I AM THE LUNA QUEEN
went to sleep a nobody. I woke up a Queen.
One night I was just a broke, exhausted college girl. The next, I opened my eyes in silk sheets, with strangers bowing and calling me Luna Queen. The face in the mirror is mine. The body is mine. But the life isn't. The bruises on my wrists tell a story I don't remember, and the King I'm bound to doesn't love me-he loathes me.
They whisper that his mistress rules the palace. They say the Queen was weak. Silent. Broken. But that was before me.
Now I must survive a palace that wants me dead, a King whose touch burns as much as it scars, and a kingdom waiting for me to fail. The old Luna Queen bowed to cruelty.
I am not her.
And if this King thinks I'll kneel, he's about to learn what a true Queen is made of.
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Chapter 1
Hazel’s Pov
I went to sleep in my dorm room.
That much I’m sure of.
My last memory is the soft hum of the radiator, the faint glow of my laptop screen casting blue across the walls, and the quiet chaos of half-finished notes scattered on my desk. I remember setting my alarm, curling under my blanket, and letting exhaustion finally drag me under.
But when I woke up…
It wasn’t my ceiling I stared at.
The air was heavy, thick with the scent of smoke and herbs, something cloying and strange. A chill pressed into my skin, though the surface beneath me was warm—too warm, like I was lying on silk sheets pulled from a fever dream. My eyes fluttered, my chest heaved, and the sound hit me first.
Crying.
Dozens of soft, choked sobs echoing around me, broken only by frantic whispers.
“My Queen—please, please open your eyes—”
“She’s breathing—oh, Moon Goddess, she’s breathing!”
“Call the doctor, now! Hurry!”
My eyes shot open, a gasp tearing through my throat.
The noise stopped instantly.
A cluster of women knelt around me, dressed in maids uniform. Faces blotched with tears, hands pressed together in prayer or desperation. Their eyes, wide and gleaming, fixed on me as if I were some miracle risen from the dead.
“Your Majesty,” one whispered, her voice breaking. “You’re awake.”
I sat up too fast, my head swimming. “What the hell—”
But the voice that came out of my mouth sounded strange.
It was higher. Softer. Wrong.
My hands trembled as I lifted them, staring at pale, delicate fingers tipped with perfectly manicured nails painted blood-red. My gaze slid lower—to the silken dress draped across my body, the neckline dipping scandalously low.
“What the fuck…” The whisper scraped past my lips.
The women surrounding me exchanged alarmed glances, but none corrected me. Instead, they shuffled closer, like moths drawn to a flame.
“Do you need water, my Queen?” one asked, her trembling hands already reaching for a crystal glass from the bedside table.
“My Queen.”
“Your Majesty.”
“Our Queen.”
The words stabbed at me again and again, their reverence so absolute it terrified me.
Queen?
I wasn’t a queen. I was a twenty two year-old college student who had fallen asleep during a Netflix binge and was supposed to have a quiz in English Lit tomorrow morning.
This was insane.
“Okay,” I said, holding up a shaky hand to stop them. “You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not—whatever you think I am. I’m not your queen.”
The room stilled.
For a heartbeat, nobody breathed. Then, as if choreographed, they all dropped their gazes to the floor, pressing their foreheads down toward the polished hardwood like I’d just blasphemed.
One of them whispered, “The mistress will hear…”
My stomach twisted. Mistress?
Before I could ask, the doors at the far end of the room opened—softly, like someone pushing through velvet.
The women flinched. Their bodies shrank toward me instinctively, shielding me as if they knew danger had just entered the room.
I craned my neck and froze.
A tall woman walked in, draped in black silk, her hair a cascade of raven curls that framed a face too sharp, too cruelly beautiful. Her lips curled into a smirk when her eyes landed on me.
“Well,” she purred, her voice like poisoned honey. “The corpse rises.”
The tension in the room thickened until it pressed against my ribs. The women beside me pressed lower to the ground, their fear palpable, their hands trembling as though even their breathing might offend her.
