I Am The Luna Queen

You're My Wife

Hazel’s POV

My palm stung from the slap, but the sound of it cracking across his face was the most satisfying thing I’d felt all day since waking up in this life.

His head snapped to the side. For one perfect second, the mighty King looked stunned—like he honestly couldn’t believe someone had dared.

Then his expression twisted—rage, confusion, something dark—and he lunged again.

Absolutely not.

Before he could even blink, my knee shot up with perfect, furious accuracy.

My foot connected with his balls.

Hard.

The sound he made—dear God. It was half-gasp, half-death rattle. His entire body folded, and he dropped to the side of the bed like a fallen tree, clutching himself as a deep groan tore out of his throat.

Good.

Serves him right.

I scrambled backward, yanking the thick blanket up to my chin like it was armor. My chest was heaving, heart slamming against my ribs, skin still burning where his mouth had been. I hated that my body was shaking—and not just from anger.

He stayed on the floor for a second, curled on his side, breathing like he was dying. When he finally pushed himself up on one elbow, his face was white, eyes murderous.

I glared down at him. “Who the hell told you you have the right to touch me?” My voice cracked, but I didn’t care. “You think you can just take whatever you want because you’re the king?”

He dragged in a rough breath, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth would shatter. When he spoke, it came out low and dangerous.

“You’re my wife, Hazel.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The sound burst out of me, sharp and bitter and a little crazy.

“Your wife?” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand like I could erase him. “The wife you refused to touch for three damn years? The wife you let your mistress humiliate? That wife?”

I sat up straighter, clutching the blanket tighter. “And now—now—you suddenly decide you want inside my legs, and I’m supposed to just open them like a good little queen? You’re even dumber than I thought.”

He pushed to his feet slowly, like every movement hurt and it damn well should. My eyes betrayed me for half a second—sliding down before I could stop them.

Holy mother of—

He was huge.

Like…ruin-your-life huge. Thick, hard, and still half-ready even after I’d tried to rearrange his insides. The air left my lungs in a whoosh. Heat flooded my face, and lower, and I hated myself for it.

Snap out of it, Hazel.

Focus. You're angry. You're furious. You're putting him in his place.

Not staring at his…royal weapon.

I dragged my gaze back up to his face and poured every ounce of ice I had into my voice.

“Listen carefully, Mr. King,” I said, slow and clear. “I don’t know what’s going on in that thick skull of yours tonight, but you will never touch me again. Ever.”

His eyes flashed. He took one step closer, completely naked, completely shameless. “We have a duty. The kingdom expects an heir—”

“Then go make one with your mistress,” I snapped, hopping off the bed with the blanket wrapped around me. “I hear she’s your favorite. She’s dying to give you babies, isn’t she?”

His jaw ticked. A muscle jumped in his cheek. “What is wrong with you, Hazel? You’ve always wanted this. I saw it. Every time I touched Liora, I see the look in your eyes—”

"Oh shut up,” I cut in."You're delusional. COMPLETELY delusional. You let your mistress bully your queen, mock her, parade around like she was the real queen. And now—because you suddenly feel bad, or horny, you think I’ll just roll over and thank you?”

I laughed again, colder this time. “News flash, Your Majesty. This queen doesn’t spread her legs for men who aren’t worthy. And what just happened? That little mess you made?” I waved a hand between us. “It will NEVER happen again. Ever.”

Something in his eyes shifted—hurt? Rage? Shock? I didn't care.

He grabbed my wrist so fast I didn’t have time to jerk away. His grip was iron.

“Everyone expects us to consummate this marriage tonight.” He growled. "What am I supposed to tell them tomorrow when there’s no blood on the sheets?”

I smiled, slow and mean.

Then I yanked my hand out of his grip.

“Tell them the king wasn’t good enough.”

His entire body froze.

“... Pardon?"

“You heard me." I shrugged casually, though my heart was pounding with adrenaline. “Tell them you couldn’t get it up. Or you finished in ten seconds. Or—my favorite—that you’ve been sleeping with your mistress so long, you’ve got performance issues with your actual wife. Who knows? Maybe you might have low sperm count.”

He eyes widened in pure horror.

“Have you lost your damn mind?”

I yawned—huge, dramatic, fake as hell. “I’ve had one hell of a day. Or nightmare. Whatever this is. I’m tired, and I need sleep. So good night, Mr. King.”

I turned to climb onto the bed, but his hand shot out and grabbed my arm, spinning me back to face him.

“We are consummating this marriage,” he snarled.

I looked down at his hand on my arm, then up at him, sweet as sugar. “You only get what you deserve. And you? You've earned NOTHING from me.”

His jaw flexed, muscles ticking.

“If you’re that desperate to get laid, go to your mistress. I’m sure she’s waiting with her legs already open.”

I yanked free, climbed under the blankets, and pulled them up to my chin. He stood there, breathing hard, staring at me like he didn’t recognize me.

After a long, furious silence, he turned toward the bed.

I sat up suddenly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He threw me a cold look over his shoulder. “Going to bed.”

“Hell no.” I pointed across the room. “You’re sleeping on that couch.”

He raised an eyebrow. “This is my room.”

I smiled, all teeth. “Then I’ll walk downstairs right now—in this blanket—and tell everyone how bad you were. How you couldn’t even last long enough to make it interesting. How I got bored.”

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. His eyes went absolutely arctic.

Without a word, he grabbed a pillow off the bed, stalked to the fancy couch on the far side of the room, and threw himself onto it like it had personally offended him.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

The couch was small compared to his frame. His legs hung off the end, one arm draped over his face, the other clenched into a fist. He looked ridiculously uncomfortable, anger rolling off him in waves I could feel from here.

I couldn’t resist.

I let out the most satisfied, over-the-top sigh I could muster, stretched like a cat, and sang, “Good night, Mr. King. Sweet dreams.”

The only answer was a low, furious growl from the couch.

I grinned into the dark.

This might not be my life.

But damn, I was having fun ruining his.