All Chapters of A slave to the alpha I rejected : Dark erotica 18+: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

“That slave is now the king’s priority,” the rumors spread, each version ending in shock and surprise from the servants who had witnessed what happened—and how protective the alpha had become in the past few days. The whispers reached Maverick’s ears as he stood in the greenhouse, where two maids spoke without noticing him. “Have you seen? It’s so strange—like Mistress Nyssa is fighting for the king’s attention, and all he focuses on is Celeste.” “Don’t think too much of it. She’s just there for his pleasure. Don’t forget Princess Maeve is here; she might be the king’s Luna!” the other shrieked. “We’ll see. The king hasn’t let anyone but Lady Muriel into his chambers since.” And they were right. Celeste had been confined to Syzar’s chambers. Maverick had tried multiple times to see her, but the guards refused him entry—this being the fourth attempt—and he now waited stubbornly by the doors. Syzar found him there, a growl rumbling in his throat as he eyed the Bluestone pr

They had found him—the assassin who’d attacked his mother and stabbed Celeste. Syzar’s silence was more alarming than any roar. Danger radiated from him as his muscles flexed, veins protruding along his neck and temples. They moved toward the throne room, and Celeste followed, needing to see the assailant for herself. Her side burned with each step, but she pushed through until they reached the throne room. Bound to a pillar was a tall male, his face a mess of cuts and bruises—clearly Cassian’s handiwork. Both eyes were swollen shut. Celeste stared, trying to recall the eyes she’d seen that night, but everything was a blur now. Syzar stepped forward. The man trembled, his pants soiled with urine, the alpha’s aura promising a cruel end. “We found him on the city’s outskirts—a rogue blending with a merchant caravan headed for Silverstone,” Cassian said. “You lowly bastard,” Syzar snarled. “You walked into my home and tried to kill my mother. Who sent you?” “My lord, it’s

The table was eerily silent, all eyes on Celeste. Even after Syzar’s cutting words—calling her nothing but his slave—she held herself with a quiet elegance that seemed to unsettle the room. Her movements were smooth as she ate and drank, a picture of grace under pressure. Nyssa broke the silence. “Well, at least you’re good for something here, slave. Come fill my cup.” Humiliation burned through Celeste. “Yes, mistress,” she murmured, beginning to rise—but Maeve took her hand and pulled her back down. “She is my guest tonight, attending as a princess of Crossvale. She will not be serving your drinks, Nyssa.” Cassian let out a sharp scoff. Everyone turned. “This is bullshit,” he snapped. “We’re not going to pretend the Orions didn’t ruin every life at this table. She stood by during Sorgale’s seige and Syzar’s torture, never once stopped her father’s killings, and played our alpha for a fool. Don’t mind me if I refuse to sit quietly beside her.” What was she to sa

Celeste felt her eyes flutter open to the soft weight of thick quilts draped over her. Though weak and sluggish, she tugged the heavy fabric aside to peer at the stab wound on her stomach. It felt strangely numb ,no sharp sting, no pulsing heat, only a dull, distant throb beneath the skin. She had felt the pain the wound last night, she as sure she had angry blood red line from the night before, yet now it appeared closed now, the edges sealed and pale as if time had rushed forward in secret. Her brows knitted in quiet confusion as the door creaked open and a maid stepped inside. “Excuse me, did Lady Muriel come in here?” Celeste muttered, throat parched and raw, each word scraping like dry sand against the tender lining of her mouth. “No, the healer was never called for you.” The maid’s eyes widened as she hurried closer, peering at the wound with a sharp intake of breath before retreating in disbelief at how quickly it had healed. As soon as the door clicked shut, C

Cassian had watched the entire ordeal, laying witness to Nyssa’s cruelty with a shocked, frozen expression tightening his features. The beta had never seen or expected Nyssa to be so vicious toward the king’s slave. Of course he should feel no pity; she was Orion blood, after all—the very lineage that had cost him everything. Yet something compelled him to help her to his quarters, to clean the blood from her shredded hands with rough, reluctant care, even as her quiet gratitude grated against his nerves like sand in a wound. He was no savior, and he would never be one for her kind. She was the daughter of a cold-blooded killer. The Orions would all suffer—that was the vow he had carved into his soul the day he woke to Callix’s grim voice recounting the siege, only to discover his left arm gone, severed in the chaos, leaving him maimed and raging. But the loss hadn’t lasted long in weakness. His metal prosthetic had since delivered far deadlier damage to his enemies, the col