TRADING MY CHEATING HUSBAND FOR THE LYCAN KING novel Chapter 429

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CHAPTER 354 TWIRLY MOUSTACHE VILLAIN

CHAPTER 354: TWIRLY MOUSTACHE VILLAIN

EMBER’S POV

“Absolutely not,” Nathaniel says. “I refuse.”

“You don’t get to refuse.” Queenie doesn’t look up from the tablet. “You’re the getaway”

“I am the strategist. I engineer the plan. I do not sit in a car.”

“You sit in a car.”

We’ve been at it for two hours, spread across the war table in Knox’s east study–me, Knox, Queenie, and Nathaniel, who arrived this morning with three encrypted drives and a face like a man who has slept four hours in the last three days.

And I have learned two things.

One: planning a heist is much less glamorous than the word “heist” would suggest.

Two, whatever fragile thing exists between Nathaniel and Queenie right now is going to make the next several hours deeply uncomfortable for everyone in this room.

“Let’s start from the top,” I say, because someone has to. “The casino. What am I walking into?”

Nathaniel pulls up an image on the big screen. A building, sleek and dark and windowless, tucked into the mountains a few hours out, the kind of place that doesn’t have a sign because if you need the sign, you’re not invited.

“Casino Royale,” he says. “Though nobody who goes there calls it that. It’s the Slaughterhouse. Invitation–only. It’s been running for the better part of a century, and it is, without exaggeration, the single most dangerous room on this continent that isn’t a battlefield.” He clicks. “Because it doesn’t deal in money.”

“Everyone deals in money.”

“Not here.” Knox this time, arms crossed, jaw tight. He knows this place; I can tell by the set of his shoulders. “At the Slaughterhouse, the currency is secrets. And favours. You don’t buy chips. You wager what you know, what you owe, what you can promise. And when you lose-” his voice goes flat “-the house collects. Literally. Some believe Casino Royale was built on cursed grounds, which makes it what it is. Strange things happen there. They have a magic older than the council that pulls memories right out of your head, and you walk out not even knowing what you lost, only that there’s a hole where something used to be. Only a fool goes in there fishing for secrets to trade to the wrong people. Well–that, or they just come for the liquor and the girls.”

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CHAPTER 354 TWIRLY MOUSTACHE VILLAIN

The room goes quiet.

“That’s not possible,” I say.

“It is there.” Nathaniel’s voice is grim. “People have walked into the Slaughterhouse knowing the location of a rival’s stronghold and walked out unable to remember they ever had a rival. It’s why the desperate go. And the powerful. Because there is exactly one place in the entire wolf world where nobody can lie-” he clicks again “-and this is it. The house sees every untruth. The magic reads it off your skin. You cannot bluff inside those walls. Which means it’s the only place on earth where a bargain is guaranteed, because nobody can cheat the terms.” He sits back./It’s a truth–market. And the truth we need is inside it.”

“My mother,” I say.

“Devika.” Nathaniel nods. “She circles that place every Friday, Has for months. Which means she’s chasing something, or she’s part of something, and either way she’s the thread that leads to what you want.” He hesitates. “But before we get to Devika, you need to understand who runs the place. Because that’s the whole problem.” He clicks, and the screen fills with faces – hard–eyed, tattooed, packless, the kind of people who look like they’d smash your head into a wall. “The Slaughterhouse is owned and operated by rogues. Not the harmless kind. Wolves who left the packs, or were thrown out of them, or were born to people who’d already spat on the whole system – and they built an entire world down here in the dark specifically to get away from us.”

“From us,” I echo.

“From alphas.” Knox’s distaste curls the word. “From kings. From the whole structure–dominance, councils, pack law, all of it. They detest us, Ember. Everything packs stand for. It’s the founding principle of the place. An alpha’s power means nothing at the Slaughterhouse. A king’s crown means less than nothing. And they don’t just dislike us.” His jaw tightens. “The Slaughterhouse does not admit alphas. Or royals. If they scanned me at the door and made what I am, they wouldn’t just refuse me entry. They’d take offence. And you do not want to offend the cartel that runs the Slaughterhouse, because they answer to no council, no crown, no law, and they have a very long memory and a very creative approach to grudges.”

“They hate alphas that much?” I say.

“They have a holiday,” Knox says darkly.

Queenie’s head comes up. “A what?”

“They invented a holiday.” And Knox’s face is doing something magnificent now, a slow bloom of deeply wounded dignity, the specific expression of a man who has been personally aggrieved for years and has just been waiting for someone to ask. “Once a year. It’s called–actually, I absolutely

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CHAPTER 354 TWIRLY MOUSTACHE VILLAIN

refuse to say the full name; it involves a horrific anatomical rhyme–but the polite translation is The

Bonfire of the Bitch–Made Alphas.”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.

“They gather,” Knox continues, his voice a low, furious rumble. “From all over the continent. And they build effigies of the most powerful alphas alive. Stuffed dummies, straw and sackcloth. Shockingly detailed, insulting effigies with little paper crowns. And they pelt them.” His/jaw works. a muscle ticking violently. “With rotten food. Eggs. Spoiled fruit. Fermented cabbage There’s a whole day of it. There are songs, Ember. Drinking songs. Written specifically to mock us by name.” “Oh no,” Queenie breathes, her face lighting up with pure, unadulterated delight. “Ch, please tell me there is a song about-”

“Yes, Queenie,” Knox snaps, looking like he wants to murder a wall. “There is a song about me. My effigy is, apparently, one of the more popular ones. It has been for years. They’ve perfected it. It’s got my colouring. My build. And so that no one in the crowd could possibly mistake which alpha they’re throwing eggs at-” his voice goes flat and mortally offended “-they attach a face to it. A crude, badly drawn rendition of me in black marker. It features a ridiculous, twirly villain moustache and a mouth that is just… an explosion of fangs. Fangs all the way through. I don’t even have a moustache, Ember. But they slap it on there so the entire drunken mob knows exactly who they’re pelting.”

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