Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 172

Caelan's POV

"I won't let you get hurt," I swore, my voice steady and certain despite the turmoil in my own chest. "Trust me, Natasha. I promise you, I will not let you suffer through this alone. If it becomes necessary—if your life is truly in danger—I'll summon Mordred."

She looked up at me sharply, hope and fear warring in her eyes. "You would do that? But he—"

"If it means saving your life, then yes," I said firmly.

She was quiet for a long moment, processing this, and then asked in a small, frightened voice, "How long will this last? Because I can feel it building inside me, and it's already so much stronger than any heat I've experienced before. Stronger than anything I thought was possible."

I considered her question carefully, weighing honesty against kindness and deciding that she needed the truth.

"Given the intensity of what I'm sensing from you... possibly several days. Two at minimum. Perhaps as many as three or four if it's particularly severe."

Her eyes went wide with shock and horror. "Several days?!" Her voice rose to a near-shriek. "I'll die. I'll surely die. There's no way I can endure this for days. I can barely stand it now!"

"I won't let you die," I promised, reaching out to take her hand. Her skin was burning hot to the touch, almost feverish. "I swear to you, Natasha. I will not let you die. But right now, I need to leave this cottage. Your scent... it's becoming too strong. I need to put some distance between us before I lose control of myself."

She nodded, understanding flickering in her glazed eyes, and I stood quickly, backing toward the door.

"I'll be nearby," I assured her. "In the main house. If you need anything—anything at all—just call out. I'll hear you."

I left quickly, closing the door firmly behind me and taking several deep breaths of the cool night air, trying desperately to clear my head of her intoxicating scent.

But even outside, even with the door closed and several yards between us, I could still smell her. The scent clung to my clothes, my skin, filled my lungs with every breath.

This was going to be a very long night.

And I had a terrible feeling it was going to get much, much worse before it got better.

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Natasha's POV

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows cast by the lamplight dance and shift.

The cottage was quiet. Peaceful. The lavender scent was soothing, and the cool breeze from the open windows felt good against my overheated skin.

For a few minutes after Caelan left, I actually felt almost normal. The discomfort was still there—a low-level burning in my core, a restless energy that made it hard to stay still—but it was manageable. Bearable.

I closed my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep, to find some escape from the growing heat.

But sleep wouldn't come.

Every time I started to drift off, my body would jerk me back to wakefulness with another surge of heat, another wave of restless need that made my skin crawl and my muscles twitch.

I tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position. The sheets felt too rough against my sensitive skin. The pillow was too hot. The air was too thick.

Nothing felt right.

Hours passed—or maybe it was only minutes, I couldn't tell anymore. Time had lost all meaning, reduced to nothing but the endless cycle of discomfort and failed attempts at rest.

The burning in my core was growing stronger, spreading outward through my body like fire through dry kindling. My breasts ached, my nipples so sensitive that even the whisper of the sheet against them made me gasp. Between my thighs, I was wet—so wet that I could feel it coating my inner thighs, soaking into the sheets beneath me.

I squeezed my legs together, trying to ease the ache, but it only made it worse. The pressure sent sparks of sensation through me that were equal parts pleasure and pain.

I needed... something. Touch. Pressure. Relief.

My hand drifted down my body almost of its own accord, sliding between my thighs, seeking the source of the burning need.

But when my fingers made contact with my swollen flesh, the sensation was too intense, almost painful. I jerked my hand away with a gasp, tears pricking at my eyes.

This wasn't like the other heats. Those had been uncomfortable, certainly—the burning need, the desperate arousal, the way my body had demanded satisfaction. But they'd been manageable. I'd been able to find Mordred in his beast form, and he'd taken care of me, had fucked me until the heat subsided and I could think clearly again.

But this... this was different. This was bigger. More consuming. More devastating.

And I didn't have the beast to turn to anymore.

I sat up abruptly, unable to lie still any longer. My throat was burning with thirst, my mouth dry as sand. I needed water. Needed something to cool the fire that seemed to be consuming me from the inside out.

I stumbled toward the table where I remembered seeing the pitcher, my movements clumsy and uncoordinated. My legs felt weak, trembling with each step.

I was halfway across the room when it hit me.

Not physically—there was nothing there, no one in the room but me. But it felt like being struck by lightning, like every nerve in my body had been set on fire simultaneously.

The pain was indescribable.

It felt like a thousand knives were slicing through me, burning through my flesh, tearing at my insides, leaving trails of molten agony in their wake. Like my blood had been replaced with acid, eating away at me from within. Like my bones were splintering, my muscles tearing, my skin being flayed from my body.