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Luna POV
The air in Volterra was thick with the weight of ancient secrets.
Dusk pooled like spilled ink along the crooked cobblestones, softening the severity of the stone walls that surrounded the city’s heart. Luna Lovegood walked alone, as she often did, her butter-yellow travelling cloak flaring gently in the breeze. Her wand was tucked safely into her belt, though she hadn’t had need of it in days. The locals were cautious but polite, and the creatures she’d come to study—those that whispered just outside the edges of documented magical fauna—had yet to reveal themselves.
The creatures that reportedly only stirred when the sun had sunk below the horizon. Creatures drawn to blood, ancient ruins, and old, forgotten places.
Luna was no fool. People often assumed she was one. But that only made it easier to move unnoticed.
There had been rumours for decades—tales of red-eyed immortals with marble skin and the scent of snow on stone. She had dismissed them at first, thinking them a rehashing of old vampire lore. But when several Hungarian witches reported a magical disturbance near Volterra that had scrambled even their Seer’s vision, Luna’s curiosity had piqued. If these weren’t vampires as the wizarding world understood them, then what were they?
And if they were vampires… what was their relationship to magical balance?
That was why she came. Not to chase thrill or myth, but to investigate. To understand.
She’d never expected to find him.
The castle at the heart of the city was hidden in plain sight, veiled from the average Muggle eye and cleverly woven into the wizarding blindspots of modern Italy. Luna approached it not with caution, but reverence. There was something here. She could feel it in her bones—a soft hum in the earth, an ache behind her eyes.
And when the great doors opened to her knock, she did not flinch.
Inside, the world was carved of shadow and silk. Long hallways. Opulent murals. The hush of unseen sentries.
And then: a chamber. Wide, echoing, crowned by three thrones.
She walked slowly in, curiosity blooming rather than fear.
At first, she noticed only one figure—Aro, though she did not know his name yet—tall, dark-eyed, with a smile that gleamed too brightly. Caius stood beside him, all hard angles and mistrust, his pale hair gleaming like polished ivory.
But it was the third figure that stilled her breath. The man who hadn’t yet looked up. The one whose presence filled the room without sound.
He sat slouched in his throne as though held there by chains of grief, his dark hair dishevelled, eyes fixed on the stained-glass window behind the hall. Unlike the others, he didn’t react to her entrance. He didn’t move at all. And yet—
Luna’s breath caught.
It wasn’t his handsomeness, though he was undeniably beautiful—his marble skin, his high cheekbones, the curve of his mouth like something sculpted by longing itself.
It was the weight he carried. As if every moment he lived was in memory of another. A king who had once ruled with purpose, now smothered by mourning.
She took a step closer. Her fingers tingled.
He lifted his head.
Time did not slow—it ceased. The air collapsed in on itself. The world peeled away.
And in his eyes—eyes deeper than sorrow, darker than night—she saw herself reflected back.
Marcus POV
Marcus Volturi, one of the ancient and powerful vampire kings, has borne the weight of sorrow for millennia. Grief clings to him like a shadow, untouched by time, and not even the tireless efforts of his two brothers can pierce the gloom clouding his immortal soul. Disillusioned and weary, Marcus begins to contemplate the final end to his second life—eternal rest at last.
That is, until she arrives.
Everything changes in an instant. Among the vast emptiness, a singular presence shatters his despair—a curious, radiant soul unlike any he’s encountered before. Luna Lovegood, an enigmatic Magizoologist with stardust in her veins and wonder in her eyes, doesn’t just capture his attention. She brings him to his knees.
For the first time in thousands of years, Marcus feels something stir within him—hope, desire, connection. His true mate has arrived. And she is nothing like he ever imagined.
He froze.
Mate.
The word hit Marcus like a punch to the chest.
It wasn’t like the first time. This wasn’t Didyme. This wasn’t joy blooming in spring.
No, this was fire after frostbite. Pain sharp as lightning coursed through his undead flesh—searing, shattering, almost like rebirth. His hands clenched on the arms of the throne, and something primal in him stirred from its endless hibernation. He never felt so alive.
