Reborn As His Luna

Chapter 4

The Rolls-Royce purred to a stop at the mansion’s grand entrance. Zeke’s hand found mine as if by instinct and tugged me gently from the luxurious confines.

His touch was warm and reassuring, but it pulled at something raw inside me. It was a human tether to this opulent new reality that still felt like stolen ground. We walked not toward the main hall but a more secluded wing. The path led straight to his chambers.

Every step tightened the knot in my stomach. What if he asked about something I did not know? A private joke. A scar. A night they once shared. I kept my face soft, Samantha’s soft, but inside Anya was panicking. One wrong word and he would sense the stranger wearing his wife’s skin.

The door to his bedroom swung open. It revealed a sanctuary of dark wood and plush fabrics, a masculine haven bathed in the soft glow of twilight.

He pulled me inside. The door clicked shut behind us, sealing us in our private world. We stood before each other. His hands cupped my face. His thumbs stroked my cheekbones, tracing the curve of my jaw.

“I missed you, Sam,” he murmured. “Every moment without you was torment. I swear I did not touch another. No one else. Waiting for you.”

His words were a balm to wounds I still carried, wounds he had given me. And that made it worse. He was speaking to the woman he loved. Not me.

The kiss deepened, a slow intoxicating descent into shared hunger. It began as tender exploration, a dance of soft lips and yearning sighs. Then hunger ignited, a primal blaze that consumed us both.

His hands, strong and urgent, found the zipper of my dress. They peeled elegant fabric away with a whispered rasp. My own fingers, surprisingly bold, tangled in his tie. I yanked it free with ferocity that surprised even me.

Clothes became barriers, unwelcome restraints against escalating heat. The purple suit, once a symbol of power, now fell to the floor in a silken puddle. It was followed swiftly by his tailored shirt, revealing hard sculpted planes of his chest, testament to his alpha strength.

“You’ve been so sweet since you returned,” he breathed against my lips. His voice was low, thrumming against my teeth. His hands traced the curve of my waist.

His words sparked a fleeting thought. Was I doing too much? Was this newfound softness too far from Samantha’s lunatic reputation? The question flickered and died under the heat of his hands.

But part of me hated how easily it died. Old Anya would have frozen. She would have felt shame. This body did not freeze. It arched. It welcomed. And I let it. Because refusing would mean losing him again.

Our bodies met, skin against skin. The searing contact stole air from my lungs. His scent, pine and frost, consumed me. He pressed against me. His hardness was a scorching brand against my softness. His breath was hot on my neck.

He gently laid me on the bed. I arched my legs. He entered me then, a slow deliberate slide. It sent a jolt of pure incandescent pleasure through every nerve ending.

A soft gasp escaped, a sound I barely recognized as my own. This was mine. This pleasure. This man.

But it was not. It belonged to Samantha. I was stealing it the same way I stole her face. Guilt stabbed sharp even as pleasure burned brighter. I wrapped my legs tighter to drown it.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, a greedy demand for more. My fingers buried themselves in his thick hair. My nails lightly scored his scalp as I arched into him, meeting his thrusts with equal desperate urgency.

He groaned, a raw sound of pure pleasure. His hips slammed into mine with rhythmic force. The room spun, a blur of sensation, sound, and scent.

He reversed positions, lifting me, then settling me atop him. Our eyes locked. I rode him, whining, grinding my waist, taking all of him while our eyes stayed locked.

In that moment, as his eyes burned into mine, I knew with brutal certainty that despite everything I still loved him. As Anya, I loved him. The love was a stubborn weed, growing wild and untamed even in the scorched earth of rejection.

But loving him now meant lying with every breath, every touch. The irony cut deeper than any rejection ever had.

Later, much later, as the last tremors of pleasure faded, Zeke’s breathing evened out into a deep contented rhythm. He groaned and fell to my side. He told me things I chose not to hear. He had lived without me.

I felt fulfilled. I did not bother to listen.

He drifted off. His arm remained heavy around my waist. His face was buried in my hair. I lay there sated but strangely restless. The aftermath of passion was a thick sensual haze.

Yet underneath it all, cold fear coiled. This happiness was built on a lie. One crack, one memory I did not have, one question I could not answer, and it would collapse.

I stared at the ceiling, wondering how long I could keep pretending before the mask slipped.

Then the shrill intrusive ring of a phone pierced the quiet. It was not Zeke’s. It was mine. Samantha’s phone. I untangled myself from his embrace, careful not to disturb him, and reached for the device on the bedside table.

The quiet felt too perfect, too fragile, like the moment before a storm breaks.

I answered. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was cold, sharp, and undeniably female. “Are you the one in my body?”

My heart stopped. Physically. The world tilted. The opulent room spun around me. Blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and clammy. The phone slipped from my grasp. It clattered onto the thick rug. I scrambled to retrieve it. My fingers fumbled. My breath caught in my throat. I ended the call.

The words echoed in the sudden terrifying silence of the room. “The one in… my body?” Her body. Samantha’s body. Realization crashed over me, a tidal wave of terror. The Lunatic Luna was not just a reputation. She was alive. She was not in Anya’s lifeless body. And she knew what was happening.

The phone rang again. My breath hitched. Panic clawed at my throat. I stumbled out of the bedroom. My bare feet slapped against the cool marble floor. It was a desperate flight toward the familiar sanctuary of the bathroom. I locked the door behind me. My hands shook so violently I could barely grasp the handle. The phone continued its relentless assault.

I answered, pressing it to my ear. My hand trembled so hard the device vibrated against my skull.

“I asked, are you the b***h in my f*****g body?!”

“I…” I stammered. My tongue was suddenly too thick. My voice was a pathetic squeak.

“Listen to me,” she snarled. Her voice was a whip-crack of venom that made me flinch. “I am in the body of an abused Luna, a forgotten omega. I will come find you. I will kill you. And then I will kill myself so this miserable ritual from that godforsaken ancient witch called Asante would be reversed.”

“Oh my God!” I gasped. The words tore from my throat, a raw desperate cry.

My stolen paradise, my cherished fantasy, crumbled around me, exposed as a fragile lie.

She was coming. And she wanted her life back. My life. And she would destroy both of us to get it.

I stood frozen in the bathroom doorway, phone still clutched like a weapon I did not know how to use. Zeke slept peacefully behind me, unaware that the woman he loved was a thief wearing his wife’s skin.

I did not know whether to run, to fight, or to beg forgiveness from the ghost in the coma.

All I knew was the fantasy was over.

The war had just begun.