Luna shrugged, gesturing vaguely with her fingers as if Seliora’s entire existence was an unfortunate background noise. "I an, the screaming, the entitlent, the rod up your ass—it’s just... a lot for an early morning. Perhaps you should lie down."
"How dare you!" Seliora hissed.
Luna tilted her head, her voice honeyed and lethal. "Dear, you’re barely the concubine. You’re an accessory. If you want to be respected, you might try acting like you were raised around actual nobility and not in a treehouse made of spite."
"I’ll report this," she snapped.
"Do," Luna said brightly, leaning back as the pedicurist resud work on her toes.
The attendant shuffled toward Luna. Her steps were small. Her hands were nervously clasped before her, voice quivering as she said, "Princess... I—I’m afraid you must leave."
The pampered serenity of the salon vanished in an instant. "Why," she asked, "do I have to leave?"
The poor attendant swallowed. "W-Well," she began, wringing her fingers, "She... um... she carries the heir to the throne, and by royal protocol, we are bound by law to ensure she is... properly taken care of."
What heir to the throne? If there truly was an heir, wouldn’t it have been announced formally at court?
"You have got to be kidding ." She snapped her feet from the water bowl, splashing droplets across the floor, and slipped on her sandals.
She rose to her full height, spine straight, chin high. Her eyes locked onto Seliora, who was already preening in the corner, and smirking.
Luna marched right up to her, stopping just inches away. "Hope you enjoyed your ti with the prince," she said, every word carved from molten fire, "because that is the last you have had of him."
Seliora smiled. "Face it, mutt. I won."
"Like hell you did." Luna spat.
Then she turned. She strode past the silent attendants and stunned onlookers. The doors opened before her, and she didn’t look back.
"Fucking bitch," she muttered under her breath.
*****
Doctor Mira stood outside the office door with a clipboard in hand and dread curdling in her stomach. She knew how dangerously obsessed the Royal Concubine had beco with being the one to deliver the heir.
She stared at the door and pushed it open after a few seconds.
Seliora sat poised, one hand protectively cradling her abdon—as if the power of her imagination alone could incubate a child. Her gown was draped perfectly, her hair coiled in soft waves, and her face bore a triumphant glow that could’ve lit the room twice over. The second she saw Mira, her entire body leaned forward in excitent. "I was right, wasn’t I?" she bead, eyes glimring. "I carry the heir."
Mira hesitated. Oh gods, here we go.
She looked at the woman with eyes that tried to be soft, but couldn’t mask the pity hiding beneath. "I’m sorry, my lady."
Seliora blinked. "What are you sorry for?" Her smile didn’t fall—it clung to her lips stubbornly.
"You are not pregnant."
It was said gently. A dressed whisper. But to Seliora, it echoed. The words seed to bounce off the richly painted walls, through her bones, and back into her chest where they detonated.
"No..." she breathed. "No, check again. I feel sothing. I know it. I’ve been nauseous for days, I’ve had cravings, and my breasts are sore." Her hand clutched her stomach again, as if she could will the truth back into her womb.
"I checked three tis," Mira said gently, her heart breaking for the woman—well, halfway breaking. Seliora wasn’t exactly easy to pity when she made everyone around her want to pluck their own eyes out.
Tears glazed Seliora’s eyes, glassy and furious. "No..." she whispered again, as if the gods were playing a cruel joke. "Please. I have to be."
"My lady—" Mira rubbed her temple. "My lady, maybe... maybe the problem isn’t even you," she offered, grasping for anything to soften the blow. "The prince... we may need him to co in for testing too."
"What?"
"Fertility is a shared road," Mira said diplomatically, although in truth, she doubted it. Truebloods didn’t do infertility. It was practically a genetic boast. Seliora was Trueblood too, which made it all the more baffling. Unless, of course, the gods themselves had conspired to deny her this one thing.
Seliora stood slowly, arms folded around herself. "No," she murmured, teeth clenched. "You’re wrong. I will carry the heir. I will."
Mira chose her next words with care, knowing she walked a razor’s edge. "There’s still hope, my lady. There are herbs we can try. Timing charts—"
"No!" Seliora snapped, her eyes wild now. "I don’t want charts. I want a baby. His baby. And I want it now."
Seliora closed her eyes, trying to summon composure. Her dreams were slipping through her fingers, and she could feel it, unraveling. If she didn’t get pregnant soon, she’d beco irrelevant. A footnote. Another failed royal concubine, replaced by a mutt.
Mira knew Seliora had been ramping up the desperation ever since the werewolf princess stepped back into Damien’s life. Luna was everything Seliora feared: beautiful, brave, beloved, and bonded.
Still, there was nothing she could do.
"I’m so sorry," Mira said again, though softer this ti.
"It’s... it’s okay," Seliora whispered, the words crumbling. She exited with what was left of her dignity, but her footsteps were a stumble disguised as grace.
*****
Luna hovered over Damien’s sleeping form. His face was peaceful, absurdly handso even in sleep, and for a mont, she questioned whether it was moral to wake a man who looked that angelic. But it had been four days. Four. Days.
She nudged his shoulder. "Wake up."
Damien groaned in protest. His hand flopped lazily across the sheet. "Hmmm..."
"Seriously," Luna said, poking his side. "If you don’t go out into the world today, I think the crown may send guards to check if I’ve mauled you."
His eyes opened, sleepy but the smirk he wore was fully awake. "You did maul ," he murmured with a raspy chuckle.
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