24. Luna
Luna
Whoever said healing isn’t linear deserves a fucking Nobel Prize for stating the obvious.
Because no shit, right?
One day, you feel like you’re standing strong, like you’ve conquered your demons and locked them in a vault where they can never touch you again.
And the next?
It feels like the walls are closing in, suffocating you, crushing you under the weight of memories you thought you buried.
You don’t know if you want to break down and eat an entire container of Ben & Jerry’s, or if you’re so mad at the world that you want to ride around and burn everything to the ground like Harley Quinn.
Some days, you feel in control. Powerful, even.
Other days, you feel like a shell. A ghost in your own skin. Barely able to breathe.
The first year after Isabella decided to train me as an assassin was probably the most intense year of my life.
I was a hurricane.
A storm of rage and grief and violence that had no direction, no anchor.
I lashed out constantly—at my trainers, at my teammates, at anyone who dared to look at me like I was broken.
I rejected any type of intimacy.
Any touch repulsed me.
A hand on my shoulder? I’d flinch.
A comforting hug? I’d recoil.
I was twenty-three years old, and so full of anger that I was sure Isabella would deem me a lost cause.
I was so lost myself that I was convinced she had made a mistake saving me that day.
But she didn’t give up on me.
She got Nova trained as a service animal and told me, “Not all disabilities are visible.”
She trained me not just to kill—but to reclaim my power.
To carve out my own justice in a world that had stolen so much from me.
I got so damn good at combat, at strategy, at making my enemies suffer, that I even earned a name.
Nephthys.
Goddess of Death.
A name whispered in fear.
A name that made grown men flinch.
But now?
Now, I don’t need to be her.
I need to be Luna Imala-Petrov.
Which is easier said than done.
I might have been ignoring Vladimir for the past two days.
It’s not intentional… I think?
The first day after the incident, I was so busy getting everything ready for this honeymoon that I didn’t want to process what happened.
It was easier to shove it down and pretend it wasn’t there.
I even stayed in the guest room again, and I’m honestly glad I did because that night, I had a nightmare.
I woke up this morning drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the darkness was closing in on me.
Amani and Raven know not to wake me when I’m having one of those.
But I didn’t tell Vladimir.
He probably already thinks I’m defective, so what would I even say?
The scars—two diagonal lines—on my left wrist serve as a constant reminder of that defectiveness every day.
I’m not ashamed of what I tried to attempt that day, but sometimes, the scars on my wrist can be mocking.
Even all these years later, after everything I’ve been through, I still have triggers that can send me spiraling.
I don’t know if they’ll ever go away, but I’ve learned to live with them.
Most of the time.
I haven’t been in a serious relationship since my divorce.
Not even close.
At first, I was too focused on my therapy sessions, on getting stronger, on my training for the EAO.
That became my priority.
As time passed, relationships became an afterthought—pushed to the back burner without a second glance.
I didn’t have room for them.
And honestly?
I didn’t want them.
I didn’t know how to share myself with someone on that level again—to let someone in, to trust them the way a partner should.
I still don’t.
Hookups? Easy.
One-night stands? I was gone before they even had time to close their eyes.
At this point, I was no better than a man.
Because of vulnerability?
Real, raw intimacy?
Scares the shit out of me.
How do you show someone they matter without the weight of everything else you carry dragging them down with you?
How do you let them in—truly in—without scaring them away?
Because Vladimir Petrov?
He’s already in.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
Did he blackmail me and my entire organization?
Yes.
Twenty-three-year-old me would have killed him and dealt with the consequences.
But twenty-eight-year-old me is trying to tame that rage and try to live for the now.
Look at me. My therapist would call that growth.
The man literally flew Nova in for me.
That’s… something.
But then there’s that part of me—the part that’s breaking down, cracking open, reminding me that I have to put myself out there eventually.
And if I’m going to do it for anyone…
Why not do it for my husband?
Because I have a feeling the word “divorce” isn’t in Vladimir’s vocabulary.
