Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 134

Natasha's POV

For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed. The only sound was the drip of blood, the crackle of the fireplace, the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.

Then Mordred turned away from the corpse as though it were beneath his notice, as though it were nothing more than garbage, his glowing eyes finding me in the crowd. He walked toward me with deliberate steps, blood dripping from his claws, from his jaws, and I stood frozen, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything but stare.

He stopped in front of me, and one massive, blood-soaked hand reached out to touch my face with surprising gentleness. His claws retracted, and he stroked my cheek with the back of his knuckles, a gesture so tender it brought fresh tears to my eyes, so at odds with the violence he'd just committed.

Then he bent down, and before I could process what was happening, he'd lifted me up and settled me on his broad shoulder, carrying me like a prize he'd won in battle, like something precious and worth protecting.

The assembled Lycans watched in stunned silence as the Beast turned and walked out of the tavern, carrying me with him, leaving Brennan's mutilated corpse behind, leaving a room full of shocked witnesses to process what they'd just seen.

I held my breath, rigid as stone, as Mordred carried me through the corridors and back to his den. When we arrived, he ducked through the doorway—the bars he'd destroyed earlier still lay scattered across the floor like broken toys—and set me down gently, my feet touching the ground with care that seemed impossible from such a massive creature.

I stood there, trembling, the image of Brennan's death replaying in my mind in vivid detail. The brutality of it, the absolute savagery, the casual way Mordred had torn him apart—it should have terrified me. It did terrify me. That cold, merciless fear seeped into my bones, reminding me exactly what Mordred was capable of, what he'd done to countless others before, what he could do to me if he chose.

But beneath the fear was something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like gratitude, like relief, like vindication, like justice.

Brennan had hurt me, had violated me, had threatened my sister. And Mordred had killed him for it. Had protected me. Had avenged me.

The Beast had protected me.

Mordred moved closer, his massive form looming over me in the dim light of the den. His red eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch, but there was no violence in them now, no rage. Instead, there was something almost... tender. Concerned.

He lowered his head, his nose moving to my chest, and began to sniff. Deep, deliberate inhalations that made his nostrils flare, his entire body focused on whatever scent he was detecting. His movements became more insistent, his nose pressing against my tunic, right over my breasts.

My heart raced as realization dawned. The milk. He could smell the milk leaking from my breasts, soaking into the bindings beneath my clothes. The scent must be driving him wild, triggering some primal instinct.

Then his tongue emerged—long, rough, covered in small barbs designed for stripping meat from bone—and he began to lick at my chest through the fabric of my tunic. The sensation was strange, the texture of his tongue catching on the cloth, the dampness spreading as he tasted the milk that had seeped through.

A voice whispered in my mind, urgent and insistent: *Feed him your milk.*

The thought should have horrified me, should have seemed absurd, impossible, wrong. But instead, it resonated with something deep inside me, something that felt right in a way I couldn't explain.

I'd been jealous of Selene, I realized. Intensely, painfully jealous of the Lycan woman who served as Mordred's wet nurse, who fed him, who provided for him in a way I couldn't. The thought of her with him, of her breasts in his mouth, of her nourishing him—it had eaten at me, made me feel inadequate, replaceable.

But now I had milk too. Now I could feed him. Now I could be the one to nourish him, to provide for him, to fulfill this most basic, primal need.

*Do it,* the voice urged. *Feed him. Make him yours.*

The desire was overwhelming, consuming, drowning out every rational thought. I wanted to feed Mordred. Wanted to feel his mouth on my breasts, wanted to give him my milk, wanted to bond with him in this intimate, irreversible way.

But the door to the den was wide open. Guards could rush in at any moment. The lords might return to check on the situation. Anyone could see, could discover my secret, could expose me.

The risk was enormous. The consequences would be catastrophic.

But the need was stronger than fear, stronger than logic, stronger than self-preservation.

My hands moved to my tunic, trembling as I pulled it over my head. Then the bindings, unwrapping them with shaking fingers, letting them fall to the floor in a pile of damp cloth. My breasts were revealed, swollen and heavy, milk beading on my nipples and running down in thin streams.

I stood there, naked from the waist up, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. Mordred stared at me, his red eyes fixed on my exposed breasts, his massive body tense, waiting.

He seemed hesitant, uncertain, as though seeking permission despite his obvious desire.

"It's okay," I whispered, my voice shaking. "Drink."

He moved forward slowly, carefully, lowering his massive head to my chest. His tongue emerged again, licking at the milk running down my breast, tasting it directly this time. Then his mouth opened, and he took my nipple between his lips—carefully, so carefully, as though afraid of hurting me.

A whimper escaped my throat as he began to suck.