4 | Defying the King
962 Words
Darcy
The air in the room turns into razor blades.
Ronan’s words hang suspended in the silence, heavy with intent. He is going to do it. He is going to rip the bond out of our chests before it has even fully formed.
"I, Ronan Thornfield..." he begins, his voice thundering with the power of his bloodline. "...reject you, Darcy Allen, as my..."
Crack.
It isn't a sound. It is a feeling.
A sensation like a whip snapping against my heart.
"AGH!"
The scream tears from my throat before I can stop it. Pain, white-hot and blinding, explodes in my chest. It feels like someone has reached inside my ribcage and is crushing my lungs with a red-hot iron fist.
I double over, clutching my shirt, gasping for air that refuses to fill my lungs.
But I am not the only one falling.
Thud.
Amos drops to one knee, his face twisting in agony. He groans, a deep, guttural sound of suffering.
Damon slams his fist into the wall, cracking the plaster, his other hand gripping his heart. "F*ck! Ronan, stop!" he roars, his teeth bared in a snarl.
Even Alastair, usually so composed, stumbles back, his skin turning a sickly shade of gray. He grabs the back of the sofa to stay upright.
"You can't..." Alastair wheezes, his eyes wide with panic. "Ronan, you can't complete the sentence. It’s too strong. You’ll kill us all!"
Ronan stands frozen. He looks pale, sweat beading on his forehead. His hand is pressed against his own chest, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his suit. He is in agony, but his pride is keeping him upright.
He tries to speak. He tries to say the last word. Mate.
But he chokes. The bond tightens around his throat like a noose.
"Why..." Ronan gasps, glaring at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. "Why won't it break?"
He lunges at me.
I try to scramble back, but my legs feel like lead. The pain is receding, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache, but the fear returns tenfold.
Ronan grabs my shoulders. His grip is bruising. He shakes me.
"What did you do?" he demands, spitting the words in my face. "What kind of black magic is this? An Omega cannot withstand a rejection from a Prime Alpha! You should be unconscious! You should be broken!"
"I... I didn't do anything!" I cry, tears streaming down my face. "I don't want this either!"
"Liar!"
Ronan releases me with a shove. I stumble but manage to stay on my feet.
He paces the room, running a hand through his hair, looking like a caged beast. He turns to the others. Damon is breathing hard, watching me. Amos is still on the floor, looking at me with... concern?
"She is defective," Ronan decides coldly. "Or she is a witch. Either way, she is dangerous."
"She is our mate, Ronan," Amos rumbles, his voice low. "Look at her. She's terrified."
"I don't care," Ronan snaps. He turns back to me. His golden eyes narrow.
"If I can't reject you," he says softly, dangerously, "then I will control you. Until I figure out how to get rid of you."
He straightens his spine. He draws himself up to his full height, channelling every ounce of his Alpha dominance. The air pressure in the room drops. My ears pop.
I know what is coming. The Alpha Command.
It is absolute. It overrides free will. When a Prime Alpha uses the Voice, an Omega has no choice but to obey. Our biology forces us to submit.
Ronan locks eyes with me. He opens his mouth, and his voice echoes with a supernatural resonance, layering over itself like a chorus of growls.
"KNEEL."
The word hits me like a physical blow.
Gravity seems to increase tenfold. A massive, crushing weight settles on my shoulders, trying to force me down. My knees tremble. My instincts scream at me to drop to the floor, to bare my neck, to submit to the King.
Damon and Amos watch, waiting for me to crumble. That’s the natural order. Alphas command, Omegas obey.
I grit my teeth. I feel my knees bending. I am going to fall. I am going to surrender, just like I always have. Just like they expect.
No.
A whisper rises from the depths of my soul. Not from my brain, but from my wolf.
They hurt us. They hunted us. We are not their toy. We are their Queen.
The heat in my belly flares up again. But this time, it’s not soft. It’s fierce. It’s a shield.
The crushing weight of Ronan’s command meets the wall of my rising power.
My legs stop shaking.
Slowly, agonizingly, I straighten my knees.
I lift my chin.
The silence in the room is deafening. Alastair’s jaw drops. Damon’s eyes widen so much they look like saucers.
Ronan looks like he’s seen a ghost. He takes a step back, his dominance wavering for the first time.
"Impossible," he breathes. "You... you're resisting."
I lock my gaze with his. I don't look down. I don't look away.
"I am not your subject, Ronan," I say. My voice sounds different. It’s not the weak whisper of Darcy the outcast. It is melodic, powerful, and terrifyingly calm.
I take a step toward him.
"And I will never kneel to you."
Ronan stares at me, paralyzed. He looks at my face, and then, his gaze locks onto my eyes.
"Your eyes," he whispers, horror and awe mixing in his voice. "They aren't brown anymore."
I blink. The world looks sharper. Clearer. I can see the dust motes in the air. I can smell the fear coming off... him.
"They're violet," Damon whispers from the corner. "Holy sh*t. She's a Royal."
- Writer
