Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 171

Cealan's POV

I guided Natasha out of the main house and across the grounds toward the small cottage I kept at the far edge of my property. It was a simple structure, originally built as a guest house but rarely used. More importantly, it was isolated—far enough from the main house and the servants' quarters that her scent wouldn't drive every male on the property into madness.

The walk seemed to take forever. Natasha was leaning heavily on my arm now, her legs unsteady, her breathing coming in short, desperate gasps. The scent was so strong now that I had to breathe through my mouth to maintain any semblance of control.

Inside, the cottage was exactly as Margaret had described—simple but comfortable. A large bed dominated the center of the room, made up with fresh white sheets that looked cool and inviting. A sturdy wooden table held a pitcher of water and several glasses, along with a plate of bread and fruit. The windows were open, letting in the cool night breeze, and vases of lavender had been placed strategically around the room, their strong scent providing a small measure of relief from the overwhelming sweetness of Natasha's heat.

But Natasha barely seemed to notice her surroundings. She was pacing frantically now, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, her breathing ragged. Her hands moved constantly—scratching at her arms, pulling at her dress, touching her face, her neck, her chest, as though seeking some sensation that would provide relief.

"How do you feel?" I asked, though the answer was painfully obvious.

She continued her frantic pacing, her fingers scratching at her arms hard enough to leave angry red welts. "I'm so hot," she gasped, her voice breaking. "I feel like I'm on fire. My dress... I can't breathe in this dress. Can I... can I take off my clothes? Please?"

The desperation in her voice made my chest ache. I nodded, turning my back to give her what privacy I could, though I knew it was a futile gesture. In a few hours—perhaps less—modesty would be the least of her concerns.

I heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of buttons being torn free in her haste, the whisper of silk sliding over skin. And then silence.

I waited a moment longer before turning back around.

She was standing naked in the center of the room, and the sight of her stole my breath.

*Oh my dear god.*

I'd never seen Natasha's body before.

She had always been delicate, almost ethereal in her beauty—pale skin, slender frame, features that seemed too refined for this harsh world. But stripped bare and caught in the grip of her heat, she revealed a rare and wild loveliness that was almost painful to witness.

Her porcelain skin was slick with sweat, gleaming in the lamplight, flushed a delicate pink with fever. The flush spread from her cheeks down her neck, across her chest, painting her breasts with color. Her eyes, usually so sharp and intelligent, were glazed now, the pupils blown wide with desire and need.

The soft curves of her breasts were fuller than I'd realized, rising and falling rapidly with her labored breathing. Her nipples were tight and faintly reddened, already sensitive from the heat, standing out in sharp relief against her pale skin.

Her hips were gently rounded, feminine and enticing, leading down to long, slender legs that trembled with the effort of standing. And between her thighs, I could see the evidence of her arousal—her sex was already glistening with moisture, swollen and flushed with need.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains caught on the sheen of sweat covering her body, highlighting every curve, every hollow, every trembling muscle.

She was breathtaking. Devastating. A vision of feminine beauty and desperate need that made every instinct in my body scream at me to take her, to ease her suffering, to give her what her body was so desperately crying out for.

I forced myself to look away, to focus on her face instead of her body.

"It's going to get worse, isn't it?" she asked, her voice hoarse and broken.

I didn't want to lie to her. She deserved the truth, no matter how difficult. I nodded slowly.

"Much worse," I admitted. "What you're feeling now is just the beginning. The first stage. It will intensify over the next several hours until it becomes... unbearable."

She made a small, wounded sound and climbed onto the bed, curling into herself, her arms wrapped around her middle. She couldn't meet my eyes, her face burning with shame and fear and need.

"You'll help me through it, won't you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "You said you'd consider it. That you'd think about... about being with me during the heat."

My chest tightened painfully. This was the moment I'd been dreading.

"Natasha—" I started.

"Please," she interrupted, her voice breaking. "I can't do this alone. I can't survive it without... without someone. And you're the only one I trust. The only one who's been kind to me. Please, Caelan. I'm begging you."

"I'm not the one you want," I said gently but firmly, each word feeling like a knife in my own chest. "I can't in good conscience take your body when I know your heart belongs to someone else. When I know that every time I touched you, you'd be wishing I was him."

I moved closer to the bed, kneeling beside it so I could look her in the eye.

"I care about you, Natasha. You're my friend. And that's exactly why I can't do this. I can't take advantage of you when you're not in your right mind, when you're desperate and vulnerable and would agree to anything just to make the pain stop. And I won't do that to you."

Tears were streaming down her face now, leaving wet tracks through the sheen of sweat. "But what am I supposed to do? If you won't help me, then who will? I can't... I'm afraid I won't survive it. The pain... you don't understand how much it hurts already, and you're saying it's going to get worse?"