I haven’t seen Vladimir since he walked away earlier. He’s probably busy doing Pakhan things, so I’ll disturb him later.
But for now, I’ll just enjoy this fantastic villa.
Honestly, I have to give it to him. Vladimir picked an incredible place for our honeymoon. I know I told him I wanted somewhere tropical, but him choosing one of my top bucket-list destinations has me swooning more than I thought possible.
The villa is tucked away on a private slice of Bali’s coastline, surrounded by a lush canopy of emerald-green palm trees swaying in the warm breeze.
The house itself is a modern architectural masterpiece—clean, minimalist lines with expansive glass walls that reflect the surrounding greenery and the sparkling blue ocean.
Out back, the infinity pool looks like it spills directly into the sea.
The sound of the waves crashing against the shore and the soft rustle of leaves in the wind is a symphony of peace I didn’t know I needed.
Even Nova seems to be thriving here, digging holes in the sand and darting back and forth like a puppy, her joy infectious. At one point, she found a stick twice her size and started swinging it around like a weapon. I had to chase her down before she injured herself—or, more importantly, me.
Now, she’s sprawled out on the chair beside mine under a big beach umbrella, her tongue hanging out as she pants happily. Meanwhile, I’m perched on the edge of my chair, my toes buried in the warm, golden sand.
And as much as I’m pretending to relax, I know I need to talk to Vladimir.
I take a slow breath, trying to steady the storm raging inside me.
Maybe it’s time to stop running.
I don’t hear him approach, but I feel it—the shift in the air, the weight of his presence behind me. My body instinctively reacts to him, like he’s some primal force pulling me into his orbit.
A slow smile spreads across my lips as I keep my eyes fixed on the waves.
"Every time I think I’m getting closer to figuring you out, Luna, you knock me back two places," he says, his deep voice carrying an edge of amusement.
"And for someone your size, you’re surprisingly light on your feet, Dracula," I tease, still not turning around.
I feel him move closer, his fingers brushing lightly down my spine, tracing the tattoo etched there. The sensation sends shivers through me, and I fight the urge to melt into his touch.
“I take it that Amani and Raven have the same one tattooed on them?” he asks, his voice softer now, filled with curiosity.
The logical part of me should be worried about how he knows that information. But the way his fingers glide over the red ink outlining my tattoo makes my mind draw a blank.
He moves to stand before me, his fingers never leaving my skin. When our eyes meet, there’s hunger in his gaze, a fire that makes my breath hitch.
I watch as his gaze drops, taking in my wardrobe—or lack thereof. I changed into a tiny dark green thong bikini the first chance I got. The color complements my naturally tan complexion perfectly, hugging every curve. I saw no reason to cover up with no one around except us.
The top barely does its job of covering me, and I know the cool breeze has made it impossible for him to ignore my piercings pressing against the damp fabric.
His gaze lingers on my sternum tattoo—Nephthys, the Egyptian Goddess of Death and Protection, her wings spreading elegantly beneath my breasts.
Then it drifts to the Latin phrase inked across my hip: Invictus Maneo—“I remain unvanquished.”
Finally, his eyes land on the script along my ribcage: “Only in the dark can you begin to see the light.”
His attention flickers to my nose ring and belly button piercing, and I can tell he likes them because his eyes keep drifting back.
"You’re a work of art, my wife," he says, his tone reverent, almost like a prayer.
"You really must love that word, husband," I shoot back, unable to help the smirk tugging at my lips.
His eyes ignite with something primal when I call him that. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, and his fists clench momentarily at his sides.
I let my gaze trail over him, taking in the rare sight of Vladimir Petrov out of his usual suit.
Don’t get me wrong—Vlad in an all-black suit is enough to make my pussy quiver.
But seeing him in nothing but black swim shorts and a white T-shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin? That’s a close second.
He’s even styled his dark hair in a half-up, half-down look, and all I can think about is wrapping those strands around my fingers and using them like a leash.
My husband is the living definition of a wet dream.
"You must like what you see, printsessa, because your mouth is open," he says with a cocky smirk.
