The Fake Luna

Chapter 3

Sia.

I gasped as the car doors opened and pinched myself.

Holy scales… This house was ridiculously big.

Like… a whale… on land… glaring down at me.

Floor-to-ceiling windows, way too much expensive-looking nature everywhere, and the air?

It smelled obnoxiously rich.

Maids stood lined up, heads bowed like I was royalty — or an executioner.

I strutted past them, keeping my poker face intact, but inside?

Iwas shook.

Mr. Grumpy followed behind me, all dark, broody Alpha energy.

Inside, my room was huge — but the colors?

Gross!

Too much red and black. It looked like a miserable Valentine’s Day m******e… or some weird voodoo shrine.

Killian — Mr. Grumpy himself — leaned against the doorframe, watching me.

“My room’s across the hall from yours,” he said. “No blasting those annoying songs you like.”

Shit. I froze.

Blunder number one — I didn’t access Marilyn’s memories.

Not her life, her personality or even her playlist.

All I did was snatch her identity, with zero clue how to play her game.

I tilted my head, trying to fake casualness.

“Why are we sleeping in separate rooms? I thought… we’re mates?”

He sighed like I’d just asked him to solve world hunger.

“We are,” he replied flatly — and walked off before I could ask anything else.

Huh?!

I thought being mates meant humping and cuddling twenty-four-seven.

Apparently, their world… is way more complicated.

~~~~

Killian.

She seemed… different.

The memory loss had brought out a side of Marilyn I wasn’t familiar with — softer, bubblier. Almost… naive.

But it wasn’t just her attitude.

Her scent — that was off too. Sweet and sharp, with a hint of something… oceanic. It clung to the walls, curled into my lungs, made my wolf restless. But I brushed it off as stress, lack of sleep or pack paranoia.

After a few business calls, I made my way back to her room. With the state she was in, she might accidentally eat a candle or mistake shampoo for juice.

The door was cracked open. Her clothes lay in a messy trail leading to the bathroom.

I pushed the door wider, stepped inside — and froze.

Steam fogged the mirror. Behind the glass shower wall, I could make out her silhouette. Her curves were impossible to ignore — a body far too… generous to belong to the Marilyn I remembered. The shape of her hips, the dip of her waist — it tugged at my memory like something wasn’t right.

The water stopped. A towel floated from the hook near the sink — strange choice, considering there was a towel rack inside the shower. But sure enough, she stepped out, wrapping the fabric around herself.

Her eyes widened when she spotted me.

“Oh, you scared me,” she said with a nervous smile, adjusting the towel. “Do you always sneak around like that?”

Her hair was dripping, plastered to her flushed skin. Her lips, still pink from the heat, parted slightly as she spoke. Something about her looked… different.But damn if I could figure out what.

“Don’t leave your door open when there’s staff around,” I said, ignoring her question.

I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me.

“Killian…”

There was hesitation, fear laced into the sound of my name.

“I… I’m scared. After what happened… the yacht… what if someone tries to hurt me again? Mark me as soon as possible”

I glanced back.

Her eyes, wide with fear. The curve of her body wrapped in that towel.

My wolf stirred, protective and possessive.

Even if something felt… off… She was my mate.

“I’ll mark you,” I told her. “Tonight… or tomorrow. No more yacht parties. No more accidents.”

She nodded quickly.

I left the room, but that unfamiliar scent lingered in my head.

And for the first time… I wondered if the woman standing in front of me was really the same one I’d claimed.

~~~~~~

She joined me in the outdoor dining room, and I nearly choked on my drink.

She was wearing a tight-fitting turquoise dress.

Marilyn used to hate that color. Said it made her look like a dead fish washed up on the shore. Now here she was, walking toward me in it like she owned the damn ocean.

Her hair was down, soft curtain-wave curls bouncing as she walked. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a romance movie. Granted, she had enough time to get her hair done, but this? This was… different.

This Marilyn was manageable. Sweet, even. Almost easy to dominate. The kind of mate I could finally tolerate without endless fights. I could work with this.

But then—my eyes drifted lower, and I almost spat my water.

Her boobs. Her boobs were bigger. Not just bigger—fuller, heavier. And her hips? Definitely wider.

Whatever the hell that yacht accident did, it definitely came with upgrades.

Or maybe I hadn’t paid attention to her that closely before. The mate ball was brief. My head was buried in business, then Coco Bel happened, and, well—my brain had been occupied since.

Still. Maybe she’d had some work done. Hell, I don’t know. My life’s a circus these days.

One of the maids—Blair—walked over, hands shaking as she served juice. She accidentally spilled a stream of it straight onto Marilyn’s chest, the liquid trailing down her cleavage like it was on a mission to test my self-control.

For a brief second, I wanted to lean over and lick it off.

But no. This bond is for business. Strengthening the pack. Nothing more.

“I’m… so sorry, please forgive me— I’m so sorry!” Blair stuttered, her eyes wide, waiting for the wrath of the old Marilyn.

Great. Another maid I’ll have to fire. Marilyn didn’t tolerate mistakes. She fired twelve maids in two weeks before the yacht accident. Blair probably knew she was next.

But instead—Marilyn smiled.

“Hey, it’s okay. It was just an accident.” Her voice was soft. Sweet. She actually looked… concerned. “Sweetie, did you have something to eat today?”

Blair and I both blinked.

“Yes… ma’am,” Blair whispered, stunned, her lip trembling.

“Don’t worry about it. I can always change. Please, don’t apologize,” Marilyn said gently, wiping the juice with a napkin, as if nothing happened.

I waved Blair off and she scurried out like she’d just been spared from a firing squad.

I sat back, frowning. This wasn’t the Marilyn I knew.

And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to dislike it.

~~~~~

Sia.

I went back to my room after Killian left, shutting the door behind me. Honestly? I don’t understand why he keeps looking at me like I’m some defective product fresh off the factory line.

I made sure to copy Marilyn’s body in detail. Every freckle. Every eyelash. Perfect.

Or so I thought.

I grabbed her phone off the nightstand and unlocked it with my fingerprint—easy. I scrolled through her gallery as I stood in front of the mirror, comparing the woman in the pictures to the woman staring back at me.

That’s when I saw the problem.

Marilyn had that runway model look. Petite. Dainty. The kind of body that looked like she’d blow away in a strong breeze.

Then there’s me.

I tried to shrink it. I swear. But you can’t really cage a siren’s body. It leaks through no matter what human shape I take. It’s in the curves. The hips that don’t lie. The small waist, the thick thighs, and—of course—the ridiculous bust that even Victoria’s Secret couldn’t cover properly.

I groaned softly, turning to the side and glaring at the mirror.

This is exactly why the three fish-witches at the aquarium hated me. Mermaids? Oh, they’re the sweet, cuddly, ‘marry me, I’ll braid your hair’ type. The little Disney princesses of the sea.

Sirens? We ooze smex appeal. We’re temptation wrapped in danger. We walk into a room, and men forget they’re married. It’s not even intentional. It’s just how we’re made. Which is why men don’t marry sirens. We’re the kind of women they obsess over… and resent afterward.