absolute. If the eastern packs discovered that the Lycan King killed one of their own, even in a feral episode, even without intent, I fear what might befall us.”

“The eastern packs,” I repeat slowly. “You keep saying that like I should know what it means. I don’t. What

are we actually talking about here?”

Knox answers before Nathaniel can. His voice is low, flat, and drained of everything except the severity of

the information itself.

“The Great East. The oldest wolf bloodlines in existence. They ruled before councils existed, before

territories were drawn, before any of the structures we operate under were even conceived. They don’t

follow North American pack law because they predate it by centuries. They have their own governance, their own military, their own traditions, and their resources make every pack on this continent look like a neighbourhood watch. Some say they were directly touched by the goddess. Some say they are blessed in ways that match up to a Lycan.” He pauses. “We have a treaty with them. Every Lycan King has had a treaty with them. Not because we’re allies but because the alternative is annihilation. You don’t go to war with the Great East. You don’t provoke the Great East. You don’t even inconvenience the Great East without expecting consequences that outlive you and your children and your children’s children.”

“And one of their people was at your Christmas party,” I say, my heart sinking lower by every new second.

“Apparently.”

“Dead on your floor.”

“Apparently.”

The word is doing a lot of heavy lifting, and Knox’s jaw is doing the rest.

Finally, Knox exhales slowly through his nose,

“What about the flash drive?”

Nathaniel’s expression shifts into something heavier.

“Celeste loved documenting the Christmas gatherings. She always had her video crew there, insisted on a photobooth for every guest in ridiculous whimsical settings – reindeer antlers, fake snow, the whole production. And she ran a tape through the entire night. Every year, without fail. It was her thing. Posterity, she called it.” He rubs the back of his neck. “My one mistake was not disposing of the footage. I thought I could keep it contained. File it away with the rest of the documentation I compiled that night and never touch it again. I thought-” He stops and starts again. “I don’t know how Logan found out it existed. I don’t

know how deep he dug into our systems or what gaps he noticed in the official record, or how he drew up a map of the missing bodies. I don’t know a lot of things. But what I do know is that what he has goes beyond a petty council squabble.”

He turns to the board and draws two arrows from the flash drive. Labels one COUNCIL. Labels the other

EAST.

“In fact, the council finding out is our best–case scenario. If the flash drive goes to the elders, we face a

tribunal. Ugly, public, politically devastating, but survivable. Knox has allies on the council. He has a

defence. He has a case for feral incapacity. We might come out the other side bloody but breathing.” He

taps the second arrow. “But if that footage reaches the wrong ears and the wrong ears in this picture

are the eastern packs – then we are looking at something no tribunal can contain. We don’t want the wrong ears, Knox. We don’t want any ears at all. But if we have to choose between the council hearing this

and the Great East hearing this, we pray for the council, and we prepare for the worst.”

The silence that settles is thick enough to chew. I break it because someone has to, and Knox is staring at

the whiteboard with the expression of a man reading his own autopsy report.

“Okay. So the flash drive is nuclear. We knew that. What I need to understand is the REST. The parts you’ve been keeping specifically from Knox.” I look at Nathaniel directly. “Starting with what you injected him with.

37

Nathaniel puts the marker down and picks it up again. A nervous tic from a man who doesn’t have nervous

tics.

“A pharmacological compound designed to suppress memory formation during acute feral episodes. I developed it with a military neurologist five years before the incident. Knox’s father had episodes he remembered in full, and the recall triggered secondary breaks. The cycle of violence and memory feeds each other. I wanted to break the cycle.”

“By erasing my memory,” Knox says, and his voice is dangerously even.

“By preventing the formation of traumatic memories that would trigger further episodes. Yes.” Nathaniel doesn’t look away from Knox’s eyes, which I’m beginning to realise is either incredible bravery or a death wish. “I administered it within minutes of finding you. Full dose, intravenous, directly to the carotid. The compound worked as designed. Your memory of the episode was suppressed. The hours between approximately eleven PM and three AM simply don’t exist in your neural pathways.”

“And you never told me.”

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