17. Luna
Luna
The beautiful melody of POV by Ariana Grande drifts through the church, an orchestral version swelling through the air, wrapping itself around me like a second skin. It’s an odd choice for a wedding, but I’ve never been one for tradition.
The song is mine—just like this moment, just like this choice.
The heavy wooden doors groan open, and I take my first step down the aisle, my hand resting lightly on my brother Lamar’s arm.
My heartbeat is steady. My pace is deliberate.
I refuse to be one of those brides who floats in with dreamy eyes and blind optimism.
I know exactly what I’m walking into.
Vladimir Petrov.
My soon-to-be husband, blackmailer and certified menace, stands at the altar like he owns the world.
And in some ways, he does.
He is a king in his own right, forged from iron and blood, his presence commanding even without a word. He stands there, utterly composed, broad shoulders filling out a perfectly tailored black suit like it was made for him. His sharp jaw is set, his cold blue eyes locked onto mine.
But beneath that unreadable mask, I feel it.
The heat. The hunger. The possession.
I keep moving, my satin dress gliding over the floor as I pass rows of the most dangerous people in the world.
The Bratva, lined up in sleek suits, their expressions unreadable, their attention unwavering.
The Eclipse Assassination Order, seated opposite them, their presence just as lethal. Even dressed for an occasion like this, they radiate danger, their eyes flicking over the crowd, constantly assessing.
A reminder to everyone here—I am not just anyone.
Amani looks like she wants to wink at me. Raven’s smirk says, 'blink twice if you need backup.'
Beside me, Lamar’s grip tightens slightly, a silent reassurance. Though we’re only two years apart, people have always mistaken us for twins. And I know this isn’t easy for him—to hand me over to a man like Vladimir.
But he trusts me.
At the end of the aisle, my mother stands.
Her deep green dress flows elegantly around her, but her presence dominates the space. She isn’t smiling. Her gaze is locked onto Vladimir, cold and calculating, the look only a mother can have when she’s about to hand her daughter over to a man like him.
Lamar releases my hand, and my mother steps forward, closing the distance between her and Vladimir.
The tension in the church tightens like a noose.
Silence.
"If anything happens to my daughter, Satan himself won’t recognize you after I’m done with you."
The words cut through the air, sharp and deliberate.
Did my mom just threaten the HEAD OF THE RUSSIAN MAFIA????
Even the Bratva, men who rarely react to anything, shift in their seats.
I swear I hear Dimitri choke on a laugh.
Vladimir, however, doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t cower. He doesn’t offer shallow reassurances.
No, the bastard smirks.
The slow, knowing kind.
The kind that says he’s already won.
"Noted, Mrs. Imala," he says smoothly, his voice as unreadable as his expression. "But nothing will happen to her. She’s safe with me."
Translation: Touch her, and I’ll kill everyone you’ve ever met.
They hold the stare, two forces of nature colliding in silence.
Then—finally—she nods.
She releases my hand.
Steps aside.
And now?—
It’s just me and him.
The church fades.
The guests, the whispers, the expectations—none of it matters.
I face Vladimir, lifting my chin and meeting his gaze without hesitation.
I refuse to shrink beneath the weight of this moment.
The air between us crackles—hot and electric, a tension so thick it coils in my chest, ready to snap.
The priest begins the ceremony.
His voice is distant, a hum in the background.
All I hear is my pulse.
All I feel is him.
“Do you, Vladimir Petrov, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
He doesn’t hesitate.
His voice is steady. Absolute. "I do."
The words settle like a lock clicking into place.
The priest turns to me.
"And do you, Luna Imala, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Vladimir holds me there, locked in his grasp, without touching me.
Waiting.
Expecting.
Daring me.
I could say no.
But I don’t. And my following words seal my fate.
"I do."
Before I can even take another breath, Vladimir moves.
His hands are on me—one gripping my waist, the other cupping my jaw, tilting my face up to his.
"Till death do us part," he whispers, his voice a dark promise against my lips. "And even then, I’ll find you."
Sir, that is a red flag in poetry form.
He kisses me.
It’s not gentle.
Not sweet.
Not meant to appease the crowd.
No—this kiss is a declaration of war. A full-body, soul-consuming, panty-obliterating claiming.
Possessive. Hungry. Undeniable.
I tense for half a second before my body betrays me—melting into him, my fingers tangling in his suit, pulling him closer.
The world falls away.
For a moment, there is no Bratva. No Order. No politics.
Just him and me.
The fire crackling between us ignites into something untamed. Something dangerous.
He breaks the kiss but doesn’t let me go.
His breathing is ragged, his grip on my waist tightening as he leans in, his lips brushing against my ear.
"You’re mine now."
My eyes snap open.
There’s a challenge in his gaze.
One I fully intend to meet.