Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 167

Natasha's POV

We entered a different square than before, this one clearly reserved for the Lycan elite. Lords and ladies in their finest clothes mingled beneath strings of lanterns, their laughter and conversation carrying the unmistakable scent of privilege and power.

I felt out of place here, even dressed as I was. These were the people who owned humans like property, who saw my kind as nothing more than slaves and pleasure objects.

"Caelan! There you are!"

A group of well-dressed Lycans called out, waving him over. I recognized a few faces from the feast at Caelan's manor—minor lords and their companions.

"I must speak with them," Caelan said apologetically. "Will you be alright here for a few moments?"

"Of course," I assured him, grateful for the chance to be alone with my thoughts. "Take your time."

I retreated to a shadowed corner at the edge of the square, watching as Caelan joined his peers. They glanced at me curiously, clearly wondering who I was.

I leaned against the wall, letting the shadows hide me, and tried to calm my racing thoughts. The heat was coming. Soon. And I had no idea what I was going to do about it.

"Lady Natasha."

The voice came from behind me—deep, familiar, sending shivers down my spine.

I froze, my heart suddenly pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Mordred.

I stood there, my back to him, afraid that if I turned around, my body would betray me again. Afraid that I wouldn't be able to hide what I felt, what I wanted.

I should leave. Should make some excuse and walk away before this became more complicated than it already was.

But my legs wouldn't move. My body refused to obey my mind's desperate commands.

Slowly, reluctantly, I turned to face him.

He stood a few feet away, partially hidden in the shadows like me, dressed in dark formal attire that made him look every inch the king he was. The moonlight caught in his dark hair, made his amber eyes seem to glow.

"Your Majesty," I managed, my voice barely steady. I curtsied, using the formal gesture to buy myself a moment to compose my features.

"I apologize for startling you," he said, moving closer. "I saw you standing here alone and thought... I hoped we might speak."

The pull between us was immediate and overwhelming—the bond singing in my chest, demanding that I close the distance, that I touch him, claim him.

I forced myself to stay still, to maintain the proper distance between a king and a lord's companion.

"Of course, Your Majesty," I said. "Though I'm not sure what we have to speak about."

A slight smile tugged at his lips. "Don't you? After what happened between us in the garden yesterday?"

Heat flooded my face. "That was... we shouldn't have..."

"No," he agreed. "We shouldn't have. You're betrothed to Caelan. I had no right to touch you that way."

But even as he said it, his eyes were roaming over me with unmistakable hunger.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he admitted, his voice dropping lower. "About how you felt in my arms. How you smelled. How you responded to my touch."

"Your Majesty, please," I whispered, glancing around nervously. "Someone might hear."

"Then walk with me," he said, gesturing toward a path that led away from the square, into the gardens. "Somewhere we can speak privately."

Every rational part of my mind screamed that this was a terrible idea. That I should refuse, should stay here in the safety of the crowd, should maintain the distance that propriety demanded.

But the bond was pulling at me, the need to be near him almost painful in its intensity.

"I... I can't," I said, the words feeling like they were being torn from my throat. "It wouldn't be appropriate. I'm engaged to Lord Caelan."

Mordred's expression shifted—disappointment mixing with understanding. "Of course. Forgive me. I shouldn't have asked. It was inappropriate of me to even suggest it."

He took a step back, putting more distance between us, and the loss of his proximity felt like a physical ache.

"I apologize, Lady Natasha," he said formally. "I seem to keep overstepping with you. I'll leave you in peace."

He turned to go, and something inside me broke.

I couldn't let him leave. Couldn't bear the thought of him walking away, of losing this moment, of denying what we both felt.

Propriety be damned. Consequences be damned.

I needed him.

"Wait," I called out, my voice breaking.

He stopped, turning back to look at me with surprise and hope.

I didn't let myself think. Didn't let doubt or fear or rational thought stop me.

I ran to him, closing the distance between us in a few quick steps, and threw my arms around him from behind, pressing my face against his back.

"I changed my mind," I whispered against his coat. "I want to go with you. Please. Take me somewhere private."

For a moment, he didn't move. Then slowly, he turned in my embrace, his hands coming up to cup my face.

"Natasha," he breathed, and the way he said my name—with such longing, such need—made my heart ache.

"I know it's wrong," I said, tears pricking at my eyes. "I know we shouldn't. But I can't... I can't stay away from you. I've tried, and I can't."

"Neither can I," he admitted, his thumb brushing across my cheek. "God help me, I've tried to forget you, to convince myself that what I feel is just physical attraction. But it's more than that. So much more."

He glanced around quickly, then took my hand and led me away from the square, into the gardens, away from the lights and the crowds.

We didn't speak as we walked, both of us moving quickly, urgently, until we reached a secluded area where the trees grew thick and the sounds of the festival were distant and muffled.

And then he was pushing me back against a tree, his mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that was desperate and hungry and absolutely consuming.

I kissed him back with equal fervor, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything.

His hands roamed over my body—my waist, my hips, my breasts—touching me through the layers of silk and lace, making me gasp and moan into his mouth.

"We shouldn't," he murmured against my lips, even as his hands continued their exploration. "This is wrong. You're engaged. I'm the king. We shouldn't—"

"I don't care," I interrupted, pulling him back down for another kiss. "I don't care about any of that. I just want you. Please."

He groaned, and I felt his control snap. His kiss became more demanding, more possessive, his body pressing against mine, pinning me to the tree.

In that moment, all my worries—about the heat, about my disguise, about the impossibility of our situation—faded away.

There was only this. Only him. Only the overwhelming need to be as close to him as possible.