Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 170

Caelan's POV

"But I feel fine," Natasha protested, even as she swayed slightly on her feet. "I mean, I'm a bit warm, and I can't seem to stop talking, and my skin feels strange, but that doesn't mean—"

"Those are all signs of the early stages," I said. "The restlessness, the elevated body temperature, the increased energy followed by sudden fatigue. And most importantly, the scent. Natasha, you're broadcasting your heat to every male Lycan within a quarter mile radius."

She looked around frantically, and I was relieved to see that we were still alone on this section of the path. But that wouldn't last long. Not with how strongly she was scenting.

"We need to get you back to my estate," I said urgently, taking her arm. "Now. Before more Lycans catch your scent and things become... complicated."

She nodded mutely, all her earlier animation draining away, replaced by stark fear.

We hurried through the gardens, taking the less-traveled paths, avoiding the main roads where soldiers and festival-goers still lingered. I kept us to the shadows, moving as quickly as I dared without attracting attention.

But even so, I saw heads turning as we passed. Saw nostrils flaring, eyes tracking our movement. The scent was too strong now, too distinctive. Anyone with even a moderately sensitive nose would be able to detect it.

By the time we reached the gates of my estate, Natasha was trembling visibly, her breathing shallow and rapid. The scent rolling off her was stronger now, thick and sweet and absolutely irresistible to any male Lycan within range. It was like honey and flowers and something darker, more primal—a scent designed by nature to override reason and restraint.

I called for my head servant immediately as we entered the main house.

"Prepare the cottage," I ordered, my voice sharp with urgency. "The one at the far edge of the property, near the woods. Make sure it's stocked with water, food, clean linens. Fresh flowers if we have them—something with a strong scent to help mask... other scents. And do it quickly. We don't have much time."

The servant—an older woman named Margaret who had been with my family for decades—took one look at Natasha and understood immediately. Her eyes widened slightly as she caught the scent, but she was professional enough not to comment or ask questions.

"Right away, my lord," she said, bowing quickly before hurrying away.

I turned back to Natasha, who was pacing now in tight, agitated circles in the entrance hall. Her hands were running up and down her arms compulsively, leaving red marks on her pale skin where her nails scraped.

"How do you feel?" I asked, though I could see the answer written across her face.

"Hot," she gasped, her voice strained. "So hot. Like I'm burning from the inside. And my skin... it itches. Everything itches. My dress feels like it's made of thorns. I can't... I can't stand it."

She was fanning herself frantically with one hand while the other continued to scratch at her arms, her neck, anywhere she could reach. Sweat was running down her face and neck now, soaking into the collar of her dress, making the fabric cling to her skin.

"The cottage will be ready soon," I assured her, trying to keep my voice calm and steady. "Just hold on a little longer. Can you do that for me?"

She nodded, but I could see her control slipping with each passing moment. Her movements were becoming more erratic, more desperate, and the scent... God, the scent was overwhelming now, filling the entire entrance hall, so thick I could almost taste it.

Female Lycans in heat smelled intoxicating—it was a biological imperative, designed to attract mates. But an Endurer in heat? It was something else entirely. The scent was magnified tenfold, a concentrated essence of pure, desperate need that bypassed the rational mind and spoke directly to the most primitive parts of the brain.

And Natasha was no exception.

Even knowing she was my friend, even with no romantic feelings between us, even with my firm resolution not to take advantage of her vulnerability, I could feel the pull of that scent. Feel the way it stirred something deep and primitive in my blood, urging me to claim, to mate, to satisfy the need that radiated from her in increasingly powerful waves.

My body was responding despite my mind's protests—heat pooling in my groin, my cock beginning to harden, my instincts screaming at me to take her, to ease her suffering in the most primal way possible.

I swallowed hard, forcing down the unwanted arousal, reminding myself firmly that she was not mine, would never be mine, and that I would not—could not—take advantage of her in this vulnerable state.

The minutes crawled by with agonizing slowness. Natasha's pacing became more frantic, her breathing more labored. She kept pulling at her dress, trying to loosen the fabric, muttering about how hot she was, how tight everything felt.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes, Margaret returned.

"My lord," she said, slightly breathless from hurrying. "The cottage is ready. I've laid fresh linens on the bed, stocked the table with water and light foods, and opened the windows to let in the night air. I've also placed several vases of lavender throughout the room—it should help mask the scent somewhat."

"Excellent work, Margaret. Thank you," I said. "You may go. And please make sure that no one—and I mean absolutely no one—approaches the cottage for any reason unless I specifically summon them. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, my lord," she said, her expression grave. She understood the seriousness of the situation.