He grunted against her lips, each sound rougher than the last, betraying how close he was to losing the composure he’d clung to for decades. Thessa tightened her legs around his waist, urging him deeper, harder, as if she could pull every part of him into her.
Her body clung to him, greedy for the rhythm. Against the wall of her living room, they burned.
This was a passion smouldering since their first glance now ignited into a wildfire. He thrust into her like he wanted to carve her name into his very bones. She met him stroke for stroke, hips rolling to match his, daring him to give her everything.
A rumble tore from his chest vibrating through her body. He braced one hand against the wall behind her head, as if trying to anchor himself before he lost all sense. His control was fraying—he hadn’t touched another in years, and now there was no stopping the flood.
The taste of her lips, the fierce look in her eyes—it was undoing him piece by piece.
Thessa felt the tremor in his body, the shudder that told her he was near the edge. But she wasn’t ready to let him go first. She ground her hips hurriedly against him, racing to match his pace, her breath ragged.
Every thrust sent her higher, closer to the breaking point. She wanted to fall with him, wanted their bodies to shatter together.
Her hurried rocking matched his desperate rhythm until the world blurred around them. The wall pressed into her back, his chest slick against hers, their breaths clashing like battle cries.
Thessa’s head fell back, a sharp cry escaping her lips despite her attempt to bite it down.
Morvakar’s thrusts grew harder, almost punishing.
"Gods—Thessa..." His hand on her thigh tightened almost painfully, as if he needed to anchor her in place or he’d simply dissolve.
She dragged his mouth back to hers and bit his lower lip. "Don’t stop, please."
And he couldn’t. Even if the ceiling collapsed, even if the world itself ended, he couldn’t. His body shook, thrusts turning frantic, ragged. The deep rumble in his chest grew louder, vibrating against her breasts.
Her climax ripped through her without warning. Her legs locked tighter around him, her body convulsing, the ecstasy exploding in white-hot waves. She cried out his name, nails clawing into his shoulders.
The force of it nearly knocked the air from her lungs, and she clung to him as if her bones would scatter without his weight holding her down.
That was his undoing.
Morvakar slammed into her one last time, deep enough to steal both their breaths, and spilled into her. His body trembled violently, forehead pressed to hers, eyes squeezed shut as if the intensity was too much to bear.
He held her there, buried to the hilt, the shuddering waves wracking his frame.
For a moment, neither of them breathed. The room was thick with the musk of sex.
Then Thessa let out a shaky laugh, still panting. "Well... that’s some date."
He pulled back to look at her. He wanted to tell her this was a mistake—that he shouldn’t have let himself want her, let alone have her. But when she kissed him again, tender and unhurried this time, he realised there was no going back.
Natasha walked beside Isolde, as they were ushered into the castle reserved for Lord Lucivar.
Earlier that evening, Natasha had approached Lucivar’s butler. She’d asked for an audience on Isolde’s behalf.
"You can go back now, Natasha," Isolde said. She didn’t look at her companion as she spoke—her gaze was already fixed on the doors ahead, her mind a thousand miles away.
Natasha faltered, lips parting as if to argue, then closed them again. Disappointment flashed in her eyes, quickly masked by obedience. With a low bow, she turned and padded away.
Isolde inhaled deeply, steeling herself before pressing forward. Her palm grazed the wood of the door as she pushed it open. Memories slammed into her. This building, this very air—this was where she and Damien had once spent their first night together.
The thought burned through her chest. However fleeting that night had been, however short-lived, it had branded itself onto her skin literally. She would never be able to wash it off.
Lord Lucivar was seated with one leg crossed over the other. His eyes flicked up when she entered. In an instant, he rose. "Here," he murmured, motioning her forward with a sweep of his hand.
He ushered her quickly toward the study adjoining the living room, his gaze darting to the hallway beyond.
Damien and Luna were in the bedroom, with the baby cradled between them and the last thing he wanted was an accidental collision. But fate had other plans.
It was already too late.
