Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 114

Natasha's POV

By the time we reached Fergus's chambers, I was barely conscious.

The room was large. Well-appointed. A massive bed dominated one wall. Bookshelves lined another. A fireplace crackled with warmth.

Fergus gestured to a chair near the fire. "Sit him there."

Davelina helped me into the chair. I bit back a groan as the movement pulled at my wound.

"I'll need hot water," Fergus said to one of the guards. "Clean cloth. And my medical supplies from the cabinet."

The guard hurried to obey.

Davelina knelt beside my chair. Took my hand in hers. "You're going to be okay," she said. "Lord Fergus will fix this. You're going to be fine."

I wanted to believe her. Wanted to feel safe.

But all I could think about was the blood. The pain. The terror of being helpless while Selene raised that whip again.

Fergus returned with a basin of steaming water and a bundle of clean cloth. He knelt in front of me.

"I need to clean the wound," he said. Not unkindly. "It's going to hurt. But it's necessary."

I nodded weakly.

He lifted the bottom of my clothes. Exposed the wound.

It looked worse now. The torn flesh. The blood still seeping out. The edges already starting to swell.

Fergus dipped a cloth in the hot water. Wrung it out.

And pressed it against the wound.

I screamed. Couldn't help it. The pain was excruciating.

Davelina gripped my hand tighter. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But he has to clean it or it'll get infected."

Fergus worked quickly but thoroughly. Cleaned away the blood. The debris from the thorn whip. He muttered something about the wound being deeper than he'd thought.

Finally, he sat back. "I'm going to stitch it closed. Then bandage it. You'll need to stay off your feet for at least a day. Maybe two."

He looked at Davelina. "You can wait outside while I—"

"No," I said. My voice was hoarse from screaming. "She stays. Please. I need her here."

Fergus studied me. Then nodded. "Very well."

He began stitching. Each pull of the needle brought fresh pain. But I gritted my teeth and bore it.

Davelina held my hand the whole time. Whispered encouragement.

When it was finally done—the wound cleaned, stitched, and bandaged—Fergus stood.

"You," he said to Davelina. "You should return to your quarters. Get some rest. Your brother will be fine."

"But—"

"That wasn't a suggestion," Fergus said firmly. "Go. Now. I need to speak with your brother. Alone."

Davelina looked at me. Uncertainty in her eyes.

I squeezed her hand. "It's okay," I whispered. "I'll be fine. Go."

She hesitated. Then leaned forward and hugged me gently. Careful not to jostle my wound.

"I'll come back tomorrow," she promised. "First thing. I'll check on you."

Then she stood and left. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Leaving me alone with Lord Fergus.

He moved to a side table and poured himself a glass of dark liquid. Whiskey, maybe. Took a long drink.

Then turned to face me.

"I need to ask you something," he said. "And I want the truth."

I swallowed. "Yes, my Lord?"

"What did you do to Mordred?"

The question caught me off guard. "I—what?"

"The King," Fergus clarified. "What did you do to make him so... fixated on you?"

"Nothing," I said quickly. "I didn't do anything. I swear."

Fergus's eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me. The first time—when he escaped and mounted you—I thought it was coincidence. Bad luck. Wrong place, wrong time."

He took another drink. "But now? Now he's broken out again. Crashed through the Great Hall. Taken you from an auction. Brought you to his personal Den. Protected you."

He leaned forward. "That's not random, boy. That's intentional. Purposeful. So I'll ask again—what did you do?"

Terror flooded through me. He thought I'd manipulated Mordred somehow. Used magic or tricks or—

"Nothing!" I insisted. "I didn't do anything! He just—he came for me! Both times! I didn't ask him to! I didn't want him to! I—"

"Calm down," Fergus interrupted. "I'm not accusing you of anything."

I stopped. Stared at him. "You're... not?"

"No." He sat in the chair across from me. "Because honestly? I don't care what you did. Or how you did it."

I blinked in confusion. "I don't understand."

Fergus leaned back. Studied me with those cold blue eyes.

"Mordred has been feral for years," he said quietly. "Lost to madness. To the beast. We've tried everything to bring him back. Magical remedies. Blood rituals."

He took another drink. "Nothing worked. Nothing even came close."

He set down his glass. "But then you appeared. And suddenly—for the first time in years—there are... moments. Brief flashes where the beast shows purpose. Awareness. Something beyond mindless rage."

My heart pounded. "I still don't—"

"I don't care if it's magic," Fergus interrupted. "I don't care if it's fate or luck or some quirk of your blood. All I care about is results."

He leaned forward. His eyes intense. "If there's even the slightest chance—even the most impossible, infinitesimal chance—that you could help restore Mordred's sanity... then I will do anything to make that happen."

I stared at him. "You want me to... what? Fix him?"

"Yes," Fergus said simply. "That's exactly what I want."

"But I don't know how!" I protested. "I don't even know why he's interested in me! I'm just a slave! Just a—"

"I don't care," Fergus repeated. "Figure it out. Use whatever connection you have with him. Spend time with him. Talk to him. Touch him. Do whatever it takes."

He stood. Towered over me.

"From this moment forward," he said, "your sole purpose—your only responsibility—is to restore the King's sanity. However you can. By whatever means necessary."

Fear and confusion swirled in my chest. "And if I can't? If there's nothing I can do?"

Fergus's expression was unreadable. "Then we're all doomed anyway. So you'd better find a way."