Submission is Not My Style novel Chapter 93

She never embraced her. Never offered softness or love. Never once said the words I love you.

No, it wasn’t the Queen who raised her.

It was the omegas.

They had bathed her. Braided her hair. Whispered lullabies when she cried. Taught her how to smile when the world around her was cruel.

And the worst part? The part that made her blood boil?

Those filthy omegas felt more like family than her own blood. Disgusting.

Celestia swallows hard, eyes fixed on the darkened hallway ahead. Even now, she still chases something just out of reach- approval, love, a place where she truly belongs.

She will retrieve the necklace and prove her worth. And when she does, she’ll take her rightful place–beside Jack, as Queen.

Minutes pass in tense silence.

Then

A scream.

Ragged and sharp, tearing through the quiet. Her head snaps up just as the royal warrior stumbles back into view, clutching his right hand, his face twisted in a mixture of pain and awe.

“What now?” she snaps, standing quickly, her gown swishing around her legs.

He pants, eyes wide. “I found it. The necklace. But…”

“But?” she demands, stalking toward him.

“It sparks when I try to touch it. I–I couldn’t lift it. It’s like… it’s alive,” he breathes, shaking out his injured hand. A faint burn glows across his palm, red and raw.

Celestia stares at him, unblinking. “You’re saying it rejected you?

He nods, lowering his hand. “It belonged to the Alpha Queen–your mother. This isn’t an ordinary necklace. That kind of power only responds to true royal blood. Only someone of her line can handle it without consequence.”

A slow sigh escapes her lips as she brushes past him.

“Then let a true royal handle it.”

She glides into the bedroom with effortless grace. The drawer stands open, and within it rests a soft black pouch, gently pulsing with a faint, steady glow–like the beat of a heart.

Celestia approaches and carefully unfolds the pouch. Inside lies a necklace with a fine silver chain. Its pendant is shaped like a crescent moon, glowing with a deep, ocean–blue hue, threaded with glimmers of silver light. Ancient. Alive. Humming with raw, contained power.

Her eyes narrow. It was left out too easily. No protection. No wards No concealment.

As if someone wanted it to be found.

Still, she doesn’t dwell on the thought. Her fingers reach forward and pause.

A beat.

Then she touches the chain.

The burn is instant.

“Shit!” she hisses, jerking her hand back, eyes wide in disbelief.

A red welt blooms across her fingertips.

No.

No, no, no.

She tries again, forcing her hand through the pain–only to scream and drop to her knees as the necklace pulses brighter and spits a sharp jolt of fire through her skin.

Behind her, the warrior watches silently.

She tries a third time–desperation in her movements, fury in her eyes–but it’s no use. The moment her skin touches it, her hand snaps back like it’s touched the core of a flame.

She stares at her trembling fingers.

It burns her.

It burns her.

Her mind flashes back–her uncle’s voice like a ghost in her ears.

“Do you truly believe you share his blood?”

The words strike deeper now. More cruel. More real.

Her lips part, but nothing comes out.

No daughter of the Alpha King would be rejected by the sacred bond of her mother’s relic. No heir would be turned away by their birthright.

Unless-

She isn’t.

She isn’t the Alpha King’s daughter.

“Do you want me to carry it?” the warrior asks, softly this time. Too softly. Like he pities her.

Her spine stiffens.

“Can you?” she whispers, not turning around.

He walks to the drawer cautiously. Reaches down, lifts the chain–and growls through gritted teeth as flames lick at his skin. His fingers tremble, the skin blistering instantly, smoke curling upward from his palm but he doesn’t drop it. He holds the necklace, burning and crackling in his hand, until the glow dims to a simmering hum.

He straightens, breathing heavily. “There. You have it.”

Celestia finally turns to face him. Her eyes fall to his charred hand to the shaking in his arm–and then up to the faint smirk curving his lips.

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