Tending to the Luna
1289 Words
Lucian carried her out of the roar and the lights, past the wardens and the elders, already arguing about the seam and the net. Casius cleared the corridor with a look. Doors that are rarely open for anyone opened for their king.
His rooms were quiet and wide. High stone walls. Dark beams. A long window with moon-cut glass. A low fire glowed in the slate hearth.
He set Talia on the edge of the bed—broad, low, dressed in soft linen the color of ash. “Tell me where it’s worst,” he said, already unbuckling torn laces with careful hands.
“Thigh. Ribs. Forearm. Throat,” she said. “So… yes.”
His mouth eased. “May I help you undress?”
Color climbed on her cheeks—high, hot—but her chin didn’t drop. “Yes.” Then, because truth came out sideways when you were tired and honest, “I’m sorry I’m not… prettier for you right now.”
He looked up at once. “Talia,” he said, steady. “I’m honored to tend you. This is the way of it—mate to mate. I would expect you to do the same for me.”
It drew a breath of a laugh out of her. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He cut ruined ties, eased leather from bruises without scraping fresh skin, and kept his eyes where her pain lived. He slid an arm under her knees and shoulders and carried her through an arch to the bath. He adjusted the hot and cold taps until steam billowed from the giant claw bathtub.
“Your healer?” she asked.
“Called,” he said. “She’s waiting in the sitting room.”
“Planning,” Talia murmured.
“Protecting,” he said, and lowered her carefully into the heat.
Warmth climbed her skin. Blood unwound into pink ropes and went down the drain. She hissed when water hit the thigh; he was already there with a low, steady voice that made the ceiling feel closer in a safe way. “In. Breathe.”
He knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, and washed her like he was cataloging harm—throat, cheek, forearm—salt water and a soft cloth. When pain flared, he steadied it with light; Moonfire woke along his fingertips, not flame, a quiet glow like breath on glass. Skin loosened under his touch, edges drew together, the raw throb settled. He knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled. He washed her as if he were cataloging harm: saltwater and a soft cloth. When pain flared, he steadied it with light; Moonfire woke along his fingertips, not flame, but a quiet glow like breath on glass. Skin loosened under his touch, torn edges drawing together.
Talia held his hands and turned his palms up, tracing the lines with his fingers. “Tell me about this.”
He watched her touch for a moment, then spoke.
“The Moonfire Kiss,” he said. “A gift to one of my ancestors from the Moon Goddess. They loved each other once, but she had to end it. So she gave him this. Light that can only heal, never destroy anything but evil. And it would burn for him always, so he’d never lose his way.”
Talia’s breath halted, something clicking into place.
“Our having an heir isn’t about legacy or ego,” she whispered. “It’s about carrying Moonfire forward. If your line is the only one that holds it… Then I’m not just choosing a mate. I’m choosing the future.”
He looked at her, eyes dark and sure.
“Yes, Talia.”
Gently, he poured warm water over her head, rinsing the blood and dirt from her beautiful red tresses. He watched as the water cascaded down her body, tracing the curves of her breasts, puckering her n*****s, and disappearing below the water where he longed to touch and taste her.
“Ribs,” he said. “Can you turn?”
She did. He set his palm over the purple swell and closed his eyes. Heat gathered under the bone, then cooled. The sharp stab dulled to something she could walk off tomorrow.
“Better,” she whispered.
“Good.” He rinsed the cloth, then touched the thigh and stopped. “This one’s deep. Tara should stitch it.”
Kaela stretched fully in her head—tail high, pleased. He is ours. Let him help.
Talia swallowed. “Lucian.”
“Yes.”
“I am a little embarrassed.” The blush had not left. “Not ashamed. Just new to being… seen like this.”
He didn’t look away. “Then we go at your pace. Nothing happens you don’t want.”
She nodded. Some tense muscle she’d been holding slid a notch loose.
He lifted her free, and he dried her hair with slow, sure movements, the way you treat something you plan to keep a long time.
On the bed, waiting at the foot, lay a gown—white, feather-light, soft enough not to hurt her skin with its weight. He caught her glance.
“Alina brought it earlier,” he said. “She thought you’d hate anything that dragged or scratched.”
Talia’s throat tightened. “Of course she did.”
He wrapped the towel and turned toward the door. “I’ll bring Tara.”
Tara—iron-gray hair, healer’s bag big enough to end arguments—was already in the sitting room. She entered at his call, set her kit by the hearth, and clicked her tongue once at the thigh. “Nasty. Not ours.”
“The seam was cut,” Lucian said. “We’ll handle that. Please handle her.”
“Gladly.” Tara’s salve smelled of cedar and mint. “Alpha’s primed you,” she said as her hands moved. “You’ll knit fast. Faster with a bond.”
Heat jumped under Talia’s skin at the word. She looked at Lucian. He didn’t look away.
“Not yet,” he said softly—warning and promise together. “Only if you want it.”
Tara stitched with neat, tiny bites. Talia gripped the towel and breathed. Lucian’s hand pressed between her shoulder blades—anchor, not hold. When the worst of it was over, Tara wrapped the forearm, cooled the welt, and checked the ribs with a press that almost made Talia swear.
“Pain draught,” Tara said, measuring. “And a sleep sip. No stairs tonight. No heroics. She met Talia’s eyes. “If you were mine, I’d keep you in bed for a day.”
“She is,” Lucian said, quiet as a vow.
Tara’s mouth twitched. “Then do as you’re told, Majesty.” She packed her kit, left a small rack on the table by the bed, and slipped out.
Lucian drained the tub the rest of the way, hung the towels, returned, and lifted Talia as if it were easy. He set her on the bed and held up the gown. “May I?”
“Yes.”
He slid the feather-light fabric over her head, careful not to brush fresh sutures.
“Better?” he asked.
“Better,” she said, voice soft.
“Tea?” He moved to the kitchenette, lit the copper kettle with a touch of Moonfire, and spooned leaves into a white mug. He brought it back with two vials. “Pain draught first. Then tea.”
She obeyed without being brave about it.
He sat on the floor, back to the bed, so she could lean without loosening the stitches. “Ask me,” he said.
“Tell me about you and Mira.”
- Writer
