The Vampire's Luna

The room stilled. The question was blasphemy, but no one dared rebuke him.

"A werewolf," Gabriel continued. "A werewolf is our queen. She carries a bloodthirsty heir, a monster. Is that what you want as your future?"

A few men shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting to one another, but none spoke. He had them listening, and he pressed harder.

"Damien covered up the illegal smuggling of blood by his wife and Sage Veyron," Gabriel said. "Do you know what that means? Weakness. Who knows how many more sins he conceals beneath that brooding mask of righteousness?"

A slow murmur rippled around the table, unease becoming agreement. Gabriel saw it, tasted it. He leaned back once more, sipping from his glass.

"This city," he added, "deserves a king who will not bow to mongrels, who will not sully the blood of our ancestors, who will not risk our empire for the lust of one cursed bond. Ask yourselves, gentlemen... is Damien that king?"

"We cannot unseat the king," one of the lords whispered sharply. His fingers drummed against the armrest as if his nerves sought escape.

Gabriel leaned forward, and the room seemed to shrink around him. His smile was slow, deliberate, more predator than statesman. "But you can," he purred, letting the silence stretch, daring them to look away. "The council has always had the power. Bring these truths before the court. Drag them into the light. Whether Damien dies tomorrow or lingers for a hundred years, it will not matter." His eyes gleamed, dark and hungry. "I am going to become king."

A few of the lords glanced at one another but none had the courage to openly challenge him. The spell of his confidence pressed on them, forcing them to weigh the allure of power against the risk of treason.

Beyond the heavy oak doors, Duran pressed his ear tighter to the wood, his breath caught in his throat. This was not what was supposed to happen. Gabriel’s ambition was spilling too fast, too bold, too reckless. The council was folding, bending under Gabriel’s voice.

His thoughts spun. Had the Order received his message yet? Would they understand the urgency? His chest tightened. There was no time left to wait. If Gabriel succeeded in rallying the council, the kingdom itself would be torn apart. They had to move on him.

Duran swallowed hard, then slipped back from the door.

*****

Isolde stood in the bedroom Lord Lucivar had prepared for her. The room was lavish—beautiful curtains, a bed far too wide and inviting—but she could find no comfort in it. Her hands twisted together at her waist, restless, betraying her nerves. The last time she had been pushed into this position, it had been humiliating. She could still feel the echo of Damien’s rage in her bones, his words cutting as sharp as blades. He had nearly ended her life for daring to exist too close to his bond with Luna.

Now, here she was again.

Her breath caught as footsteps sounded in the corridor approaching like the toll of a bell. She froze, her throat suddenly dry. When the door swung open and Damien stepped inside, her eyes widened.

He didn’t look like himself. His movements lacked their usual lethal precision, his gaze darkened with shadows that seemed to hollow him out. His jaw was tight, his shoulders burdened. The commanding presence that usually filled a room now felt fractured, tethered by unseen chains.

"Your Highness..." Isolde dropped into a curtsy but couldn’t hold it, rising too quickly as panic and desperation tangled inside her. "I am sorry. Lord Lucivar brought me here. I had no say whatsoever." She rushed the words, her hands wringing. "I don’t understand why it matters so much to everyone that I... that I be with you." Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. "I have no idea why they think this will solve anything."

Damien’s eyes flickered to hers, and for a moment she thought she saw pain there—a raw, dangerous flicker of longing chained down by fury. His silence pressed against her, heavy and suffocating.

Inside, Isolde’s mind raced. What do they want from me? What do I want? She remembered Lucivar’s promise of freedom, of castles and servants, of security she had never known. It should have tempted her, should have made her grasp at the offer with both hands. Yet, looking at Damien now, broken and bound by things she didn’t understand, all she felt was a dangerous, aching pull. A bond she had not asked for, but one that coiled hot and merciless in her veins.

She forced a shaky smile, though her voice trembled. "If you want me gone, say the word, and I will leave. But if you..." she faltered, the words catching. "...if you want me to stay, then you must tell me why. Because I cannot endure..."

"Stop talking." Damien cut her off, the words low and rough, almost more growl than command.

Isolde’s mouth closed instantly. She lowered her gaze, nodding, her hands clasped in front of her to keep them from trembling. Every instinct screamed to ask more questions, to beg for clarity, but she bit them back. If she pushed too far, he might explode—or worse, dismiss her entirely.

"Just lie on the bed."

Swallowing hard, she moved slowly toward the massive bed. Each step echoed in her ears, her body buzzing with nerves. She perched on the edge for a moment before finally stretching out against the sheets, her eyes fixed on the carved ceiling beams above her. The ceiling felt safer than looking at him.

"Turn around."

She obeyed without hesitation, rolling onto her side, her back now to him. She felt the sting of humiliation burn in her chest. He didn’t even want to look at her. The gesture spoke louder than any insult. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to let the disappointment crush her. This is what I am to him. A bond he didn’t choose. A problem to be managed. Not a woman. Not someone worth seeing.