I AM THE LUNA QUEEN
went to sleep a nobody. I woke up a Queen.
One night I was just a broke, exhausted college girl. The next, I opened my eyes in silk sheets, with strangers bowing and calling me Luna Queen. The face in the mirror is mine. The body is mine. But the life isn't. The bruises on my wrists tell a story I don't remember, and the King I'm bound to doesn't love me-he loathes me.
They whisper that his mistress rules the palace. They say the Queen was weak. Silent. Broken. But that was before me.
Now I must survive a palace that wants me dead, a King whose touch burns as much as it scars, and a kingdom waiting for me to fail. The old Luna Queen bowed to cruelty.
I am not her.
And if this King thinks I'll kneel, he's about to learn what a true Queen is made of.
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Chapter 6
Hazel's POV
Before I could blink, he pulled me to him.
One second, I was glaring at him; the next, my back hit the bed with a soft thud that sent a tremor through my spine. My gasp filled the silence. The silk sheets were cold against my skin, but his body hovering above me burned like fire.
"What the hell-"
My voice broke off when his hand gripped my chin roughly, forcing me to look at him. His blue eyes were darker-stormy, dangerous, and full of something I couldn't name.
"You've always wanted this," he said through clenched teeth. "And now that I'm giving it to you, you're fighting me?"
My heart pounded so hard it hurt. His words didn't make sense. None of this did.
I opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off, to push him away-but before I could even think, his lips crashed against mine.
The world tilted.
Every rational thought vanished. My mind went blank.
It felt like someone had hit a switch inside me-like my brain stopped working and my body took over. His lips were rough, demanding, desperate. The kiss wasn't gentle; it was war. And somehow, my body responded like it had been waiting for it all along.
No.
No, no, no.
This was insane.
I didn't want this. I didn't even fucking know this man.
But my body... betrayed me.
My hands pressed against his chest, not to push but to feel. My spine arched off the bed, heat crawling up my neck. A sound slipped from my lips-a soft, broken moan that didn't even sound like me.
Oh God.
That didn't come from me.
I wanted to deny it, to bury it somewhere in the back of my mind, but his mouth moved against mine again, stealing the air from my lungs. I could taste him-bitterness and heat-and my thoughts blurred until all that existed was the weight of his body and the rhythm of our uneven breaths.
"Stop," I tried to say, but it came out as another breathless sound.
His hand moved to the side of my face, then lower, tracing the edge of my jaw before sliding down the curve of my neck. My pulse leapt beneath his touch. I hated it-how my body reacted, how it trembled like it recognized him.
He groaned against my mouth, the sound low and rough, like he was fighting something too. His lips trailed down my throat, and my breath caught when his teeth grazed my skin.
No. This wasn't right.
This wasn't my professor. This was the dumb ass King.
The same cruel man who treated his queen like shit.
So why did it feel like every nerve in my body had caught fire?
His breath was hot against my collarbone. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to snap myself out of it, but then his hand moved again-down my arm, down my side, until it found the edge of my robe.
"Don't-" I started, but he didn't listen.
The sound of fabric tearing filled the room.
He ripped the robe off me in one brutal motion and threw it somewhere behind him. Cool air brushed my bare skin, and I gasped, arms instinctively flying up to cover myself.
"Stop!" I said, breathless.
He didn't stop.
His eyes flicked down, dark and hungry, and then he tore at the thin nightgown beneath, shredding it like paper until I was left trembling under his gaze.
He didn't even give me a second to breathe before his mouth was on me again-lower this time. The heat of his lips burned against my skin, and when I felt the rough drag of his tongue on my nipple, my body jolted.
I should have fought. I should have screamed. I should have pushed him off.
But instead, my hands grabbed his shoulders. Not to shove him away-but to hold on.
He groaned again, the sound vibrating against me as his lips found the sensitive spot on my chest. My breath hitched. My mind screamed stop, but my body melted deeper into the bed, every inch of me trembling from the confusion of it all.
"You're so wet for me," he growled against my skin, his voice low, primal.
