The Moon Knows How to Play

Prologue

Prologue

The bass was pounding so loud I swore the tiles of the poolside were shaking with every drop. Neon lights splashed over half-naked bodies moving in chaotic rhythm. Laughter, screams, the clinking of glasses, the sharp crack of bottles being popped—every sound merged into a blur of reckless summer heat. The scent of chlorine mingled with cheap perfume, beer, and sweat. A pool party wasn't supposed to feel like a battlefield, but that's exactly how it felt: bodies fighting for attention, egos colliding, hormones raging.

And in the middle of it all stood me.

Thunder Apolonio de Mayor.

The name alone was enough to make women whisper, gasp, bite their lips. I didn't even have to try. I just existed, and they fell. It wasn't arrogance—it was fact. A fact proven tonight, as bikini—clad women screamed my name alongside my brother's.

"Thunder! Tornado!"

"Strip! Strip!"

They were animals in heat, desperate for a glimpse of godlike flesh. Tornado and I exchanged a knowing smirk, a silent agreement carved by blood and brotherhood. We gave them what they wanted. With one swift motion, I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it into the pool. Tornado did the same. The crowd erupted in hysteria, hands reaching, bodies pressing forward like disciples clawing for a piece of their gods.

Women shrieked, some nearly collapsing, others fighting like vultures for our discarded shirts floating on the water. One brunette caught mine, hugged it to her chest as if she'd just been handed the Holy Grail.

Pathetic.

I smirked. They worshipped us not just for our names but for what we looked like without the fabric. Sculpted muscles carved through years of discipline, abs that drew their eyes like magnets, broad shoulders and perfect symmetry. Tornado and I were built like warriors, like living statues of Olympus. And we knew it.

"Fuck, you two are insane," one guy muttered near the bar, glaring at us as his girlfriend openly drooled.

I shot him a glance sharp enough to slice through bone. He looked away instantly. That's right. Know your place.

But here's the truth: as much as I loved the admiration, I hated the noise. The sea of girls pressing forward, the fake squeals, the claws—they were background noise. Distractions. Shrimps, not angels. Their bodies were there, sure, but they were empty. Hollow shells. I didn't want shrimps. I wanted angels. Women whose beauty could silence a room. Women worth corrupting.

And then I saw her.

My gaze cut through the chaos and landed on a girl who didn't belong.

She wasn't screaming. She wasn't bouncing. She wasn't grinding against sweaty bodies like the rest. She was sitting quietly by the pool bar, posture relaxed, one arm resting on the railing, her green eyes staring down at the rippling blue water as if the noise around her didn't exist.

Her hair was tied in a messy ponytail, strands falling around her face in a way that wasn't styled but still flawless. Her bikini was simple, black, hugging curves that didn't need exaggeration. Her skin was pale, glowing under the neon light, flawless and begging to be touched. She wasn't trying. And that's what made her lethal.

My cock stirred instantly, hardening with the image of my hands tearing off that black fabric, my mouth on her breasts, my lips trailing down the soft slope of her stomach to her thighs, tasting her until she screamed my name.

Fuck.

She was my type.

My eyes devoured her. The swell of her breasts rising with each breath, the curve of her hips, the length of her creamy legs. I imagined her beneath me, moaning, nails digging into my back. I imagined breaking her, ruining that calm façade with pleasure so raw she'd never recover.