His Banished Luna

A ruse

EMMALINE

The knife trembles in my hand.

Not from fear, at least that’s what I tell myself, but from the rush that comes with having him this close again.

Alexander doesn’t move. Not a flinch, not a breath out of place. The blade presses against his throat, just enough to draw a thin line of red. His pulse beats steadily against the steel, calm, unbothered.

He watches me, really watches me, like he can see straight through the anger holding me together. Like he can still see the part of me that once belonged to him.

“Go on,” he says quietly. His voice is low, dangerous. “Do it.”

The sound slides down my spine like smoke. My heart hammers so loud it fills the silence. I could end this right now—one push and the monster who ruined my life would be gone.

So why do my fingers shake harder the longer I look at him? Why does my chest ache instead of burn?

“Do it, Emmaline,” he murmurs again, softer now. Almost pleading.

That breaks me. Not his words, but the way he says my name, like it still means something. Like he remembers every time he whispered it against my skin.

My grip falters. The knife slips slightly.

His eyes darken.

In one swift motion, he catches my wrist and spins me against the wall. The knife clatters to the floor. His body pins mine—solid, burning, far too close. His breath brushes my neck, slow and rough, stirring everything I swore I’d buried.

“Still think you can kill me?” he whispers near my ear.

My body betrays me before my mouth does. My pulse skips, my skin prickles where his breath touches it.

I shove him back with all the strength I have, chest heaving. “Don’t touch me.”

But even as I say it, I can taste the lie. Because underneath the anger, beneath every ounce of hate, there’s still want. A want I wish with every fibre of my being I didn’t have.

The knife lies between us now, gleaming faintly in the firelight. He doesn’t reach for it. Neither do I.

I can’t back down now. There’s too much at stake, too much I refuse to lose. I lift my chin, straightening my shoulders like armor. This isn’t just about me. It’s about control. Power. Revenge.

If I let him see how much he affects me, I lose.

Not tonight.

I move toward him. One step. Then another.

He stays perfectly still, his jaw tight, his hands fisted at his sides like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll break.

Good. I want him to break.

My bare feet make no sound on the wooden floor. The fire hums softly behind us, matching the pounding in my chest. I stop a breath away, close enough to feel his heat.

His nostrils flare. His eyes flicker with something between anger and want.

“Emmaline,” he says, voice rough. “What are you doing?”

I smile—a slow, venomous curve of my lips. “You already marked me. Already married me. Might as well get what you paid for.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move.

I trace a hand across his chest, over the fabric of his shirt. He’s warm, steady, too alive for a man who’s supposed to be a monster. Everything about him calls to something deep inside me, something I hate but can’t kill.

He catches my wrist, his grip firm but not cruel. “I’m warning you,” he says, voice low.

“I’m not scared of you,” I whisper.

Liar.

I lean in and brush my lips against his jaw. His breath stutters. His hand tightens for a heartbeat before he lets go.

I kiss the corner of his mouth. Then another.

He doesn’t move, but I feel it, the tension coiling through him, ready to snap. And goddess help me, I want him to. I want him to lose control. To fall apart because of me.

Because if he breaks first, I win.

I kiss him again, soft at first, testing. His lips are warm, hesitant. When I deepen it, he gives in.

His hands find my waist. His mouth claims mine, hungry and fierce. The kiss burns, wild, consuming. He’s trying to hold back, but he’s losing.

And I love it.

He groans low in his throat when I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull him closer. His hands slide up my back, pressing me against him. My breath catches, my body arching into his touch.

The world narrows until it’s just him. His lips. His scent. His hands.

I hate him. I want him. I don’t know the difference anymore.

Then he tears away from me, breaking the kiss. His chest rises and falls fast, his lips red, his eyes raw with something that looks like pain.

“Stop,” he breathes, taking a step back.

“No,” I whisper, grabbing his shirt and pulling him back. “You don’t get to stop now.”

He kisses me again—hard, desperate. Like he’s drowning and I’m the only air left. We stumble toward the bed, his hands gripping my waist like he can’t let go.

My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, then the buckle of his belt. My hands are shaking, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

Until he does.

He catches my wrist before I can go further. His voice is rough, broken. “Don’t.”

“Why?” I breathe. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. “Why are you stopping?”

His eyes meet mine, and what I see steals the air from my lungs.

Not anger. Not lust.

Pain.

He releases me slowly, running a hand through his hair, unraveling right in front of me.

“Did you ever stop to think about why I married you?” he asks, his voice quiet but heavy.

I shake my head, my confusion spilling into silence.

“There’s a curse,” he says at last. “A strong one. It’s been eating away at me for years. Weakening my wolf. Killing him slowly.”

The words hit like ice water. My mind spins.

“A curse?” I whisper. “What are you talking about?”

He meets my gaze, eyes dark and unguarded. “I didn’t marry you to trap you, Emmaline. I did it because I’m dying. And you’re the only one who can save me.”