21. Luna
Luna
After Vladimir showed me our section of the fortress—because, let’s be honest, this place is too massive to be called a mansion—I’m convinced it has its own zip code.
Being an assassin pays well, don’t get me wrong, but we tend to stay humble.
Nothing about this place screams humility.
He gave me a quick tour of the essentials: the library, his home office, and the two guest rooms on this side of the wing. Each room has the basics—a bed, nightstand, dresser, and a TV mounted on the wall.
And now, I’m standing in Vladimir’s bedroom—well, our bedroom now—just trying to process its sheer size.
This bedroom is enormous.
It could easily fit mine, Amani’s, and Raven’s rooms and bathrooms back in Cali, and there’d still be space left over.
Vladimir said he needed to check in with his brother and Konstantin, then told me to get comfortable. He promised to be back later, so naturally?—
I’ve been snooping for the last ten minutes.
And here’s my conclusion:
This man loves the color black.
Right in the center of the room is a black, king-sized canopy bed with deep red velvet sheets that scream Lestat de Lioncourt’s energy.
The bathroom and walk-in closet are on opposite sides of the room, and a bookshelf lining the wall opposite the bed, complete with a cozy reading chair in the corner, is also present.
Okay, points for the library vibes.
Then there are the French doors, which open to a breathtaking view of the pool and the sprawling gardens beyond.
I wonder if he’d let me build a greenhouse here?
Mental note: Ask the King of Darkness if he likes plants.
Closing the balcony doors, I grab my nightclothes and head to the adjoining bathroom.
And, of course—the bathroom matches the rest of the room.
Black.
Red.
Gold accents everywhere.
Black marble tiles, double sinks, a massive walk-in shower with a rainfall feature (and way more buttons than necessary), and the pièce de résistance?—
A freestanding tub that could fit four people.
But that’s not even the wildest part.
No.
The tub is red.
Blood red.
Who in their right mind has a blood-red tub?
Oh, right—Vladimir fucking Petrov does.
I wouldn’t be surprised if human sacrifices had happened here.
A shiver runs down my spine as I place my clothes on the counter and fiddle with the shower controls.
After some trial and error (and almost scalding myself in the process), I finally figured it out and let the water heat up.
While that’s happening, I shimmy out of my wedding dress, pull out twenty-two bobby pins (why so many?!), and shake out my curls before throwing them into a high bun.
Just as I’m about to step into the shower, I hear faint noises outside the bathroom door.
Instinct kicks in.
I rush over to lock it.
Not that a lock would stop Vladimir—he could probably tear the door off its hinges with one hand—but hey, at least it’ll slow him down.
Finally, finally, I get fully naked and step under the shower’s warm spray.
And just like that—bliss.
I let the hot water run over my body, melting away the day’s stress. The weight of the wedding, the reception, the sheer insanity of the last week—it all momentarily washes down the drain.
But it doesn’t take long for me to notice something.
My toiletries.
They’re already unpacked and neatly arranged for me.
Even my silicone loofah.
Perfect.
I’ve perfected my everything shower—and I was dreading the idea of hunting for new products in a new city.
Guess Vladimir’s men are efficient, at least.
But the most challenging part of my routine?
Scrubbing the makeup off my tattoos.
Isabella established a rule that team tattoos must be covered during public events attended by high-profile individuals.
We consider these tattoos as our calling cards for our victims. While most people perceive them as just trendy designs and fail to make any connections, those in the underground world recognize their significance.
My large phoenix tattoo, which spans almost my entire back, definitely doesn’t conceal well in an open-back dress.
So it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Amani and Raven have the same tattoo, in the same size and place.
People are always shocked when they see all three of us with matching, vivid red phoenixes on our backs.
I have the most tattoos in the friend group, with Amani behind me.
I wonder what Vladimir will think when he sees them.
Would he like it?
Would he ask questions?
Would he stare at it in that infuriating, broody way of his?
After ensuring I’m thoroughly scrubbed and clean, the bathroom fills with the calming scent of lavender.
I step out, dry off, and start getting ready for bed.
I really hope Vladimir isn’t expecting anything tonight.
Yes, I know. It’s our wedding night.
Yes, I know. I literally almost climbed on him at the altar after that kiss.
Actually—can we even call it a kiss?
That man devoured me like he was making a damn statement, left me—and my poor, neglected pussy—panting like a bitch in heat.
My brain short-circuited on the spot.
I bet that was his plan all along.
But tonight?
Nope.
Tonight, I’m initiating Operation MooMoo.
Because I almost forgot.
HE BLACKMAILED ME!
Most women break out the sexy lingerie on their wedding night.
Me?
Yeah, no.
And that’s for regular couples.
What I’m wearing is the Madea meets someone’s grandma look.
Toss in my trusty bonnet, and I could easily pass for the sweet old lady next door.
My nightgown even has pockets.
If this look worked for our grandmas, great-grandmas, and whoever else—and their bills were paid—then it’ll work for me.
I can’t wait to see the look on Vladimir’s face when he sees my outfit.
This is going to be fun.
I step out of the bathroom and stop dead near the door when I see Vladimir sitting in the reading chair.
His shoulder-length black hair is still damp, clinging slightly to his neck, and he’s wearing nothing but checkered pajama bottoms.
No shirt.
Just his sculpted, tattooed chest on full display, muscles carved like a damn Greek statue.
I could probably bounce a quarter off his pecs.
Water droplets trail down his neck, and I swear I’d give my left nipple to be one of those droplets right now.
I must be ovulating because what the hell was that thought? Completely out of pocket. But it’s also very accurate.
“Kakogo cherta?"
Vladimir’s deep voice pulls me from my inappropriate fantasies.
