The Vampire's Luna
Chapter 118: Alanis Morissette - You Oughta Know

Chapter 118: Alanis Morissette - You Oughta Know

Seliora snapped her gaze toward her, eyes glowing a dangerous crimson. "What did you just say?"

Natasha swallowed. "They... they’ve been constantly intimate, my lady. Since the prince arrived. Every night. Sometimes during the day. Often multiple ti—"

"Enough!" Seliora barked. Her nostrils flared, her fangs threatening to emerge.

Natasha took a quick step back. "I only repeat what I was told—" f(r)eew(e)bnovel.(c)o(m)

"Go!" Seliora shouted. "Tell the prince I need to see him. I will be at the princess’s building in a few minutes. Go! Now!"

Natasha bolted.

Left alone, Seliora took a deep, trembling breath and stood. Her body was stiff, her pride shattered, but her hatred had never burned brighter. She wasn’t just going to sit and cry while a werewolf wore the crown. If Luna thought she had won, she was in for a vicious surprise.

"Let’s see who really belongs by his side," she muttered.

*****

Natasha arrived at Luna’s private residence. She swallowed hard before clearing her throat and approaching the two guards stationed at the massive doors.

"I—uh—Lady Seliora sent me. She wishes to see the prince. It’s urgent," Natasha announced, trying not to fidget.

The guards exchanged a long-suffering look. One of them gave a nod and disappeared into the building.

A few minutes later, the door opened, and out stepped Damien, barefoot, wearing only a plain black T-shirt and soft gray shorts. His hair was still tousled and his eyes were the lazy red hue of someone deeply satisfied and well-loved.

"Is everything alright?" Damien asked. He was already bracing himself.

"Yes, Your Highness. Lady Seliora wishes to see you. She’s on her way here," Natasha said.

Damien sighed out of exhaustion. "Right," he said, more to himself than to her.

He offered a polite nod and stepped outside, standing beneath the columned terrace just as Natasha turned and scurried away, no doubt hoping to be far from the crossfire.

Moments later, Luna joined him, her hair still damp from a bath, cheeks pink from the heat, and wearing one of his oversized shirts that barely covered her thighs.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, concern written between her brows as she approached and slid her hand into his.

"We’re about to find out," Damien muttered, pulling her close and pressing a soft kiss to her hair.

Luna’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Do I sense a royal concubine approaching?"

He gave her a look. "Behave when she gets here."

Luna scoffed and pulled back just enough to glare at him. "Why am I the one receiving the warning? She’s the one always making snide remarks.’"

"For me...please," Damien begged, flashing her a boyish grin that was distracting.

"Fine!" she huffed, arms crossed dramatically. "But I’ll make you pay."

"I look forward to paying," he replied smoothly, then caught her chin and kissed her—soft at first, then deeper, ignoring the two guards who were now staring.

"Your Highness," Seliora said with a graceful bow as she arrived.

Damien straightened instinctively, his hand still firmly resting on Luna’s waist as if silently staking his claim. His thumb lightly brushed against the curve of her hip.

"Seliora," he acknowledged coolly, his gaze fixed on her with suspicion. "What is so urgent?"

Seliora opened her mouth to say the thing she had rehearsed: that they needed to try again, that she was ready to do whatever it took to bear him a trueblood heir, that the legacy of the crown depended on it. But then her eyes slid to Luna—radiant and smug in one of Damien’s shirts, her arm hooked around the prince.

Seliora’s composure cracked just a little.

Without thinking, without blinking, without breathing:

"I’m pregnant, Your Highness. There is to be a true blood heir."

Luna’s eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly flew off her face.

Damien stood frozen, as if someone had hit the pause button on his thoughts. A baby? Now? He had completely forgotten about his earlier attempts at producing an heir with Seliora. Those sleepless nights, the diplomatic pressure, the failed tries—it had all slipped into the background the moment Luna let down her walls. She’d taken up every corner of his thoughts, every flicker of desire, every drop of hope.

And now this.

"Your Highness?" Seliora prompted sweetly, stepping closer.

"Yeah... yes. I’m glad. It’s finally happening," Damien stuttered, the words tumbling out of his mouth. He didn’t know if he was supposed to smile, or scream into the void. Part of him wanted to believe this was good news—an heir meant the council would get off his back, Gabriel would have one less reason to seize the throne.

But the other part—the part wrapped around Luna, the part that had asked her to marry him was screaming in panic. fr\eewe.bn(o)v\el.c(o)m

He glanced at Luna. Her face was unreadable. Blank, smooth, serene... terrifyingly calm.

Damien turned back to Seliora. "I... I will make the announcement. I’m sure the people will be glad."

"Yes," Seliora said, curtseying ever so slightly. "They will rejoice, I’m certain."

She turned on her heel and walked off, hips swaying with all the triumph she could muster before the lie crumbled around her. fr\eewebno vel .c(o)m

Luna stepped away from Damien, her limbs stiff, her heart aching with territorial rage. She didn’t know what she felt more: pain at the thought of Damien having a child with someone else or guilt that a part of her wanted to rip Seliora’s perfectly arched eyebrows off her face.

She kept her face neutral and turned her back. Without a word, she walked away, head held high, shoulders trembling only slightly, and disappeared into the building.

Damien stood frozen in place. It felt like Luna had ripped her heart out of her chest and then gifted it to him—only for Seliora to show up in a ball gown and stomp it with six-inch heels.

He contemplated hanging himself with the royal curtain tassels or sprinting after Luna while begging for forgiveness, even if he had no idea what he was apologizing for yet.

*****

"Lord Gabriel!" a raspy voice called as approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor of a forgotten chamber cloaked in shadows.