23 Boldness

**Annabel’s POV**

Darius shoved me into the room, slamming the door behind him. His eyes burned with fury as he loomed over me, his presence suffocating.

“What makes you think you can speak to me like that? In public? In front of your friends?” he demanded, his voice a sharp, accusatory blade. “What have you been telling them about me?”

I stared at him, caught off guard by the barrage of questions. I didn’t know which one to answer, or if answering would even matter. His anger seemed more about control than clarity.

“Are you suddenly mute?” he growled, and I shook my head, trying to form words, but nothing came out. 

My mind spiraled, replaying everything that had happened to me since Maxwell’s death. 

The abuse, the rejection, the hopelessness. It all threatened to swallow me whole, but I forced the tears back. I couldn’t go down that path again. Not here. Not now.

My legs gave way beneath me, and I sank to my knees. It wasn’t a gesture of submission; it was the weight of everything crashing down, a burden I could no longer bear.

“I don’t know what’s expected of me, Your Majesty,” I said, my voice trembling but resolute. 

“If the bond offends you so much, please reject me. If my presence offends you, then end my life. I honestly don’t know why I’m still here. It would be a blessing if you eliminated me. I’m not useful, nor am I indispensable. There are plenty of slaves to serve you food, to do your bidding. You wouldn’t be losing anything by sending me away.”

The words spilled out, raw and unfiltered. I meant every one of them. It had only been two days, but I already knew I couldn’t survive another cycle of hatred and abuse. Not again.

Darius’s expression shifted, though I couldn’t tell if it was disbelief, frustration, or something else entirely. 

“You can’t wait to join Maxwell in the afterlife,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery, a faint chuckle escaping his lips.

I stayed silent, refusing to rise to the bait.

“What a joke,” he continued, his voice laced with bitterness. “How could Fate tie me to a woman who’s still hung up on her ex?”

The annoyance in his tone was unmistakable, and I clenched my hands into fists, willing myself to stay composed. 

He didn’t want this match, and neither did I. But his words stung more than I cared to admit. It wasn’t just rejection—it was contempt, as if my grief, my very existence, was an affront to him.

I looked down, not trusting myself to speak. Anything I said now would only make things worse.

“I can’t aspire for anything under these circumstances,” I said, my voice steady though my heart pounded in my chest. 

“There’s nowhere for me to go, Your Majesty. I have no family and no home. It has nothing to do with my late husband. I held on to hope after he passed away, but now… now it’s different. I’m a branded slave. I can’t aspire to anything. Even the bond we share might just be a fluke—a mistake by Fate—because this is impossible. Rejection and death are inevitable for me. That’s what happens to slaves. They die eventually. All I’m asking for is a quick death. Mercy. It has nothing to do with Maxwell.”

Darius growled, a deep and guttural sound that sent a shiver down my spine. His composure was slipping, and I braced myself for whatever was to come.

“Let this be the last time you ask for such things,” he said, his voice suddenly calm but no less commanding.

“Then please,” I pressed on, my words soft yet resolute, “take me off your personal service. Send me to the farm, the kitchen, or the captive grounds to work. I will be of use there.”

His eyes locked on mine, and in an instant, he was standing before me. He knelt, his hand gripping my chin and tilting my face upward. 

The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming, his eyes searching mine as if trying to decipher a secret I didn’t know I carried.

“And you think I would allow your beauty to be marred by dirt, sun, and hard labour?” he asked, his voice low and deliberate. “Anything that is mine stays protected, Annabel. You are mine, and I will do with you as I please.”

His words sent a jolt through me, a mix of anger and confusion. 

He leaned closer, his eyes flashing gold before darkening again. I felt an invisible pressure settle over me, heavy and unyielding—his alpha’s dominance, undeniable and suffocating.

“I won’t send you to work under harsh conditions,” he continued, his tone both possessive and final. “And don’t you ever use bleach on your skin again? Your scent might drive me insane, but it is meant for me and me alone.”

The power radiating from him made it impossible to move or even speak. I could only stare at him, my body frozen under the weight of his words and his presence.

“Rest up for today,” he said finally, standing abruptly. “Resume work tomorrow.”

With that, he turned and left the room, his footsteps heavy as the door closed behind him.

As soon as he was gone, a wave of frustration and rage bubbled to the surface. 

I rushed to the bed, buried my face in the pillow, and screamed until my throat burned. 

Who the hell did he think he was? The mental torture he inflicted was worse than any physical pain, and he seemed to excel at it.

The absurdity, the cruelty, and the twisted possessiveness of it all overwhelmed me. For all his power and control, he was no savior, no protector—only a tormentor who kept me bound in a gilded cage.