Vladimir's Marked Luna Chapter 95: Her Voice

"You’re an," she muttered, burrowing under the covers with jerky, frustrated movents.

"So you’ve ntioned."

I moved to the chair, forcing myself to sit down and create distance between us. The rut snarled in protest, demanding I be closer, demanding I touch her, claim her, make sure every inch of her knew who she belonged to.

"I want to hold you,Vlad,"

I stilled, tonight, it seed she wanted to drive to the very edge of insanity then push off. I feared she would hear the arousal from my voice so I settled for a non committal hum.

"But maybe it’s better if it doesn’t happen." She whispered, her light voice edged with a sudden heaviness like she was not talking only about this mont.

I am glad you understand.

That was what I should have said but instead I found myself asking. "Why?

She giggled but it was not bubbly, it sounded broken, shattered like she was trying to laugh off sothing that hurt her. "My first mory was a hug. From my mother."

I could picture her glancing over at her mother’s ashes on the bedside table.

I raised a brow. "It didn’t explain what she had just said."

"I don’t rember her words, but I think I laughed like babies laugh." She went silent. "Then she had a knife—"

I snapped up right.

"And I will never forget what she said as she tried to stab ." She hiccuped. "Die. Why don’t you just die."

I broke my own rule before I could stop myself, closing the distance between us in three strides.

She was holding out her hand when I reached the bed—small, trembling, reaching for through the darkness like a lifeline.

I should have stopped. Should have maintained so shred of distance, so semblance of control.

But I’d just learned that her first mory—her first conscious thought—was her mother trying to murder her.

So I took her hand.

And slipped into her embrace.

"Hold ," I said, my voice rougher than I intended as I guided her arms around . "Just hold , moya."

It was a command disguised as permission. A way to let her touch , comfort herself through contact, without making her feel like she was asking for sothing.

Her arms ca around my torso imdiately, clinging with a desperate strength that belied her drunken state. Her face pressed against my chest, and I felt the dampness there—tears, silent and devastating.

I wrapped my arms around her carefully, one hand splaying across her back, the other cradling the back of her head. The rut was still there, still prowling, but it had quieted into sothing else.

Sothing that needed to be protected rather than possessed.

"She tried to kill you," I said quietly. Not a question. A statent that needed to be spoken aloud, made real, acknowledged.

"Yes." Her voice was muffled against my shirt.

"Your first mory."

"Yes."

"And you keep her ashes."

A shuddering breath. "Hurt people, hurt people."

"Broken people, break people,"I added.

She humd, her hands finding my hair.

I stiffened at first—the touch unexpected, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with the rut and everything to do with trust.

Her fingers threaded through the strands slowly, clumsily at first from the wine, then with more purpose. Gentle. Soothing. Like she was trying to calm sothing wild in the sa way I was trying to anchor her.

And damn her, it worked.

The tension bled from my shoulders gradually, my jaw unclenching as her fingers continued their soft exploration. She traced patterns against my scalp, her nails scraping lightly in a way that sent shivers down my spine.

"Your hair is soft," she murmured, her voice already thick with approaching sleep. "I didn’t think it would be. Thought it would be... I don’t know. Sharp. Like you."

Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch. "Sharp hair?"

"Mmm. Cold and pointy." Her words were slurring together now, consciousness slipping away even as her fingers kept moving. "But it’s nice. Soft. Warm."

"Go to sleep, Lilith."

"You too," she mumbled. "You need to sleep too, Vlad. Can feel how tired you are."

The bond. She was feeling my exhaustion through the bond.

"I will," I lied.

But her fingers in my hair, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the warmth of her body pressed against mine—it was doing sothing to . Sothing I hadn’t anticipated.

My eyes grew heavy.

I fought it at first, tried to maintain vigilance, to stay alert in case she needed .

But her hand kept stroking, kept soothing, and my body—pushed to its limits by the rut, by the night’s events, by weeks of careful control—began to surrender.

