Chapter 295: Tell Me What You Need
Luna crumpled to her knees, her tears streaming. She wept openly, no longer the untouchable queen of Blood City but a woman who had been stretched too thin.
"Your Highness... please," Thessa begged. She bent down, trying to steady Luna, but her hands shook with helplessness.
Talon placed a hand on Thessa’s shoulder and eased her gently aside. "Let me," he murmured. He crouched low as he took Luna’s hand firmly in his own. "My princess," he said, "tell me what you need. Anything you need."
To the vampires of Blood City, she was their sovereign queen. But to the wolves, she was blood. And they would bleed for her, die for her, no questions asked.
Luna lifted her tear-streaked face to Talon, her lips trembling.
Her tears didn’t stop, but the trembling in her chest slowed. She leaned ever so slightly into him.
*****
Damien had waited. At first, he had told himself not to worry—that she simply needed to cool off. He had checked on Magnus more than once, lingering in the nursery, brushing a gentle hand over the boy’s soft hair. But every time he left, the emptiness beside him in their bedroom clawed deeper. Luna was his anchor, his storm, his salvation. Without her near, he felt restless. As the hours dragged toward midnight, worry bled into fear.
By the time the clock in the hall chimed twelve, he had already snatched his keys and stalked to the garage. His car roared to life. The streets parted for him, lamps flickering as he tore through the night. He didn’t stop until he reached the boundary, the outer edge of the city where Lucivar had property.
No royal vehicle in sight. He shoved the car door open and stalked across the gravel. He slammed the front door wide and entered. His eyes found her immediately: Isolde, curled on the couch, her hair spilling down one shoulder.
"Where is my wife?"
Isolde scrambled to her feet, bowing deeply. "Your Highness!" she exclaimed.
"I asked a question." His eyes narrowed into slits. "Where the fuck is my wife?"
"She left hours ago," Isolde said quickly, wringing her hands together in a performance of helplessness. "I don’t know where she went."
He spun on his heel, intent on leaving. But her voice reached out and snagged him.
"Do you truly not care about me? About your child?"
Damien turned his head back toward her.
Isolde stepped forward.
"I care about my wife. My family."
And yet—even as he spoke them, the mate-bond itch pulsed beneath his skin. That was the cruel joke Morvakar’s meddling had left him with: the eternal tug-of-war between what his soul chose and what fate demanded.
Isolde saw the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his chest rose a fraction faster. She took another step, close enough that he could see the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes.
"Do you not pity me, your highness? I didn’t ask for any of this." Isolde’s eyes were wide, glossy with unshed tears that seemed rehearsed yet convincing enough to rattle him. "My life may not have been rainbows and sunshine before this, but truly it is even more unbearable that my mate would not see me." She tilted her head up at him.
He drew in a deep breath. "We cannot question fate, Isolde," he said. "It weaves us all as He pleases. Fate gave me my wife. My true mate."
"No, she stole you from me!" Isolde snapped, her eyes flashing with venom. Her fragile mask shattered, revealing the fury that had been simmering beneath the doe-eyed performance. The damsel in distress was gone.
"I was never yours, Isolde," Damien said. The truth burned in his chest: his heart, his soul, his body had always belonged to Luna. Not even the gods could rewrite that bond.
"Then why did you mark me? Why was everyone—including your wife—so intent on you marking me? I deserve answers!"
"Because my life depended on it." He had chosen survival, not desire.
Isolde’s face contorted. She reached for his hand suddenly, dragging it to her still-flat stomach. Her palm pressed his much larger hand against her belly. "Our lives depend on you now," she whispered, the tremor in her voice carrying both fear and cunning. "Because your wife plans to kill us."
Damien’s hand trapped where she held it. His mind rebelled for a minute. He snatched the thought back before it rooted. "She will not," he said firmly.
Every one of Isolde’s supposedly innocent touches chipped at his control, peeling it back layer by layer. She knew it, the witch.
Isolde looked up at him, her lashes trembling, her eyes shimmering. "One night—one night with you was all I had," she whispered. Her body leaned toward his. "I would have taken that and gone silently into the night." She pressed his hand harder against her belly. "But don’t you think the Blood Goddess gave us this gift for a reason? That maybe... it is her way of telling you that you chose wrong." Her lips hovered dangerously close to his now, promising everything forbidden.
Their breaths mingled in the small space. She could see the flicker of weakness in his eyes. Isolde didn’t push further; she knew better than to shove a wild beast. She wanted him to step into the trap himself, to close that tiny sliver of air separating them. She waited—still, patient.
Damien’s gaze betrayed him. His eyes dipped down, caught by the curve of her mouth, the memory of how those lips had once gasped his name in the dark. His will was not entirely his anymore—he could feel the mate-bond poison twisting inside him, urging him to yield. For a heartbeat, Luna’s king was just a man—a man who wanted just a taste. His lips lowered, dangerously close, until his breath fanned over hers, until surrender seemed inevitable.
If he could have a little, just a little. to end the torture, to end the battle. Luna, forgive me.