28. Luna
Luna
You know that feeling when you’re tipsy at a party, head spinning just enough to convince yourself you’re still fine—until you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror and realize, oh no, you’re way drunker than you thought?
Yeah.
That’s me.
Except I’m not drunk off liquor.
I’m drunk off Vladimir.
So much so that I completely zone out while on FaceTime with my best friends and my sister—blinking at the screen like I’ve just been yanked back to Earth from orbit.
“I know that look!” Angel exclaims, pointing at her camera like she’s solving a murder case. “Guys—she’s gone. Full-on whipped.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Amani adds, casually tossing popcorn into her mouth like she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life. “That’s the face of a woman who’s been thoroughly and repeatedly wrecked.”
“Luna.” Raven leans in, her voice low and menacing in the way only Raven can make an interrogation feel like a spa treatment. “We need details. Every. Single. One.”
“Yeah,” Angel jumps back in, crossing her arms like she’s personally offended. “You ghosted us for two weeks. Two. Weeks. All we got were some boring-ass photos of sunsets and breakfast trays. No updates, no tea, no nothing.”
I blink, still dazed and grinning like an idiot, as their judgmental little faces line up across my screen.
I sigh, rubbing my temples. “First of all, I was on my honeymoon, not hosting a live sex podcast.”
“Girl, we’re your emotional support girlfriends,” Amani says flatly. “This is what we’re for.”
Raven nods. “Exactly. We deserve to live vicariously.”
I flop back against the pillows with a dramatic groan. “Okay, fine. What do you want to know?”
Amani’s face lights up like a damn firework. “Did he fuck you in the ocean?”
I tilt my head, pretending to consider. “Define in the ocean.”
Angel lets out an exaggerated gag. “You’re disgusting.”
“Oh, please,” Amani scoffs. “Don’t act like your halo isn’t propped up with devil horns.”
“She’s not wrong,” Raven mutters, smirking.
“And just so you know,” Raven adds, “your mom called me last week asking if Vladimir’s the reason you haven’t been answering. She said—and I quote—‘If he knocked her up, I will kill him, but I will wait until after the baby shower.’”
I scream into a pillow. “Can you all be normal for five seconds?!”
“Nope,” they say in perfect, chaotic unison.
I roll my eyes so hard I might sprain something—but the grin pulling at my lips won’t go away.
God, I missed them.
Even if they’re completely insane.
We flew back this morning, and I can now proudly—and smugly—say I am a full-fledged member of the Mile High Club.
Twice.
Vladimir dropped me off at the house before heading out to check in on Dimitri—because someone had to make sure his idiot brother hadn’t burned down the entire Bratva in his absence.
But that didn’t stop us from squeezing in a quickie before he left, right up against the front door. No shame. My husband has zero self-control when it comes to me.
And as much as that should probably concern me—like, sincerely—I can’t deny how it makes my heart twist in my chest.
Because it’s not just about the sex.
Even though the sex is a perk. A very big perk.
It’s the way he looks at me. The way he touches me. Like I’m something precious. Sacred.
He wants me.
Desires me.
Not just for my body but for me.
That realization hit harder than I expected.
Because for so long, I thought I was only worth what I could survive and take. How much pain I could hold without breaking. I thought my value was measured in sacrifice, not softness.
But Vladimir?
He sees all of me—the rage, the scars, the shadowed history—and he still chooses me. No expectations. No conditions. Just... me.
That’s why, before we left Bali, I told him everything.
I told him about the incident. About my past. About the night Isabella found me.
I told him about the moment I decided to die.
And not once did he flinch. Not once did he look at me differently. He didn’t rush to fix it, didn’t throw out shallow reassurances.
He just listened.
He absorbed every word. Every unspoken ache. Every shattered piece I never thought anyone would be willing—let alone strong enough—to hold.
And somehow, for the first time in my life, I felt light.
Like I’d been dragging chains I didn’t even know were there. And he helped me let them go—link by link, without ever asking me to.
Afterward, he gave me my second surprise.
The deed to the villa we were staying in. He said it was his wedding present to me. No big speech. No dramatic gesture. Just… mine.
And then, of course, we fucked like rabbits all over again.
Because healing is a process.
And apparently, mine includes orgasms on every square inch of a luxury villa.
Not a single surface of that villa was safe. The marble counters? Claimed. The shower? Thoroughly desecrated. The balcony? Witnessed things no balcony ever should.
On our last night, he surprised me with another candle-lit dinner—beachside, of course—and this time, we actually made it to dessert without getting distracted by each other’s faces. Barely.
Afterward, we walked along the shoreline. The moon hanging low, the stars bold, the waves whispering secrets against the sand.
And in that perfect, impossibly cinematic moment, Vladimir pulled me close and told me he’d never let me go.
That he’d destroy the world before he let it touch me again.
And the terrifying part?
I believe him.
"Hello? Earth to Luna?"
Angel’s voice slices through my daydream, snapping me back to reality. I blink, realizing I’d completely spaced out mid-FaceTime like a starry-eyed idiot.
"Did you just dissociate?" Raven asks brow arched with suspicion. "Was the sex that good, or are you just having a full-blown main character moment?"
I scoff. “The sex was more than good.”
Amani claps like she’s been waiting for this. "Okay, but let’s get to the important part—how many times a day are we talking?"
I narrow my eyes at her. "You want the honest answer or the PG version that won’t mentally scar you for life?"
"Honest answer," all three say in unison, like the sex-starved gremlins they are.
I sigh dramatically. "Let’s just say there were entire days I had to go commando and live in flowy dresses because my poor, overworked pussy was begging for a break. I’m talking tapping out, throwing in the towel, waving a tiny white flag."
Angel visibly cringes. "Jesus Christ."
Amani and Raven? They howl with laughter.
"My man’s got stamina!" Amani cheers, raising a glass of wine like we’re toasting to my destruction.
"Are you okay, though?" Raven wheezes between giggles. "Do you need an ice pack? A donut pillow? Maybe a physical therapist?"
I flip them off, but I’m laughing too, the kind that starts in your chest and bubbles up, uncontrollable and healing.
"I hate you all," I mutter, grinning despite myself.
"No, you don’t," Amani says sweetly.
And she’s right.
God help me, I really, really don’t.