Damn it. I snap my jaw shut and glare at him. "You’re insufferable, you know that?"
"And yet, you can’t take your eyes off me."
I roll my eyes but can’t help the laugh that escapes. Before I can come up with a witty comeback, Nova stirs beside me and lets out a happy bark, her tail wagging furiously.
"The guards told me she growled at them earlier when she got dropped off. I thought service dogs were supposed to be sweet and helpful," Vladimir remarks, one brow arched, his smirk teasing and dangerous.
I laugh, leaning back in my chair. "She is … to women. Grown men, though? Not so much. My brother’s the exception, and even he gets the side-eye from her."
He crouches down to pet Nova and my heart stutters. I open my mouth to warn him because the last time a man tried to touch her, she nearly tore his arm off.
"I wouldn’t?—"
Before I can finish, his fingers find the sweet spot behind her ears.
And the damn dog smiles at him.
She smiles at him!
Nova, who growls at every man who isn’t my brother, is practically swooning under his touch like he’s some dog whisperer sent by the Gods.
Me too, girl. Me too.
"She seems to like me just fine," Vladimir says, his tone laced with that infuriating confidence that only makes him hotter.
I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to let him win this one. "Don’t let it go to your head. She’s probably just biding her time before she bites you."
"Is that so?" He tilts his head, his smirk growing. "I’ll take my chances. After all, it seems to run in the family."
I gape at him, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Did you just call me a biter?"
"Am I wrong?" His gaze drops to my mouth, his tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip like he’s daring me to prove him right.
Bastard.
And the worst part?
He’s not wrong.
I snap my mouth shut, unable to think of a witty comeback because the way he’s looking at me has my brain short-circuiting. Instead, I turn back to the water, trying to act unaffected even though my body is betraying me with every passing second.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move closer, settling on the edge of Nova’s chair. His presence is magnetic, the weight of his stare pulling me in even as I pretend not to notice.
"Is there something I can help you with, Vladimir?" I ask, my voice sharper than intended, trying to cover that my pulse is racing.
"I’m just admiring the view," he replies, his voice low and deliberate.
I turn to face him, ready to deliver some smart-ass remark, but the intensity in his eyes stops me cold. He’s not just looking at me—he’s devouring me with his gaze, his pupils dark and wide like a predator who’s just cornered his prey.
My throat goes dry as he reaches for my wrist, his fingers brushing over the faint scar. Slowly, he lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss so soft, so achingly tender, it feels like he’s branding me.
"Have dinner with me, Luna," he murmurs, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against the sensitive skin of my wrist.
"What?" My voice is barely a whisper, my brain too fogged to process his words.
"Have dinner with me."
"Are you asking or telling me, Vladimir?"
"You’re acting like you have a choice," he replies, his smirk turning downright sinful.
And there it is—the Bratva Pakhan I married—cocky, commanding, and maddening. I should be furious at his audacity, but all I can focus on is the heat radiating off him, the way his thumb is still stroking my wrist like he knows exactly what it’s doing to me.
I arch a brow, trying to salvage some semblance of control. "You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight."
His laugh is deep and low, the sound vibrating straight through me. "Generous, hmm? Is that what we’re calling it now?"
"You don’t know me well enough yet to call it anything else," I counter, leaning in just enough to challenge him.
His eyes darken, his gaze dropping to my lips before sliding back up to meet mine.
"Oh, Lisichka, I know you better than you think."
My breath catches at the way he says it, like a promise and a threat all at once.
"Seven o’clock," he murmurs.
"It’s a date," I manage to say, my voice barely steady.
"Yes, Lisichka, it’s a date," he replies, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to my forehead. When he pulls back, his lips curve into a wicked smile. "And, Luna?"
"Yes?"
"Don’t keep me waiting."
Oh, I’m definitely keeping him waiting.
And then he turns and walks away, giving me a perfect view of his broad shoulders and that firm ass.
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to call him back because I might just have to sink my teeth into that later.
I wonder if he’s into that sort of thing?