The sound of laughter drifted into the room. Luna’s laughter. It was followed by Damien’s lower timbre, rumbling close beside her. Their joy carried easily through the half-open doors of the bedchamber, and the sound was intimate enough to make Isolde’s stomach knot.
She froze mid-step, her breath snagging in her throat.
Her eyes darted toward the sound—and there he was.
He had emerged into the archway. His dark hair curled slightly against his temples.
Isolde’s pulse roared in her ears. She could not tear her gaze away.
Damien, too, stood rooted to the spot. His breath stilled, and his eyes locked onto hers. Memory flooded back into him just as violently: her moans in the dark, the taste of her skin, the way her nails had raked his shoulders that first night.
His throat worked as he swallowed, fighting the tightening in his chest.
Neither moved. Neither spoke.
"Damien?" Luna cooed. She let her hand drift down his shoulder, her nails just grazing his arm. Her touch was a leash. A reminder. He belongs to me.
Only then did Isolde snap out of her frozen stupor, manners flooding back. She dropped into a bow, her head dipping. "Your Majesties."
Damien’s eyes flickered back to Luna, as if her voice had yanked him out of a spell. His mouth parted, a single syllable trembling on his lips, but Luna beat him to it. She offered him a faint, deliberate smile. "Come on, let’s go home."
Her smile didn’t falter, but inside she could feel the sting. She knew better than anyone what a completed mate bond could do. The magnetic pull. The ache. The way your body betrayed you even when your mind screamed no.
She lived it every day. And watching her husband hesitate for even a fraction of a second cut deeper than any blade.
Still, Luna loved him—more fiercely than her own pride, more violently than her own claws. And she knew Damien was fighting, gods he was fighting. She could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his hands clenched.
He wasn’t letting it consume him. He wasn’t letting Isolde win. But that didn’t stop the sting. Didn’t make her chest ache any less.
Her eyes flicked to Lord Lucivar, who stood in the background. He shifted awkwardly, clearly aware he’d orchestrated this little disaster. Luna’s lips curved tighter. Oh, Father-in-law... you’re testing me.
She adored the man, truly she did—but he was about three seconds away from finding out exactly how sharp her temper was. And if the Queen of Blood City lost her patience, people would bleed.
She leaned in closer to Damien, brushing her lips against his ear. "Let’s go," she whispered.
Lucivar was no fool. He had thought he was being clever—granting Isolde audience at night, assuming Luna and Damien would already be gone. But he underestimated the tether of new parents to their child.
The King and Queen lingered longer than he predicted, and now Lucivar found himself at the center of a storm he hadn’t meant to summon. His usually steady hands curled behind his back as if hiding his guilt, his eyes flickering between his son and the woman who bore his son’s other mark.
For all his years, for all his wisdom, Lucivar realized he had just rolled a dice with loaded sides.
Damien, sensing the tension stretching tight enough to snap, didn’t bother with words. Instead, he slid his hand into Luna’s. The way his fingers curved around hers was a declaration before the entire hall that this was his wife, his queen, his chosen heart.
He gave his father a brief, almost reluctant nod before turning toward the exit. Luna followed. As they passed, she let her gaze flick sideways, just long enough to land on the pale bow of Isolde’s neck.
And there it was. The mark. That same swirling brand of fate, identical to hers, etched into Isolde’s skin.
The world seemed to slow as Luna’s wolf reared beneath her skin. A heavy, unfamiliar weight coiled low in her stomach. Territorial jealousy. She almost staggered from the force of it, as if her body couldn’t quite recognize the sensation.
It wasn’t the brittle, distrustful irritation she’d felt toward Seliora. This was different. This was blood-deep, marrow-deep, stamped by the gods themselves. Her rational queenly mask stayed firmly in place.
But inside, Luna thought very dark thoughts about ripping marks off throats, about tearing destiny itself apart.
(I want everyone to prepare themselves because moving forward, Luna is going to go bat shit crazy but its not exactly her fault. Isolde is going to step on the tail of the tiger)