The stranger approached my bed with leisurely steps, her heels clicking against the hardwood. She looked down at me, her eyes glittering with malice, and for the first time I noticed the faint, red-rimmed bruises on my wrists. My wrists.
My gut twisted violently.
Had she—?
“Careful, pet,” she drawled, leaning in so close I caught the sharp bite of her perfume. “Death doesn’t excuse insolence. The Alpha king may tolerate your existence, but I do not.”
Alpha King?
The word struck like a lightning bolt, a piece of a puzzle slamming into place. Alpha king. Queen. Mistress. My skin prickled, and dread seeped into every corner of my mind.
I wasn’t in my room anymore.
I had woken up in someone else’s life.
And judging by the bruises, by the way this woman’s words dripped venom, by the sheer terror etched into the faces of the attendants still kneeling around me…
That life was a nightmare.
“I…” My throat closed around the words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her laughter sliced through me like glass. “Oh, how convenient. The Queen forgets. Tell me, will your memory return before tonight, when His Majesty summons you? Or will you shame him with your pathetic excuses again?”
Heat surged into my face. His Majesty? Summons?
The questions clawed at me, but I swallowed them down. Every instinct screamed not to give this woman more ammunition.
She tilted her head, her smile sharpening. “No matter. Whether you remember or not, your place remains the same—beneath me.”
The words landed like a brand against my skin. And though confusion and fear churned in my chest, something else rose with it—anger.
Because whoever this queen was, she had been broken. Bruised. Forced into silence. Surrounded by cruelty disguised as loyalty.
But me?
I wasn’t built to bow.
I met the woman’s gaze, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. “We’ll see about that.”
Her eyes narrowed, surprise flickering there before she masked it with another cruel smile.
“We shall,” she whispered, before turning on her heel and storming out, her gown whispering across the floor.
The moment the doors shut, the attendants exhaled in shaky unison. One of them grabbed my hand, tears pooling in her eyes.
“My Queen, please,” she begged. “You mustn’t provoke the Lady. She has His Majesty’s heart. If she—if she tells him—”
Her words cracked.
But I didn’t hear the rest.
Because my heart was pounding too loud, drowning out everything.
His Majesty. The Alpha King. The man whose queen’s body I now inhabited.
And if what I’d just seen was any indication, he wasn’t a savior. He wasn’t a husband.
He was the monster who let his mistress tear his wife apart.
And now, I was trapped in her place.
Holy fuck this must be a nightmare.
I'll soon wake up, yes, I have to wake up.
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9.4
Michael Carter is an undercover FBI agent on a mission to take down ruthless mafia king Fernando Ramírez-the man he believes killed his sister. But getting close to Fernando means playing a dangerous game, one where seduction and power blur the lines between enemy and lover.
When Michael uncovers a shocking truth, his thirst for revenge turns into a fight for something far more dangerous-his own heart. Now, torn between duty and desire, he must decide: destroy the man he swore to take down or surrender to the one thing he never saw coming.
Love has never been more lethal.
7.1
For seven years, I was the architect of my fiancé's criminal empire and the strategist behind his every move. I was Dante Gallo’s unofficial Consigliere, his partner in everything but name. Tomorrow, I was finally supposed to marry him and take my place as the queen to his throne.
But on the eve of our wedding, a single text message sent by mistake detonated my life. It was a photo from Dante, showing a platinum wedding band on his hand. The message read: “Married this morning. She’s safe now.”
My gaze fell to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was the identical band, just smaller. The engraved initials ‘D.I.’ didn’t stand for Dante and I. They stood for Dante and Isabella—his childhood sweetheart. My entire relationship was a lie; I was just a shield to protect his one true love.
He dismissed my discovery as a "tantrum." Then, his new bride began taunting me, sending a picture of them tangled in bedsheets with the caption: "Loser." They expected me to break. They thought I would shatter.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were. I forwarded the picture to Isabella’s fiancé, a man far more dangerous than Dante. "Your fiancée is in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt," I told him. "I'll meet you downstairs. We're going to crash their party."
8.7
My little brother's heart monitor was screaming its final warning. I called my husband, Dante Volkov, the ruthless underworld king whose life I'd saved years ago. He had promised to send his elite medical team.
