The Vampire's Luna

But when she pushed the door open, he was there.

Perched on the edge of her sofa, Williams sat with one leg crossed over the other. He held one of her books in his hand, fingers stroking the spine in idle, taunting strokes. His eyes flicked up.

"How did you find me?"

Williams closed the book with a soft thud. "The same way I found you the first time," he said smoothly. "You called."

"Looks like you changed your mind," he added.

"I want everything you promised," she said. "All of it."

Williams leaned back on the sofa, his posture lazy. He spread his arms along the backrest.

"Well, then," he murmured, slow as dripping honey, dangerous as poison. His smile widened. "Let the games begin."

"This is not a game, Williams. I changed my mind about helping you, yes—but let us get this straight. All I want is the king."

"That’s not how this relationship is going to work. It’s a trade by barter. You don’t get to dictate the terms. I don’t care what you want—and you shouldn’t care what I want either. But for both of us to claw our way to the top, for both of us to taste the throne and leave the world bleeding, we have to work together."

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "So what do you want?"

"What do I want?" he repeated. "To start a war that annihilates each and every werewolf. To burn their packs to ash, to choke their legacy with smoke. And above all—to see the queen of Blood City fall."

Isolde’s heart pounded from exhilaration. His darkness called to hers. "So I will help you get what you want," Williams continued, his gaze pinning her in place,

"as long as you do not cross me. There may come a time when I will use the most precious thing to you, when I will demand your soul as collateral. It is the price you will have to pay."

"Fine. How does this begin?"

"Oh, I already began a long time ago." Williams rose. He loomed over her now, the scent of danger curling around her. "Let’s just say I had a feeling you would come around. And from your mark—I see that my plan is already on its way."

"You don’t understand. I want my mate." She could still feel Damien’s eyes on her, that moment when their gazes had locked in Lucivar’s living room—her whole body remembered it, craved it.

Her skin burned where the bond tethered her to him, invisible chains she longed for. "I don’t care about power, about castles, about rewards. I want him."

Williams sighed heavily. "I can get a horse to the river," he said lazily, "but there is nothing I can do if it refuses to drink. Even my powers can’t mess with free will." His dark gaze sharpened then, pinning her in place.

"He is your mate, isn’t he? Then stop whining. Tighten the bond. Sink your claws into it until he has no choice but to feel you everywhere."

"How am I supposed to do that," she hissed, taking a step closer, "when the queen made sure I cannot step foot in the castle?" Rage flickered in her chest.

Every time she thought of Luna’s smug face now, her belly swelled with venom. That woman had everything—her crown, her man, her child, her bond. Isolde had nothing but a mark and the taste of what could have been.

"I hear the heir’s ceremony is coming up. If I were you, I’d go. And certainly not looking like that." His eyes flicked over her nightgown.

"Dress like temptation itself. Make him remember every second of what he’s denied. The queen may have barred your entrance, but ceremonies have a way of opening doors. You want your mate? Claim him."

As soon as he finished, he waltzed out of the room. One moment he was there, the next the shadows swallowed him whole.

Isolde stood alone in the middle of her bedroom. She hated this. She hated him. She hated that his words made sense. She wasn’t comfortable with any of it—but comfort was for weaklings. Queens weren’t made by comfort.

Queens were made by desire and clawing their way through fire. If this was what it took to get her mate back, if this was what it took to rip him away from Luna’s arms, then she would gladly step into the flames.

Her fingers brushed her throat where Damien’s bond still pulsed faintly under her skin, and she smiled.

*****

Leora held the heir carefully in her arms, his tiny breaths puffing against her wrist. She was followed closely by Doctor Thessa, who had insisted on personally escorting him back to his parents after the council had finally cleared the child.

The decision had been unanimous—no trace of blood-yearning remained in him, no darkness born of the shards that had once poisoned his fragile veins. The boy was clean.

Leora’s footsteps echoed softly against the floors of the king’s castle as they entered the north wing nursery.

Inside, Damien and Luna were already surveying the nursery one last time, as if they could never quite trust the opulence around them to be enough. The walls were painted in shades of blue. They both looked up as Leora entered.

The moment Damien’s arms took the child from Leora, his entire being shifted. Every line of his face softened, his chest rose with a reverent breath, and the room itself seemed to still.

Every time he held the boy, a surge of pride and awe ripped through him—a pride that humbled him. This was their son, a living miracle forged in the reckless, unstoppable love he bore for his queen.

He whispered a prayer of gratitude to the goddess, though his lips didn’t move, only his eyes shining with it.

Leora bowed respectfully, before she quietly withdrew. Doctor Thessa, however, lingered with her hands folded neatly in front of her. She had lived through his death, fought for his resurrection, and carried the burden of hope when everyone else trembled.