All Chapters of TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING: Chapter 221 - Chapter 230

Hi, everyone! Good evening. Just a quick update — I’m a little slow with writing today because I’m dealing with the flu. I’ve taken meds, but they come with drowsiness and sleepiness as side effects. My head’s been hot and hurting, and I’m honestly just exhausted. I’m still working on the chapter though! Just slower than usual because I’m frankly out of it right now. Hopefully I can finish before the day is over and get it posted. Also — big news: I’m officially done with my day job! Which means way more writing time from here on out. So yay to that! Now, I saw someone ask how often I update. Updates are daily double/triple updates! But let me explain my workflow so you understand why there might be pauses sometimes. I write in marathons. I have ADHD, so when I hyperfixate and lock in, I get a LOT done — we’re talking 10 chapters in two or three days. Then I take a break until the next wave of focus hits. Usually that lines up perfectly with the scheduled chapters running out, so

EMBER’S POVThe question lands in the car like a third passenger. I take my eyes off the road long enough to look at her and from her face, I can tell she is not fishing for reassurance or testing me. She’s asking because she genuinely doesn’t know the answer and the not knowing is eating her from the inside.“Queenie—”“I know he’s my fated mate. I know the Goddess paired us. I know all the texts and the traditions and the lore that says this bond is sacred and chosen and meant to be. But the Goddess didn’t sit in that room this morning and listen to my husband confess that he drugged his best friend’s coffee and engineered a woman’s death for research data.” Her hands are twisting in her lap, fingers pulling at each other. “How am I supposed to lie next to him tonight knowing what he’s capable of? How am I supposed to let him touch me and trust that the hands on my body belong to the man I married and not the man who stood in a monitoring station while sixty-three people died?”“I

EMBER’S POVHe blinks. The word hits him harder than I expected, or maybe harder than I intended, because something in his expression collapses and rebuilds in the space of a breath. I didn’t plan to call him Dad. It just came out. The muscle memory of this porch, this house, this man standing in this exact spot where he used to wait for me after school on the days he remembered to be there.“Can we come in?” I ask. “This isn’t a social visit.”He nods quickly, wiping his hands again even though they’re already clean, and holds the screen door open for us with such careful courtesy.The house is small enough that the front door puts you in the living room, and the living room bleeds into the kitchen without much of a boundary between them. It’s cleaner than I expected. He’s been keeping house in a way he never managed when I was growing up, and the effort of it is visible in the scrubbed counters, the single plate and single cup on the drying rack, the organised spice rack that I w

EMBER’S POV“The last visit was different. You were about six. The woman watched you playing in the yard through the kitchen window for a long time without speaking. Then she told your mother the drops weren’t holding the way they used to. That you were getting stronger and the doses couldn’t keep up.” He sets the mug down. “She gave your mother something different. She called it permanent. Said it would ensure you never felt your wolf again — at least long enough for Devika to live out the rest of her life without worrying about her past catching up with her.”“Permanent,” I repeat, and the word tastes like rust.“Your mother cried when she took it. That’s the only time I ever saw Devika Chamberlain cry.”“Did anything ever happen after that? Any episodes, anything that made you think the suppressants weren’t holding?”Maurice thinks. “You were about twelve. You had a nightmare. A bad one. You screamed with pain in your sleep, and every wolf in the neighbourhood started howling at th

KNOX’S POVMy hands are the problem.Not in the way Nathaniel would diagnose it, not the gene or the claws or the shift. The problem is simpler and worse. I’m sitting in the passenger seat watching my fingers open and close around my own knee, and I cannot stop seeing them do other things.The boy was holding his sister. That’s the detail that won’t leave. Not the ballroom or the blood or the woman in the red dress whose face I still can’t fully see. The detail that followed me into this car is the boy. Sabias. Seven years old, holding his sister Mira under a bed in a guest room with a nightlight still glowing because someone on my staff knew the child was afraid of the dark and cared enough to plug one in.He was telling her to be quiet. That if they were quiet enough, the monster would leave.The monster didn’t leave.I flex my fingers against my knee. Open, close. Checking that the nails are blunt and human and that the things under them are not pressing through. These are the