The Vampire's Luna

"You carry it out," Luna said, lowering her voice, "or..."

She leaned in. Her smile was serene. Almost tender. "I will kill you."

Isolde’s breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Her knees wobbled.

Luna turned and walked toward the balcony rail, looking out over the city she now ruled.

*****

Later that evening, Damien arrived back at the castle. He had spent the journey home reading the full minutes of the court hearing Luna had faced without him.

She had stood alone. And she had prevailed.

He should have trusted her more.

Damien pressed his fingers to his eyes as the car came to a stop.

They had fought that morning, neither of them willing to give ground. He had wanted to shield her from every shadow, every threat, even from her own kingdom. But Luna had pushed back. She had insisted this was her burden to bear.

Now, reading the proceedings, he saw the truth.

She had carried herself like a queen. Dignified. Ruthless. Untouchable.

Now all he wanted was to wrap her in his arms. Apologize for doubting her. And tell her, again, that she was the fiercest soul he had ever known.

Veyron’s sentence had finally been announced—banishment from Blood City for five years. It was the standard penalty for smuggling, even for a sage of his rank. Still, it felt both just and unjust at once. Since Luna had stepped forward in court to declare that the blood Veyron had been caught with was for her, the attention had turned away from him and landed squarely on her shoulders. The public opinion had shifted, debates had ignited—some praising the queen for her honesty, others questioning the ethical line she walked.

To Veyron, it was a strange kind of salvation. He was spared execution, spared imprisonment. But not spared disgrace. Nor the ache of distance. He had spent centuries serving quietly, his influence woven into the crown. And now, he would be stripped from it all, exiled into a world beyond the city he had helped shape.

Damien threw his coat onto the sofa. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, breathing out.

"Luna?" he called as he strode toward the bedroom, though his voice was already tight with unease.

He didn’t hear her heartbeat.

His instincts kicked in.

The moment he opened the door, every muscle in his body locked.

Someone was waiting for him alright but it wasn’t Luna.

In his bedroom. In their bedroom. A sacred space, intimately shared with his queen, defiled now by her presence.

Isolde was dressed in a sheer nightdress.

His voice came out as a dangerous, guttural growl:

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

He was already stepping forward, every step loaded with wrath. His eyes raked over her with contempt. Contempt for her audacity. For her presence. For the fact that she stood where only Luna should ever stand.

Isolde was clearly startled by the intensity of his rage. "The queen asked me to come here," she said, voice carefully even.

"The queen?" he echoed, each syllable scathing. "My wife? Luna? Asked you to come into my bedroom, dressed like that?"

He gestured to her barely-there clothing with a sneer.

"Do I look like the kind of man who can be seduced by a stunt this pathetic?"

His eyes darkened, his pupils flaring with fury.

Isolde took a timid step forward, her body trembling from the sheer weight of Luna’s command. She had been given one task tonight, one impossible duty, and it came with the sharp edge of a promise: succeed or die.

So she made a choice—the only one she believed she had. Either beg to be taken... or perish at the queen’s feet.

"Do I disgust you that much that you cannot even bear to look at me?"

Damien’s jaw tensed. For one long second, he did meet her gaze. The mate bond twisted in his chest. For one agonizing moment, he didn’t see Isolde as an interloper in his marriage, but as the woman fate had stitched to him without mercy.

And then he looked away.

Because if he didn’t, he feared he would unravel.

Every cell in his body fought the pull. Every instinct, honed from centuries of discipline, screamed in defiance. But the bond was unrelenting. It didn’t care about love or loyalty. It only cared about desire.

"I don’t know why the queen has commanded that I come here tonight," Isolde said, her voice breaking. "But please. My life hangs in the balance. She’s going to kill me, and truth be told, she frightens me."

Her words rang with raw fear. His wife was no fragile flower. She was forged of iron. If she had sent Isolde here, it was strategy. She wanted him to lose control and mark Isolde.

"I love my wife," Damien said.

"I know," Isolde whispered. "And yet she asked me to come here. Why?"

A cold fury began to rise in him for the situation. For the mate bond.

"I need you to leave," he said at last. "This house belongs to my wife and I. You shouldn’t be in here."

He took a step back, distancing himself from the power building between them. But Isolde didn’t move away. She inhaled sharply, gathering courage, and stepped forward once more, closing the space between them.

Her fingers reached out and brushed against his hand.

The touch ignited.

A sudden flare of power sizzled in the room, and then the bond sprang to life.

The crimson string shimmered into visibility between their hands. Damien gasped despite himself, his body reacting even as his mind screamed in protest. The bond was alive now, awakened. Hungry.

Isolde stared at the thread. "Do you feel that?" she whispered. "It’s real, your majesty. You can fight it, I know you will—but it’s real."

His breath grew heavy. The bond pulsed again. His vision blurred around the edges. The scent of her was different than Luna. And he hated how a part of him responded to it.