I blink and realize I’ve been staring—and drooling.
Is that actual drool on my lip?
"Luna, what are you wearing?"
"Clothes? This is what I wear to bed," I reply quickly, acting casual as I head toward the bed.
Usually, my bedtime uniform consists of an oversized T-shirt and nothing else. But tonight’s outfit—MooMoo 101—is reserved just for him.
This is a test.
It’s a test I’ll absolutely fail if he doesn’t put a shirt on right now!
"Luna," he says my name with his thick accent, and my legs instantly feel like Jell-O.
"I’m going to say this nicely..." he trails off, his eyes dragging over my outfit with unmasked judgment.
I brace myself.
"You look like Ebenezer Scrooge."
I clutch my chest in mock offense, gasping dramatically. "You don’t think I look sexy in this?"
"You’d still look sexy in a potato sack," he says with a smirk, "but you’d still get some very questionable looks, like the one I’m giving you now."
I can’t help but laugh at that, shaking my head as I walk to the bed and sit down, watching his curious stare.
"And what’s on your head?"
"A bonnet."
"A what?"
Men genuinely have no clue sometimes.
"A bonnet, Vladimir. It’s for my curly hair. You don’t have satin pillowcases, which keep my curls healthy and less frizzy.”
He stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. Clearly, the concept of hair care is foreign to him.
“If you want a bonnet, I can get you one so we can match if you don’t want to feel left out. Maybe a pink one?” I beam.
Living with different ethnic women for the majority of my life has made me realize men wake up and go about their day with minimal effort. I was honestly shocked to discover that Vladimir doesn’t use 2-in-1 shampoo.
Then again, his hair is longer and slightly curled, so I guess that takes more maintenance.
But if I catch him sneaking into my products, I swear I’ll chop his hair off.
Unevenly.
Vladimir stands, moving toward me with the slow, predatory grace of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
The closer he gets, the harder it is to breathe.
His massive frame practically fills the room, the air around him charged with heat and danger. He steps between my knees, spreading them wider without saying a word like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My breath catches in my throat.
His right hand lifts, fingers curling around my chin, tilting my face up until I’m looking straight into those ice-blue eyes.
And all I can think about—besides the fact that I’m completely bare beneath this barely-there nightgown—is that there are much better places for his hands and mouth to be right now.
Spoiler alert: inside me.
He leans down, still gripping my face, slowly guiding me back until my spine hits the bed. His body follows, pressing into mine—solid and unrelenting. The weight grounds me and suffocates me in the best way.
“Luna,” he murmurs, his voice low and deliberate, each syllable vibrating against my skin. “If your plan was to deter me with this ridiculous excuse of an outfit…” His mouth grazes my jaw, then my cheek. “…I hate to inform you, it’s having the opposite effect.”
Then his voice drops lower—rough, possessive.
“I’ll fuck you regardless of what you wear. Hell, I’ll fuck you when you wear nothing at all. So long as I have your consent, I’ll fuck you bare, fill you with my cum, and you’ll take it like the good wife I know you are.”
My heart flatlines then stutters into a sprint.
Okay… that was hot.
His other hand trails up the inside of my thigh, slow and sinful, pushing the fabric higher inch by inch. Every graze of his fingertips sends a jolt through me—my breath shuddering, my pussy already slick with want.
His lips find the edge of my jaw, then lower, leaving a trail of soft, burning kisses down my neck—lingering, deliberate, like he has nowhere else to be but here. Tasting. Devouring.
My hips shift, my body arching into his, silently begging for more. But he takes his time, and it’s driving me absolutely mad.
When his lips finally skim over mine, just a whisper of contact, my whole body tightens, ready to explode at the slightest push.
And he knows it.
He always knows it.
And then…
Four words shatter everything.
"I own you, Luna."
It’s like a record screeching to a halt.
My vision blurs, and a sharp, piercing ringing fills my ears, growing louder and louder.
But beneath it, a distinct and haunting voice claws its way to the surface.
"I own you, Luna."
"No one will love you the way I do."
"You can’t escape us. You can’t escape me."
"I OWN YOU!"
"LUNA, I OWN YOU!"
“LUNA!”
My heart is pounding out of control, but the room starts returning to focus.
The ringing fades, though my breathing is erratic and uneven.
I blink rapidly, grounding myself, and realize we’re no longer on the bed.
Vladimir isn’t above me anymore.
We’re on the floor.
And I have him pinned beneath me, my blade pressed against his throat.
Shit.
"Dracula?" My voice is barely a whisper, trembling with uncertainty.
"Do it, Luna,” he says, voice low and unwavering. "Kill me. Because the next time you hold a knife to my throat, you better be prepared to follow through."
"You’re insane," I snap, the tremor in my voice betraying the storm inside me.
"It’s just me, Lisichka," he says softer this time, his blue eyes steady on mine."Come back to me. I’m not going to hurt you."
I stare down at him, my chest heaving.
"I’m sorry," I choke out, my throat tight and raw.
"It’s okay," he reassures me, his voice unwavering. "You’re okay."
I stumble back like I’ve been burned, the knife still clutched in my trembling hand. My chest rises and falls in uneven bursts.
He smirks as the blood trickles down his neck. And then—he lifts his hand to swipe it with his thumb… and licks it.
I recoil.
"Don’t touch me," I hiss, my voice cracking with fury and fear. "Ever again."
I stand, slipping the blade back into my thigh holster.
I whisper, my voice breaking. “And it’s probably best if I sleep somewhere else tonight."
My feet move toward the door, my mind a swirling mess of panic and regret.
I don’t look back—I can’t.
I’m a coward.
Because if I do, he’ll convince me to stay.
And staying would only make this worse.