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 7
Hazel's POV
My palm stung from the slap, but the sound of it cracking across his face was the most satisfying thing I'd felt all day since waking up in this life.
His head snapped to the side. For one perfect second, the mighty King looked stunned-like he honestly couldn't believe someone had dared.
Then his expression twisted-rage, confusion, something dark-and he lunged again.
Absolutely not.
Before he could even blink, my knee shot up with perfect, furious accuracy.
My foot connected with his balls.
Hard.
The sound he made-dear God. It was half-gasp, half-death rattle. His entire body folded, and he dropped to the side of the bed like a fallen tree, clutching himself as a deep groan tore out of his throat.
Good.
Serves him right.
I scrambled backward, yanking the thick blanket up to my chin like it was armor. My chest was heaving, heart slamming against my ribs, skin still burning where his mouth had been. I hated that my body was shaking-and not just from anger.
He stayed on the floor for a second, curled on his side, breathing like he was dying. When he finally pushed himself up on one elbow, his face was white, eyes murderous.
I glared down at him. "Who the hell told you you have the right to touch me?" My voice cracked, but I didn't care. "You think you can just take whatever you want because you're the king?"
He dragged in a rough breath, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth would shatter. When he spoke, it came out low and dangerous.
"You're my wife, Hazel."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. The sound burst out of me, sharp and bitter and a little crazy.
"Your wife?" I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand like I could erase him. "The wife you refused to touch for three damn years? The wife you let your mistress humiliate? That wife?"
I sat up straighter, clutching the blanket tighter. "And now-now-you suddenly decide you want inside my legs, and I'm supposed to just open them like a good little queen? You're even dumber than I thought."
He pushed to his feet slowly, like every movement hurt and it damn well should. My eyes betrayed me for half a second-sliding down before I could stop them.
Holy mother of-
He was huge.
Like...ruin-your-life huge. Thick, hard, and still half-ready even after I'd tried to rearrange his insides. The air left my lungs in a whoosh. Heat flooded my face, and lower, and I hated myself for it.
Snap out of it, Hazel.
Focus. You're angry. You're furious. You're putting him in his place.
Not staring at his...royal weapon.
I dragged my gaze back up to his face and poured every ounce of ice I had into my voice.
"Listen carefully, Mr. King," I said, slow and clear. "I don't know what's going on in that thick skull of yours tonight, but you will never touch me again. Ever."
His eyes flashed. He took one step closer, completely naked, completely shameless. "We have a duty. The kingdom expects an heir-"
"Then go make one with your mistress," I snapped, hopping off the bed with the blanket wrapped around me. "I hear she's your favorite. She's dying to give you babies, isn't she?"
His jaw ticked. A muscle jumped in his cheek. "What is wrong with you, Hazel? You've always wanted this. I saw it. Every time I touched Liora, I see the look in your eyes-"
"Oh shut up," I cut in."You're delusional. COMPLETELY delusional. You let your mistress bully your queen, mock her, parade around like she was the real queen. And now-because you suddenly feel bad, or horny, you think I'll just roll over and thank you?"
I laughed again, colder this time. "News flash, Your Majesty. This queen doesn't spread her legs for men who aren't worthy. And what just happened? That little mess you made?" I waved a hand between us. "It will NEVER happen again. Ever."
Something in his eyes shifted-hurt? Rage? Shock? I didn't care.
He grabbed my wrist so fast I didn't have time to jerk away. His grip was iron.
"Everyone expects us to consummate this marriage tonight." He growled. "What am I supposed to tell them tomorrow when there's no blood on the sheets?"
I smiled, slow and mean.
Then I yanked my hand out of his grip.
"Tell them the king wasn't good enough."
His entire body froze.
"... Pardon?"
"You heard me." I shrugged casually, though my heart was pounding with adrenaline. "Tell them you couldn't get it up. Or you finished in ten seconds. Or-my favorite-that you've been sleeping with your mistress so long, you've got performance issues with your actual wife. Who knows? Maybe you might have low sperm count."
He eyes widened in pure horror.
"Have you lost your damn mind?"
I yawned-huge, dramatic, fake as hell. "I've had one hell of a day. Or nightmare. Whatever this is. I'm tired, and I need sleep. So good night, Mr. King."
I turned to climb onto the bed, but his hand shot out and grabbed my arm, spinning me back to face him.
"We are consummating this marriage," he snarled.
I looked down at his hand on my arm, then up at him, sweet as sugar. "You only get what you deserve. And you? You've earned NOTHING from me."
His jaw flexed, muscles ticking.
"If you're that desperate to get laid, go to your mistress. I'm sure she's waiting with her legs already open."
I yanked free, climbed under the blankets, and pulled them up to my chin. He stood there, breathing hard, staring at me like he didn't recognize me.
After a long, furious silence, he turned toward the bed.
I sat up suddenly. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
He threw me a cold look over his shoulder. "Going to bed."
"Hell no." I pointed across the room. "You're sleeping on that couch."
He raised an eyebrow. "This is my room."
I smiled, all teeth. "Then I'll walk downstairs right now-in this blanket-and tell everyone how bad you were. How you couldn't even last long enough to make it interesting. How I got bored."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. His eyes went absolutely arctic.
Without a word, he grabbed a pillow off the bed, stalked to the fancy couch on the far side of the room, and threw himself onto it like it had personally offended him.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
The couch was small compared to his frame. His legs hung off the end, one arm draped over his face, the other clenched into a fist. He looked ridiculously uncomfortable, anger rolling off him in waves I could feel from here.
I couldn't resist.
I let out the most satisfied, over-the-top sigh I could muster, stretched like a cat, and sang, "Good night, Mr. King. Sweet dreams."
The only answer was a low, furious growl from the couch.
I grinned into the dark.
This might not be my life.
But damn, I was having fun ruining his.
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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.