His Banished Luna

Alexander Moretti

EMMALINE

The drive to the venue feels like a death march.

The SUV moves smoothly through the city streets, the soft hum of the engine—the only sound in the suffocating silence. My fingers rest stiffly in my lap, nails biting into my skin. My pulse thrums beneath the surface, a steady, anxious beat.

Outside, the world continues as if nothing’s wrong. Strangers walk along the sidewalks, laughter spilling from open shop doors, the gentle glow of the early morning sun painting the roads in gold. None of them know what awaits me. None of them would care.

I stare straight ahead.

The city fades behind us, and the car slows down, finally coming to a halt in front of a grand stone chapel. I don’t know where we are, but the place feels old. Cold. Like it’s soaked in sorrow. Like it knows the tragedy that’s about to befall me.

Marco, who’s sitting beside me, turns his head, his cold eyes boring into mine. “Every Mancini has been married in this very place for the last century,” he says in a low rumble. “Make sure you follow all the instructions you’re given. The sooner you learn to give Dante what he wants, the easier your life will be. Got it?”

The blood drains from my face. I stare at him but can’t form any words. Not even a nod.

The driver steps out and slams the door shut behind him, the sound echoing like thunder. Marco keeps his stare locked on my face. “Let’s go.” He opens the door and holds out his hand for me to take.

I don’t move. My muscles are frozen. It’s like I’m glued to the seat.

“Do I have to walk down the aisle alone?” My voice is weak, barely a whisper. “I’ve never met the man before…”

He looks me up and down, and for a second, I think I see pity flicker across his face. But it vanishes before I can fully comprehend it. “Just find a way to get through this,” he says. “It’s just a day.”

But the thing is, this isn’t just a day. It’s my whole life.

I force myself to get out of the car, my heels shaky on the cobblestone as I walk slowly up the stone steps, one hand gripping the iron railing for balance.

The big wooden doors creak open, and before I can process a thing, a monstrous bouquet of blood-red roses is shoved in my face.

I step inside.

The hall is massive. Too many faces. Every seat is filled. People stand along the walls, whispering, watching. It’s like they came to witness a public execution and not a wedding. I clutch the bouquet tighter and glance toward the altar.

There he is.

Dante Mancini.

The man I’m supposed to marry today.

He’s not much taller than me. His face is rough, with a scar cutting across his upper lip. The buttons on his black tuxedo strain around his belly. He looks like he hasn’t smiled in years—and maybe he hasn’t.

He glares at me like I’m already disappointing him.

My whole body freezes. His eyes are like knives, sharp and cruel, and they slice right through me. I can’t move. My feet stay rooted to the ground.

A woman standing beside him gestures sharply. She wants me to walk. To get on with it.

I force a step forward.

One step.

Then another.

Dante’s frown deepens the closer I get. He doesn’t look happy.

Well, that makes two of us.

I stare at the marble beneath my feet, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. My heart is pounding so aggressively against my chest it hurts. Every step brings me closer to the man who’s about to own me.

Forever.

Someone clears their throat, loud and sharp.

Dante.

His eyes flash with anger. I’m still not close enough. Not moving fast enough.

I swallow hard and take another short step.

That’s when it happens.

The air changes as the big doors creak open once more.

A chill sweeps through the room, sharp and sudden, sending a shiver down my spine.

Something is wrong.

Or maybe… someone.

I feel him before I see him.

My wolf does too. She stirs beneath my skin, restless, alert. A foreign feeling spreads through me. Something deep. Something primal.

My hands tremble.

And then I catch it.

It’s not unfamiliar. Dark and rich, layered with the crispness of the winter air and something deeper, more elusive. Something that makes my stomach tighten and my lungs seize.

I don’t turn. I don’t have to.

I know.

Footsteps echo against the marble. Slow. Deliberate.

A predator closing in on his prey.

The guests part like waves, clearing a path without being told. Their backs straighten. Their gazes lower. Some barely breathe.

He doesn’t demand power.

He is power.

The scent grows stronger, curling around me, slipping beneath my skin. My wolf presses against the surface, her instincts clawing at me.

Mate.

No. No. No.

That isn’t possible.

My fingers dig into my palms. My breathing turns shallow.

I’ll not turn around.

I’ll not meet him.

I’ll not—

A shadow looms beside me.

I feel the heat of his body despite the chill surrounding him.

“Emmaline.”

My name slides from his lips, deep and quiet, yet it cuts through the silence like a blade.

My body betrays me.

I turn.

And I see him.

Alexander Moretti.

The man I swore to kill the next time I set my eyes on him.

The man who ruined everything.

The man who murdered my parents five years ago.

The first man I ever loved.

My mate.

He is taller than I remember, towering over me, his frame broad and unforgiving. His suit is pitch black, tailored to perfection, emphasizing the sharp lines of his body.

But it’s his face that steals the breath from my lungs.

He is beautiful in the way only monsters are.

His hair is long and dark, slicked back from his face, revealing the sharp edges of his beauty. He looks like a king from an old legend, forgotten by time, feared by all.

His features are carved from stone, harsh and unyielding. A chiseled jawline, sharp enough to cut. High cheekbones. A straight, patrician nose.

And his eyes—

Goddess, his eyes.

A shade of blue so dark they nearly appear black, endless and depthless, swallowing all light.

They are empty. Void of warmth.

Yet they burn with something manic. Something caged and dangerous.

But they don’t flicker with softness. They don’t show regret. They don’t even pretend to care.

They drink me in, taking their time, slow and deliberate.

But they give away nothing.

And then, without warning, he moves—

Fast.

So fast I can’t react.

His arm wraps around me, yanking me against his chest. I’m facing forward, his body pressed against my back.

My bouquet falls to the ground.

Gasps ripple through the chapel.

A slow chill spreads through my veins.

And for the first time, true terror grips me.

I can’t move. Hell, I can’t think.

He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts over my neck.

My breath catches. My body betrays me again, heat kicking up my spine.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate—

I don’t complete the thought as he lets out a low growl.

“Mine.”

And then—

Pain.

Sharp. Hot. Burning.

His canines sink into my neck.

And everything changes as he claims me as his.