Mine.
The bond hit him hard and mercilessly, a golden thread snapping taut between his hollow ribcage and the soft, glowing heart of the strange girl in front of him. The throne beneath him groaned as he stood, not with grace, but raw power—centuries of silence cracking around him like brittle bone.
She didn’t run.
Luna tilted her head slightly, dreamlike and calm, her pale lashes casting faint shadows across her cheeks. “Oh,” she said, in that soft, lilting voice that never quite belonged to this world. “You’re not a creature… You’re a king.”
Marcus blinked, stunned. He hadn’t spoken aloud. Hadn’t moved. But she knew.
Her magic pulsed different—airy, yet vast. He could taste it on his tongue, like wind through ancient forests. Not fragile, no. She was ethereal, but not delicate. There was something unknowable about her. Something unshaped by time, like him.
Aro rose to his feet, brow furrowed. “Marcus?”
“She’s—” Marcus didn’t recognise the sound of his own voice, dry and unused. “Mine.”
Caius hissed quietly, but not at Luna. At fate. At surprise.
Luna’s expression remained dreamy, but her eyes flicked from Marcus to the other two men with careful interest. “Is this the part where you kill me, or…?”
“Kill?” Aro’s voice came out too fast, too eager, his eyes darted to Marcus before they locked on her. “No, my dear, I don’t think any of us are capable of harming you.”
“Very well, brother.” Caius agreed before he narrowed his eyes. “You’re a witch.”
“Don’t mind him, we hadn’t seen witches since the twins.” Aro added dryly. “Caius is merely excited to meet you,” The murderous glare Caius shot at Aro for his easy dismissal was far too telling.
“Magizoologist, actually.” Luna smiled faintly at the brothers’ antics. “But yes, I’m magical.”
Marcus took a step toward her, and every fibre of his being screamed to close the distance. “Why did you come here?”
“I was looking for creatures. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Marcus’s voice was low, rough as cracked earth. “You felt it too.”
Her heart fluttered, but not with fear. She looked at him then—truly looked—and saw it: the ache in his shoulders, the centuries of silence in his voice, the longing stitched into every breath.
“You’re terribly lonely,” she said gently. “No wonder you were drawn to me.”
Something in Marcus broke—fractured open like an ancient tomb. And what stepped forward from the ruin wasn’t grief, but hunger. Longing. Need.
He reached for her slowly, as though touching a miracle.
Luna did not flinch. “Do you bite?”
Marcus’s mouth quirked, the barest smile. “Not without consent.”
She giggled, soft and wild and wicked. “Then perhaps you’ll show me what else you do.”
And the court fell silent.
But within it, a heartbeat began anew.
-
The great hall had emptied, but Marcus remained still, unmoving beneath the dim chandelier light. His guards had long since vanished into the marble corridors, leaving only silence in their wake. Yet it wasn’t silent. Not to him.
He could still hear her.
The cadence of Luna’s breath. The heartbeat he hadn’t realised he’d memorised. Even now, through thick stone and echoing halls, it called to him. Tethered him. Tormented him.
She was his mate.
And she was upstairs.
His destined. Soft. Magical. Blonde.
He had not felt alive in centuries. And now—he burned.
Marcus vanished from the shadows in an instant, his silhouette no more than a blur in the lamplight. The castle’s halls whispered as he passed, yet not even the wind could keep up with him.
She had been given a room at the top of the west tower—a chamber rarely used. He doubted she had asked for anything so remote, but the guards had sensed it: that she did not belong among crowds or candlelit banquets. She belonged where the stars could see her.
Marcus reached her door. Stopped.
A heartbeat pulsed from within.
He closed his eyes, clutching the frame. His hand trembled—a testament to how long it had been since he had felt anything real. His body ached with the pull of her. Her scent was everywhere—soft, like old paper and wild lavender. The kind of perfume no one wore but nature herself.
He opened the door.