"I'm handling an emergency," he snapped, then hung up. An hour later, my brother was dead.
I found out what Dante's "emergency" was from his mistress's social media. He had sent his team of world-class surgeons to deliver her cat's kittens. My brother died for a litter of cats.
When Dante finally called, he didn't even apologize. I could hear her voice in the background, asking him to come back to bed. He even forgot my brother was dead, offering to buy him a new toy to replace the one his mistress deliberately crushed.
This was the man who had promised to protect me, to make my high school tormentors pay. Now, he was holding that very tormentor, Seraphina, in his arms. Then came the final blow: a call from the clerk's office revealed our seven-year marriage was a sham. The certificate was a forgery.
I was never his wife. I was just a possession he was tired of. After he left me to die in a car crash for Seraphina, I made one call. I texted a rival mob heir I hadn't spoken to in years: "I need to disappear. I'm calling it in."
8.2
When our family empire crumbled, my sister and I were sold off as collateral to the Chicago Outfit.
My fierce sister Frankie was forced to marry Damien Moretti, the terrifying Don. I was shackled to his brother Leo, a notorious, degenerate playboy.
I thought my life was over, but the real nightmare began on our wedding night. A terrified maid handed me the wrong room key. Exhausted and numb, I crawled into a dark honeymoon suite, praying my new husband would be too drunk to find me.
Instead, the heavy door opened, and a man fueled by a drug-laced drink stepped in. He was ruthless, punishing, and entirely stripped away my dignity in the pitch black.
When the morning light finally broke, I turned my head, expecting to see Leo's boyish face. Instead, I saw a profile carved from ice.
Damien Moretti. The Don. My sister's husband.
The very man who had previously called me a "liability" and ruined my life. When he realized who I was, his eyes filled with absolute, chilling disgust. He dragged me out of the ruined sheets, threw me onto the floor of a freezing shower, and demanded to know why I had sneaked into his suite.
"You ruined me. How am I supposed to look at Frankie? You should have just killed me. Kill me now, Damien. It would be a mercy compared to this."
I sobbed, the freezing water mingling with my tears. He just stared down at me with cold, unreadable intent. I was now trapped in a house of monsters, carrying the Don's darkest secret, and I had to figure out how to survive without destroying my sister.
8.6
The Maybach glided through rain, Dante's cold cedar cologne a familiar comfort. Seven years, my life revolved around him, my fingers on his suit cuff, a silent promise. But tonight, our normal shattered with a single phone call.
He answered, speaking rapid Italian – a language he thought I didn't understand. Every word: a death knell. Confirming his engagement to Sofia Moretti, dismissing me as a 'consolation prize.'
Seven years of loyalty vanished. His loving mask back, he left for his fiancée. I stumbled into freezing rain, recalling my foster past. My numb fingers dialed his mother, Isabella, demanding fifty million for my silence. Her insults didn't sting.
The true gut punch: Sofia's Instagram, a prenup on Dante's desk, proudly showing *my* watch, captioned: 'Fourteen days left.' This wasn't their celebration; it was my death sentence.
I wouldn't stay another day in this gilded cage. My old duffel bag, packed, waited. The Australia brochure, a childhood dream, in my pocket. This time, I would live for myself, and they would all pay.
9.1
I walked into the wrong hotel room...
To a naked man fresh out of the shower.
Now, I'm pregnant with his baby.
I should've left as soon as I saw him.
He was too beautiful to be real.
I got halfway to the door...
And then he saw exactly what I was trying to hide.
"Who hurt you?" he said when he glimpsed the bruises. "Let me fix it."
I should've said no.
But honestly? I deserve a little luck from the universe.
And if it wants to provide that luck in the form of a gorgeous, six-foot angel of darkness...
Well, I won't turn my nose up at that.
But nothing in this life comes without strings attached.
My angel gives me a night from heaven...
When morning comes, though, he turns into a devil.
And not just any devil.
This devil knows where I'm from.
Who I am.
What I've done.
And he's determined to make me pay for all of it.