Vanished Sisters: The Lycan King's Slave Island Chapter 28

Matilda's POV

Fergus's other hand moved from my waist to my hip, then slid down to grip my thigh. He lifted it—careful, so careful of my belly—and hooked my knee over his hip, giving me support, giving me leverage.

The position pressed us closer together.

I could feel him now. The hard length of him beneath his leather trousers, trapped between us. He was aroused too. Of course he was. I was lactating and practically in heat, and he was an alpha male whose control was already hanging by a thread.

But he didn't do anything about it. Didn't grind against me. Didn't reach between my legs. Just held me steady and continued to drink, his rhythm never faltering.

"Please," I heard myself say. My voice sounded strange. Desperate. Not my own. "Fergus, please. Don't just—don't just use your mouth. I need—"

He finally lifted his head. His lips were wet with milk. His eyes—still ringed in red—were wide with something between alarm and desire.

"Tilda—"

My fingers found his belt buckle. Started to undo it.

He caught my wrists. Gently but firmly. "Stop."

"I know." His voice was strained. "But no. Do what you used to do if you can't help it."

I didn't let myself think. Just acted on pure instinct, rolling my hips against the hard muscle of his thigh, seeking friction, seeking *anything* to ease the building pressure.

The first movement sent sparks through me. The second made me gasp. By the third, I was riding his thigh with abandon, my hands fisted in his hair, my breath coming in short, desperate pants.

"That's it," Fergus murmured against my breast. "Take what you need. I've got you."

His mouth moved to the valley between my breasts again, licking up the milk that had spilled there, then returned to suckling with renewed intensity. His hand on my thigh tightened, not restraining my movements but guiding them, helping me find the rhythm that would—

Oh gods.

The orgasm hit like a lightning strike. One moment I was climbing, and the next I was *there*, crying out into the silence of the study as my body clenched and released in waves of pure, overwhelming sensation.

Fergus held me through it. His mouth never stopped moving. His hands kept me pinned to the wall, kept me safe, kept me from collapsing.

When it was over, I slumped against him, boneless and panting.

He finally lifted his head. His lips were wet with milk. His eyes—still ringed in red—looked clearer now. More focused.

"Better?" His voice was hoarse.

I managed a shaky laugh. "Which one of us are you asking?"

"Both."

"Yes." I swallowed hard. "Yes, I'm... Gods, Fergus, I don't know what—"

"It was hormones. Chemistry. Nothing more." He lowered my leg carefully, making sure I could stand on my own before releasing me. "You gave me what I needed. Your body responded. That's all."

"Is it?"

He stepped back. Created distance. His jaw was tight, his fists clenched at his sides again, but the violent tremor that had been in them before was gone.

"It has to be." He picked up my cloak from where it had fallen, draping it around my shoulders with surprising gentleness. "Gareth is outside that door. You're carrying his child. And I will not—*will not*—dishonor a male who's served me faithfully for decades."

I pulled the cloak closed, suddenly cold despite the fire in my veins. "You didn't—"

"I know what I didn't do. I also know what I wanted to do." His eyes met mine, and in them I saw decades of discipline, of denial, of choosing duty over desire. "Go back to your mate, Tilda. Forget this happened."

"How can I—"

"The same way I will." He turned away, moving back toward the window. "By remembering that some lines, once crossed, can't be uncrossed. And I've crossed too many already."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to say something—anything—that would ease the sudden, sharp ache in my chest. But before I could find the words, the door burst open.

Gareth stood in the doorway, his face pale, his chest heaving.

"My lord—" His eyes found mine first, scanning me for injury, before snapping back to Fergus. "Forgive me for entering without—"

"Speak." Fergus's voice was sharp. Commanding. The brief vulnerability of moments ago was gone, replaced by the iron control of a leader. "Now."

"It's Mordred." Gareth's throat worked. "The King. He's—"

"What about him?"

"He's gotten out."

The words fell into the room like stones into water.

Fergus went perfectly, terribly still.

"What did you just say?"

"There was a commotion. In the Howling Citadel." Gareth's hands were shaking. "He broke through the inner gates, my lord."

Fergus moved to the window in three strides. His hands gripped the stone sill—the same way they had when I'd entered, but this time with a different kind of tension. A different kind of fear.

Outside, in the distance, I could see the dark silhouette of the Howling Citadel rising against the night sky.

And from its depths came a sound that made my blood freeze.

A howl. Long and low and filled with such primal rage that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the world.

"Get everyone inside," Fergus said quietly. Too quietly. "Now. Lock every door. Secure every entrance. And someone find Sebastian and tell him—" His jaw clenched. "Tell him the feast is over."