She was standing at the window in a slip of moonlight and nothing else but a silk nightgown. Her bare shoulders glowed. Pale and unguarded.
She didn’t startle.
“Hello there,” she said dreamily, turning her face to him, eyes shining silver in the dark. “You move very fast for someone so ancient.”
He closed the door behind him. Quietly. Reverently.
“You knew about me?” he murmured, his voice low and hoarse. It was unused to desire.
“I felt your powdery skin,” Luna replied, her smile soft and knowing. “You left before I could ask if your skin was always that cold. Or if your sight is affected by that milky white film.” Eyes locked on his.
Marcus’s breath hitched. He stepped forward—cautious, coiled.
“I did not want to frighten you. I—”
“You didn’t.” She turned to face him fully, and the candle behind her painted her hair gold. “You called me mate.”
Marcus stilled.
The word struck him like a wrecking ball. She remembered. Not being repelled by it. Not run from him. Yet.
“You heard that.”
“I hear many things others pretend not to say.”
He crossed the room in a blink, standing before her. Not quite touching. Not quite breathing.
“You shouldn’t be here, Luna.”
“But I am.” Her voice was a melody. “Isn’t that strange? I came to find magical creatures. I think I’ve found the most fascinating one.”
His control slipped.
In one breathless moment, he lifted her hand to his face and gently guided her hand to cup his cheek. He dragged it over his nose and then lips. He didn’t kiss it. Just inhaled. Reverent.
“You have no idea what I am,” he murmured.
She moved and placed both her hands on his neck, cradling it.“Yes I do, you are mine. That’s what’s important isn’t it,” she replied softly. “And I don’t mind.” Her fingers wriggling against his neck.
The tension in him cracked. His eyes sparkled with mischief. With a knowing smile, he brought one of her naughty palm to his lips and kissed her wrist. His teeth ached. Not from hunger—but from longing. From restraint stretched too thin.
Luna’s pulse danced under his mouth, and her breath quickened—not from fear. From invitation.
Her fingers slid into his dark hair at the nape, tugging him gently down.
And Marcus—ancient, mournful, cursed Marcus—let go.
His mouth found her throat, but not to bite. His lips traced the sensitive skin beneath her ear. She gasped—her fingers tightening. Her body arching toward his.
She was so warm.
He pushed the silk strap from her shoulder with trembling hands, his fingers shaking as they traced the curve of her collarbone. Luna didn’t pull away. She leaned in—closer, deeper—like she was the one seducing him.
He pushed her back against the cold stone wall. She gasped again, this time from the chill. But he was there—pressing against her, mouth hot on her neck, hands at her hips.
“You don’t know what you’re offering,” he rasped against her skin.
“I do,” she whispered, turning her head to give him more of her neck. “And you haven’t taken it yet.”
He growled. It was quiet. But it was primal.
One of his hands slid under the silk, cupping the swell of her thigh. He lifted her—effortless, instinctual—and she wrapped around him like she’d always belonged there. Her bare legs clung to his waist, her hands bracing against his shoulders.
Her head tilted back, hair spilling over the stone. She looked like an offering.
And Marcus drank her in with his eyes.
Only her.
She was softness in a world of stone. Moonlight wrapped in flesh. And she had chosen him.
He claimed her mouth with his, finally, and the kiss was anything but soft. It was centuries of starvation released in a heartbeat. She whimpered against his lips, and he swallowed it whole.
Her hands slid under his robe, feeling muscle forged by immortality. His body trembled as her warmth branded him, her hips rocking against his in silent invitation.
“Luna,” he breathed, voice cracked and dangerous. “If I start, I might not stop.”
“Then don’t,” she whispered, pupils wide, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised. “I don’t want you to.”
He tore the silk nightgown from her like paper. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, naked and unafraid. He pinned her to the wall, mouth roaming, teeth grazing—but not biting. Not yet.
Her breath was a symphony. His restraint was a war.
And as they bonded—slow, deep, reverent—she cried out his name like a prayer that had waited centuries to be answered.