Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 112

Natasha's POV

They dragged me down.

Down endless flights of stone stairs. Down into the bowels of the fortress where no natural light reached. Where the air grew thick and foul with the stench of unwashed bodies, blood, and decay.

The dungeon.

I'd heard whispers about this place. Lucy had mentioned it once, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "Where they take slaves who forget their place. Where they send those who need to be broken."

And now I was being taken there.

Selene's claws dug into my shoulder as she shoved me forward. The two guards flanked us, their torches casting dancing shadows on the damp stone walls.

"Keep moving," Selene hissed when I stumbled on the uneven steps. "We're almost there."

The temperature dropped with each descending step. My breath came out in visible puffs. My thin slave dress offered no protection against the cold.

And then—sounds.

Moaning. Whimpering. The rattle of chains.

*Oh God. There are people down here. Living people.*

We reached the bottom of the stairs. A long corridor stretched before us, lined with iron-barred cells on either side.

And in those cells—

I tried not to look. Tried to keep my eyes straight ahead.

But I couldn't help it. Couldn't stop myself from seeing.

Skeletal hands reaching through the bars. Grasping at empty air.

"Please," a broken voice croaked. Male. Hoarse from disuse. "Water. Just a drop. Please."

Another voice. Female. Barely human anymore. "Food. Anything. I'll do anything. Please."

The cells were crowded. Three, four, sometimes five bodies crammed into spaces meant for one. Some lay unmoving on the filthy straw. Dead? Or too weak to move?

I couldn't tell.

"Don't waste your breath begging," Selene called out cheerfully to the prisoners. "No one's coming to help you. You're here until you die."

Her words were met with renewed moaning. Desperate pleas.

She laughed. Actually laughed.

"Music to my ears," she purred.

We passed cell after cell. Each one a portrait of suffering. Of hopelessness.

*This is where I'm going to die. In one of these cells. Forgotten. Starving. Begging for mercy that will never come.*

Finally, Selene stopped before a larger cell at the end of the corridor. Unlike the others, this one had a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. A small barred window at eye level was the only opening.

"Open it," she commanded the guards.

One of them produced a large iron key. The lock turned with a grinding screech.

The door swung open.

And I was shoved inside.

I stumbled. Caught myself before I fell. Looked around.

This wasn't like the cramped cells we'd passed. This was... different.

Bigger. Maybe fifteen feet square. But the extra space didn't make it better.

It made it worse.

Because this room had a purpose. A specific, terrible purpose.

The floor was stone. Stained dark with old blood. So much blood that the original gray color was barely visible. Decades—maybe centuries—of suffering had seeped into the very rock.

In the center of the room stood a thick wooden post. About seven feet tall. Iron rings embedded in it at various heights.

For binding.

Against the far wall, a brazier glowed with red-hot coals. And thrust into those coals—

Branding irons. Three of them. Their tips already glowing orange.

Beside the brazier, a large cauldron sat over its own fire. Water bubbled inside. Boiling. Ready.

And hanging from hooks on the wall—

Whips. Multiple kinds. Leather. Chain. And one that made my stomach turn.

A whip made entirely of thorns. Thick brambles woven together into a cruel instrument. Each thorn was as long as my fingernail. Wickedly sharp.

*One strike from that would tear flesh from bone.*

"Do you like your accommodations?" Selene asked. She'd stepped into the cell behind me. The guards remained outside. "This is where we bring slaves who need special correction."

She walked around me in a slow circle. Predatory. Savoring my fear.

"See that post?" She gestured to it. "You're going to become very familiar with it."

The guards moved forward without being told. They grabbed my arms—still bound behind my back—and dragged me to the post.

"No," I gasped. "No, please—"

"Shut up," Selene snapped.

They cut the ropes binding my wrists. For one moment, I was free.

I tried to run. Tried to fight.

But they were too strong. Too fast.

They slammed me against the post. Grabbed my arms and stretched them out to either side. Horizontal. Like a cross.

Iron manacles snapped around my wrists. Clicked shut. The chains attached to the rings in the post—just long enough that my arms were spread wide but not long enough to lower them.

I was trapped. Displayed. Helpless.

"Perfect," Selene purred. She approached me. Ran one finger down my cheek. "Now you look properly pathetic."

I tried to jerk away from her touch. The chains rattled but didn't budge.

Selene smiled. "Struggle all you want. Those chains have held stronger slaves than you."

She turned to the guards. "You can go. Wait outside. I'll call if I need you."

The guards exchanged glances. "My Lady," one ventured. "Are you certain you should be alone with a dangerous slave? In your condition—"

"I'm carrying Lycan blood," Selene interrupted. "Even pregnant, I'm stronger than ten humans. This pathetic little whore can't hurt me."

She looked at me. Her eyes gleaming with malice. "Can you?"

I said nothing. Just stared at her with as much defiance as I could muster.

The guards left. The heavy door clanged shut behind them.

Leaving me alone with Selene.

She walked slowly around the room. Examining the instruments. Choosing.

"See all this?" She gestured to the torture implements. "These are tools of correction. Of education. We use them to teach slaves their place."

She picked up the thorn whip. Tested its weight. The brambles rustled.

"This one is my favorite," she said conversationally. "One lash—just one—will flay the skin right off. Leave bleeding wounds that take weeks to heal. If they heal at all."

She turned to me. "Do you see the blood on the floor?"

I looked down. The dark stains. The puddles that never fully dried.

"That's from the last slave who spent time in here," Selene continued. "A young man. Very handsome. Lord Sebastian's personal favorite until he tried to escape."

She walked closer. "They brought him here. Whipped him with this very instrument. Twenty lashes. By the tenth, he was begging to die. By the twentieth, he couldn't beg anymore. Couldn't even scream."

My stomach churned. I tasted bile.

"He died three days later," Selene said. "From infection. From blood loss. From sheer agony."

She stood directly in front of me now. So close I could see the cruelty in her beautiful face.

"And very soon," she whispered, "your blood will join his. You'll add your screams to the echoes in this room."

She raised the whip. Ran her fingers along the thorns.

"But first," she said, "I want to hear you beg."