My eyes flew open.
I shook my head, denial crashing through me. "No," I whispered, but the word was weak, shaky, a lie my body refused to believe.
Then he kissed me again, harder this time, swallowing the sound that escaped me. The world spun. I didn't know what was happening anymore-where I ended and he began.
My heart was pounding out of control. I could feel every beat in my throat, in my chest, between my legs.
When had I lost control?
His hand slid down, fingers brushing places that made my whole body tense and shiver at once. A choked sound left my lips-half protest, half something else entirely.
He lifted his head, eyes locking onto mine, dark and unreadable. For a moment, I thought I saw something there-pain? Desire? Anger? I couldn't tell.
Then his mouth was back on mine, urgent, consuming.
Somewhere in the haze, I realized his body pressed closer, harder. I felt the roughness of him against my skin-and then something else.
Something hot. Heavy. Hard.
My breath caught. My eyes flew open.
When the hell did he take his pants off?
His hips pressed forward slightly, and I felt it-him-rub against my stomach, sending a shiver straight through me. My pulse roared in my ears, a warning, a plea, a thousand thoughts tangled together.
No. This couldn't be happening.
I wanted to scream, to run, to disappear-but I couldn't move.
Then I felt him shift, his hand sliding down, guiding himself lower, until I felt the hard length of him brush between my legs.
And in that instant-everything stopped.
My breath. My heartbeat. The world itself.
I froze.
And before I could stop myself, my hand landed on his face with a hard slap.
"You fucking bastard!"
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7.3
I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.
It was Clayton.
The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister's engagement party.
"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.
Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.
"Ivy? You're... we buried you."
They hadn't buried me.
They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.
Clayton's shock quickly turned to that familiar, arrogant anger.
He accused me of faking my death for attention.
He told me I was sick for putting the family through such pain.
He even reached out to grab my arm, intending to drag me back to my father to apologize.
"You're coming with me," he spat. "You owe us an explanation."
But he made a fatal mistake.
He thought he was talking to Ivy Dillard, the soft girl who cried when she skinned her knees.
He didn't notice the town car waiting at the curb, or the man stepping out of it.
Before Clayton's fingers could graze my coat, a hand made of steel caught his wrist.
Collin Richardson, the most feared Capo in Chicago, stepped between us.
"Touch my wife again," Collin whispered, his voice promising violence. "And you lose the hand."
I smiled at the terror draining the color from Clayton's face.
I didn't come back from the dead to explain myself.
I came back to bury them.
7.5
I was the adopted daughter of the wealthy Ruiz family, but the moment their true heir appeared, I was thrown away like trash.
Not long after being kicked out, my adoptive father and uncle hired a hitman to stage a fatal car crash on Mulholland Drive.
Pinned under an overturned Porsche with a shattered leg, I watched the hitman point a suppressed pistol between my eyes.
"The Ruiz family sends their regards."
Before this, my reputation had already been completely destroyed by a director, a pop idol, and a reality TV star, leaving me blacklisted and universally hated.
My adoptive family didn't just want me ruined; they wanted me permanently silenced to tie up loose ends.
The hitman pulled the trigger, and the original Alicia died in despair, tasting only rain and blood.
Until her last breath, she didn't understand.
Why did the family she loved treat her like a disposable object? Why did those three men maliciously frame her and turn the world against her?
Opening my eyes again, the fear was gone, replaced by an ancient, cosmic indifference.
I, the Arbiter, had taken over this deceased vessel.
Moving faster than the human eye, I crushed the hitman's steel gun with my bare hand and turned his soul into dust.
Looking at the memories of those who wronged this girl, I signed a contract for the very reality show they were starring in.
Since I borrowed this body, taking out the trash is a required courtesy.
8.2
At my ten-week ultrasound, I was supposed to be celebrating the future of the Falcone family. I was Isabella Falcone, wife to the most powerful Don in the south.
But when the nurse called my name, the man who stood up beside his pregnant mistress was my husband.
