TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 430

CHAPTER 355: MERRILYN ASTER

EMBER’S POV

There is a beat of absolute silence.

And then Queenie makes a sound like a balloon dying, one long helpless wheeze, and Nathaniers mouth twitches for the first time all day, actually twitches, and I have to slam my knuckles against my lips because I am going to lose it.

I am going to completely lose it, because the most feared man on the continent, the Lycan whose name empties council chambers, is standing in his own study, visibly hurt that a bunch of rogues

throw eggs at a doll of him once a year.

“It’s not funny,” Knox says.

“It’s a little funny,” I manage, my voice completely strangled.

“It is not-”

“I’m sorry, I just-” I have to cover my mouth with both hands because my shoulders are physically shaking. “I’m just picturing a room full of heavily armed, lethal cartel enforcers having an arts and crafts day. Someone actually had to go out and buy the markers.”

“And they used them to draw a twirly moustache,” Knox says, his voice dropping into a register of sheer, wounded disbelief. “Do you understand the level of premeditated disrespect that implies, Ember? They didn’t just throw a bag over a straw bale. Someone sat down and workshopped my

facial hair. That’s not a drunken riot; that’s dedication. Someone out there has been refining my

likeness for years-”

“Baby.” Tears are streaming down my face. “It’s because you’re the most important. They egg you first. It’s an honour. You’re the guest of honour at the egg festival.”

“I am not comforted by that-”

“My king.” Queenie has recovered enough to speak, barely, wiping her eyes. “I need you to understand that when we get home, I am commissioning a painting of this. The Lycan King, Effigy Form, With Moustache. I’m hanging it in the entrance hall. Right next to the-” she catches herself, glances at me, and we both dissolve again, because right next to the marble p***s at the front gate is exactly where it’s going and we both know it.

Knox looks between the two of us, at his fiancée and her best friend, both crying with laughter at his expense, and I watch him make the visible, painful decision to abandon his own dignity entirely

for the sake of the mission

15

OOG

CHAPTER 155 MERRILYN ALTER

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“The point,” he grinds out, “is that they hate us. Comprehensively. They don’t admit us; they build

shrines to humiliate us, and if I walk into that building as myself, the entire plan collapses at the

door. So I can’t be the King.” His eyes come to me. “And you can’t be the King’s.”

“So who are we?”

“Getting there.” Nathaniel, mercifully, clicks back to the schematic – the building in cross–section,

floors stacked, and the higher the floor, the smaller and more exclusive the rooms. “Because it’s

not as simple as showing up tich, either. The Slaughterhouse runs on hierarchy. Obsessively.

Ruthlessly. Everything is tiered, and every tier is bought, and the currency for access- for getting

up off the ground floor where the tourists gamble and into the rooms where the real wagers

happen, where Devika operates – is exclusivity. You have to be the kind of client the house wants

1 The kind that pays for something specific. Something premium.” He clicks. “And the most

premium thing the Slaughterhouse sells, the thing that gets you fast–tracked to the upper floors, no

questions, red carpet – is the experience.”

“What experience?”

Nathaniel, to his eternal credit, does not blink.

“The Slaughterhouse’s highest–paying clientele don’t come for the gambling. They come to satisfy

appetites they can’t admit to in the daylight. The house keeps a floor–the most exclusive tier in

the building–that operates like a high–end, underground pleasure house. They don’t do standard

companionship. They offer bespoke hedonism. Extreme fetishes. Taboos. They keep a stable of

highly specialised courtesans–male, female, whatever the client’s particular poison is. You want a

feral rogue to put on a leash? You want a mischievous submissive who likes the taste of blood?

They cater to the most decadent, depraved whims imaginable.” He spreads his hands. “The clients

who request that floor are the absolute whales. The house rolls out the red carpet, and every

locked door suddenly opens for them.” He looks at me, his eyes dark. “So. Our way onto Devika’s floor. The cover that gets Merrilyn Aster, bored heiress of a sleazy businessman, fast–tracked to

the top with absolutely zero scrutiny, is that she is a very wealthy patron with a very dark palate.

She’s there to buy the men.”

There’s a beat.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Who the hell is Merrilyn Aster?”

“You, Ember, are our Merrilyn Aster. Star of the show,” Nathaniel says, with the flat calm of a man

reading a weather report. “Merrilyn Aster is an obscenely wealthy heiress who has grown bored of

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