Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 174

Caelan's POV

I sat in my study, trying desperately to focus on the ledger in front of me, but the numbers blurred together meaninglessly. I couldn't concentrate. Couldn't think about anything except what was happening in that cottage at the edge of my property.

Even from here, even with the distance and the closed windows, I could hear her.

Natasha's cries carried through the night air—desperate, broken sounds that made my chest ache and my instincts scream at me to go to her, to ease her suffering in the only way that would truly help.

"Please," her voice drifted through the darkness, raw with pain and need. "Please, someone help me. I can't... I can't do this alone."

This was torture. Pure, exquisite torture.

She was suffering, and I was sitting here doing nothing. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to go to her, to take care of her, to give her what her body was so desperately crying out for.

But I couldn't. I wouldn't.

Because she didn't want me. Not really. Her body might be willing to accept anyone right now, driven by the overwhelming need of the heat, but her heart belonged to someone else.

And I cared about her too much to take advantage of that.

Another scream echoed through the night—louder this time, more desperate—and I flinched, my hands clenching into fists.

"God, please," she sobbed. "It hurts so much. Please, somebody help me!"

I stood abruptly, pacing across the room, trying to put more distance between myself and the sound of her suffering. But it was useless. My Lycan hearing was too acute, too sensitive. I could hear every cry, every whimper, every desperate plea.

I could have covered my ears, pressed my hands over them like a child trying to block out frightening sounds. But what good would it do? I would still hear her. Still know she was suffering.

Still feel like the worst kind of coward for not helping her.

My body was responding despite my best efforts to control it. My cock was hard, straining against my trousers, my skin felt too tight, too hot. Every breath I took was filled with her scent, making it harder and harder to think clearly.

"Please," she sobbed again. "Please, I'll do anything. Just make it stop. Please..."

I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to block out the sound, trying to think rationally despite the fog of desire clouding my mind.

This was the right thing to do. Staying away was protecting her. She would thank me later, when the heat had passed and she was thinking clearly again. She would understand that I'd done this for her own good.

But God, it was hard. So impossibly hard to sit here and listen to her suffer when I knew—knew with absolute certainty—that I could end her pain.

Another scream, and this one was different. More agonized. More desperate.

"Help me!" she cried out. "Someone, please, help me! I'm dying! Please!"

Something inside me cracked.

I couldn't do this anymore. Couldn't sit here anymore.

I stood, my chair scraping loudly against the floor, and before I fully realized what I was doing, I was moving. Walking out of my study, through the hallway, out the door.

My feet carried me across the grounds toward the cottage, and I couldn't seem to stop them. Didn't want to stop them.

The scent grew stronger with each step, thick and sweet and overwhelming. It filled my lungs, clouded my thoughts, made my blood burn with need.

I wanted her. God, I wanted her so badly it was like a physical ache.

Every step closer to that intoxicating scent made the desire stronger, more consuming. My rational mind was being drowned out by something more primal, more insistent.

*Take her. Claim her. Make her yours.*

I reached the cottage door and paused, my hand on the handle, some last shred of rationality trying to assert itself.

This was wrong. I shouldn't be here. I'd promised myself I wouldn't do this.

But then I heard her again—a broken, desperate sob that made the decision for me.

I opened the door.

The scent hit me like a physical blow, so strong and concentrated that I actually staggered backward a step. The small cottage was saturated with it, thick enough to taste.

And there she was.

Natasha was on the floor, curled into a ball, her naked body gleaming with sweat in the lamplight. She looked up when the door opened, her eyes glazed and unfocused.

"Mordred?" she whispered, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Is that you?"

The name hit me like cold water, momentarily clearing the fog from my mind.

"No," I said, my voice rough. "It's Caelan. Not Mordred."

She blinked, confusion crossing her face, and then she was scrambling toward me on her hands and knees, desperate and graceless.

"I don't care," she gasped, reaching for me with trembling hands. "I don't care who you are. Please, just help me. Fuck me. Please, I'm begging you. I need it so badly. I'll do anything. Just please..."

Her hands grabbed at my legs, her face pressed against my thigh, and I could feel the heat of her breath through the fabric of my trousers.

For one terrible, tempting moment, I almost gave in.

It would be so easy. So simple. Just lower myself to the floor, give her what she was begging for, ease her suffering and satisfy the burning need in my own body at the same time.

She was offering herself to me. Begging me to take her. What harm could it do?

But then I looked down at her—really looked at her—and saw the desperation in her eyes, the way she was clinging to me like a drowning person clinging to driftwood.

This wasn't Natasha. This was the heat talking, stripping away everything that made her herself and reducing her to pure, animal need.

And I couldn't do it. Couldn't take advantage of her like this, no matter how much my body screamed at me to accept what she was offering.

With an effort that felt like tearing my own heart out, I stepped backward, pulling away from her grasping hands.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice breaking. "I can't. I'm so sorry, Natasha."

I backed out of the cottage, closing the door firmly behind me even as she cried out in protest, and leaned against it, breathing hard, my whole body shaking with the effort of denying what every instinct demanded.

I couldn't do this. Couldn't be the one to help her through this.

But I knew who could.

I strode back to the main house with renewed purpose, going straight to my study and pulling out parchment and ink.

My hand shook slightly as I wrote, but the words came easily:

*Your Majesty,*

*I apologize for the presumption of this late-night request, but an extremely urgent matter has arisen. I humbly beseech you to come to my estate tonight. There is something of great importance we must discuss.*

*Respectfully,*

*Lord Caelan*

I sealed the letter and went out to find a messenger.

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