In the sterile silence of that waiting room, he chose her. He later confessed he was being blackmailed by her family-a weakness that was a death sentence in our world. That night, he moved his mistress into our home, into my bedroom, and locked me away like a prisoner in the staff quarters. He wasn't imprisoning his wife; he was guarding an asset. He needed the legitimate heir I carried to save his crumbling empire.
His betrayal was absolute when his own mother and my adoptive parents arrived while he was away. They forced me to sign divorce papers, then told me they were taking me to a clinic. His mother pulled out a gun and pointed not at my head, but at my stomach.
"We're terminating this complication," she said coldly.
As they dragged me from the house, my world went dark. But through the haze, I saw a fleet of black cars blocking the gate. An army of men poured out, led by a face I had only ever seen in a photograph. Days earlier, locked in my room, I made a single phone call to the only man more powerful than my husband: my biological father, the head of the Chicago Outfit. And he had come to collect his daughter.
8.5
"You are getting married, huh?" A shrill voice asked me from behind. "You don't look happy.'
"It's a complicated situati..." He cut me off.
"I can make you happy."
My eyes darted between his lips and eyes, he noticed my indecision and locked his lips with mine.
While battling with betrayal, Iris melts into a mafia's touch without knowing who he is. Now she must bear all the consequences that follow.
7.4
I was only fifteen when my venomous family orchestrated my doom by forcing me into an arranged marriage with mafia heir Javier Velasquez.
On our wedding night, Javier paraded strippers into our suite to show his absolute contempt, turning me into the ultimate joke of the underworld overnight.
But being a joke was a luxury compared to what came next.
Three years later, Javier needed to be a widower to marry into a heavily armed family and secure their backing for a coup.
He didn't grant me the mercy of a bullet.
Instead, he dragged me to an abandoned underground safehouse, locked me in the damp, rotting dark, and told the world I had been assassinated.
For six months, I starved in that dungeon, surviving only on the desperate hope that my family was safe.
Then, on the day of his lavish new wedding, a cruel maid kicked a plate of spoiled food onto my floor and delivered the final, fatal blow.
"Annabel is dead. Pined away and died of a broken heart two weeks ago."
My gentle mother was dead, all because she actually believed his lie about my tragic murder.
Driven by pure agony and an all-consuming hatred, I shattered crates of smuggled chemical solvents and struck a match, letting the roaring inferno turn their bloody wedding into my funeral pyre.
I thought the fire was the end.
But when I opened my eyes, the suffocating smoke vanished, replaced by the biting chill of a Long Island winter.
I was standing in the snow, back on the exact day my descent into hell began.
This time, the terrified girl was dead, and I would use their own ruthless rules to tear their empire apart.
9.8
Three women, three brothers, a single, crumpled dollar bill.
Alina's world shatters the moment she's auctioned off-and claimed by the powerful Hawthorne brothers.
Thrown into Adrian Hawthorne's cold, dangerous world, she becomes his to control... his to protect... and, terrifyingly, his to desire. He's ruthless, possessive, and hiding secrets that could destroy them both. But the deeper she falls into his world, the harder it becomes to tell if she's his prisoner-or something far more dangerous.
Because the Hawthorne brothers don't just take.
They keep.
Viviane has spent her life surviving, so when Julian Hawthorne "buys" her freedom, she knows better than to trust it. Men like him don't save people-they collect them. But Julian isn't as simple as he pretends to be, and the deeper she's pulled into his world, the more dangerous it becomes to walk away.
Especially when she realizes she might be the only thing he's ever been willing to fight for.
Lena doesn't belong to anyone-and she intends to keep it that way. Brilliant, guarded, and hiding more than anyone suspects, she enters Lucien Hawthorne's world on her own terms. But Lucien doesn't play fair, and he doesn't let go.
When her past comes crashing back, Lena is forced to face the one thing she's been running from: trusting someone who could destroy her... or save her.
Three women. Three choices.Stay. Fight.
Or burn it all down.
Because being sold was only the beginning.