"That’s it," she whispered, barely conscious herself. "Sleep, ice king. I’ve got you."

The irony of her—drunk, traumatized, barely able to string sentences together—comforting wasn’t lost.

But it worked anyway.

My breathing evened out to match hers. My muscles went lax, no longer coiled and ready. The rut quieted into sothing almost peaceful, satisfied by her proximity and touch.

Her fingers slowed, then stilled, her hand coming to rest in my hair as sleep finally claid her completely.

I should have moved. Should have extracted myself and returned to the chair where I was supposed to stay.

But her arms were still around , her face pressed against my chest, and she was sleeping. Actually sleeping, without nightmares or fear or that haunted look that never quite left her eyes.

My eyes drifted shut.

Just for a mont, I told myself. Just until I was sure she was deeply asleep.

But the darkness pulled at , insistent and overwhelming, and for the first ti in longer than I could rember, I stopped fighting it.

I let myself fall.

Into sleep. Into her warmth. Into the quiet peace of her breathing and heartbeat and the soft weight of her hand in my hair.

The last coherent thought I had was that this—this—was dangerous.

Not the rut. Not the bond. Not even the political shitstorm we’d created tonight.

But this quiet intimacy, this trust, this feeling of rightness as we both surrendered to sleep tangled together.

Because if I let myself have this, let myself need this—

I’d never be able to let her go.

And then we both slept.

Finally.

Together.

—

I grabbed onto her hips, thrusting up, her warmth enveloping , cladding in her completely.

Fully.

A hiss escaped my lips. Unbidden.

I cupped her behind, grinding her unto , her breathy moans filling the space sinking into my head, feeding my lust-fueled delirium. "Fuck. Moya." I growled, finding her sweat slicked neck. My tongue lapped her sweat, my eyes rolling her back at the ambrosia that sparkled its way into my taste buds.

I lapped my way up, pausing to look into her eyes, bleary from desire and pleasure, her salty wetness still on my tongue. "Vlad, please—" Desperately asking.

I wiggled my hips against hers, she threw her head back in response, giving full access to the soft swells of her breasts. My mouth descended, catching a beaded nipple in my mouth, suckling and pulling.

Her hips moved, slowly, her entire body giving away to the shivers as I mirrored her movents, but harder and faster, still suckling.

She arched against, her na on her lips—

—

My eyes snapped open, my head weighing a ton.

Her scent hit like a freight train in the chest, until I realised where exactly I was.

I was in her room, her arms around , my tongue on her skin.

I recoiled away from her, disgusted.

Not at her.

But at .

I drew my hand back, hit myself across the face. Then covering my face with my hands, sha burning like acid. She didn’t even flinch at the sound of the slap. That was just how far gone she was. I had almost taken advantage of her in her state.

Still despite the repugnance that gnawed at , the rut still coiled like a snake waiting for to let my guard down around her. I was so hard it hurt to move.

I ran a hand through my tousled hair watching her as bile rose in my throat. I startled as a realisation sunk in and worse, a question accompanied it. What if I had not woken up.

I would have—

Zver spoke up, his voice a part hungry growl due to the rut that coursed through both of us. "You wouldn’t have—"

"I could have!" I snapped back in a snarl.

Zver went quiet. He knew as well as I did.

I could not begin to imagine what could have happened to Lilith, if she would ever look in the face after that egregious deed,

I would be no worse than Kustav...

I rose, attempting an escape—but she dragged back, mumbling her sleep. "Vlad..." Her voice filled with longing.

It triggered .

In an instant, the coil of my rut snapped and I was upon her.

"---want to hold you," She finished, turning over.

I broke free at the last second, quivering against the onslaught of the monstrous lust that lurked like a predator in .

I pulled away from her, inch by agonizing inch, gritting my teeth all the way.

I looked down to see the damp tent on my pants. I ached as I forced my eyes away from her and to the bathroom and made a run for it.

—