Vanished Sisters The Lycan King's Slave Island novel Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Natasha’s POV

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The scream echoed through my dreams–high and ragged, tearing through the darkness like a knife. Davelina’s voice. I knew it was hers even though I’d never heard her make a sound like that before.

Natasha… Natasha, help me…

Then came the slam of iron–massive, echoing, final. The sound of a gate dosing in hell.

I jolted awake, gasping. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard it hurt. For a moment I didn’t know where I was. The darkness was absolute, pressing down on me like a living thing.

Just a dream. It was just a-

No. It wasn’t.

Somewhere above me, in the depths of this place they called Girl’s Hell, those screams had been real. I’d heard them last night–Davelina’s voice rising and falling in waves of agony. Until there was only silence.

I sat up too fast. The threadbare blanket slid off my shoulders, and cold air hit my bare skin like a slap.

I looked down at my body in the dim light filtering through the cell’s barred window.

God in heaven.

My arms were covered in scratch marks–deep, angry furrows where I’d clayed at myself during the night. Some had scabbed over. Others were still raw and weeping. My breasts ached with a dull, persistent throb, and when I looked down I could see they were swollen, the skin flushed

and tender.

But my thighs were the worst.

The insides were mottled with bruises–purple and yellow and sickly green Fingernail crescents marked the flesh in neat little rows where Id gripped myself. And there, on my left inner thigh, was a long gash where must have scratched too deep. It had crusted over with dried blood and something else. Something clear and sticky that made my stomach turn.

Lucy’s cold water had dried hours ago, leaving my skin tacky. That sickly–sweet musk still clung to me like perfume, mixing with sweat and the smell of my own shame.

I pressed my hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.

That wasn’t me. That creature writhing on the floor, touching herself, begging the empty air–that wasn’t me.

But it was. God help me, it was.

I scrubbed at my arms with shaking hands, trying to erase the phantom sensation of my own fingers sliding between my legs, finding that swollen, aching clit and-

“Stop it,” I whispered hoarsely. My voice sounded strange. Raw. Had I been screaming too? I couldn’t remember. That was a monster. A

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20:38 Thu, Feb 12. G

Chapter 12

monster wearing my skin. I didn’t want it. I didn’t.”

But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie.

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For those few terrible hours, I had wanted it. Desperately. With a hunger that consumed everything else–every thought, every shred of dignity,

every memory of who I used to be.

And the worst part?

Some dark, shameful corner of my mind whispered that it would happen again.

The binding cloth lay in a heap on the floor, yellowed with age and stiff with dried sweat. I picked it up with trembling fingers.

This was going to hurt.

I stood, my legs shaking, and positioned the cloth against my chest. My breasts were so swollen they felt like they’d burst at the slightest touch. Every movement sent sharp little stabs of pain through the tissue.

Good. Pain means I’m still human. Still here.

I wrapped the first loop around my chest, pulling it snug. Then tighter. And tighter still.”

“Come on,” I muttered through clenched teeth. “Flatten them. Make them disappear.”

I yanked the cloth until my ribs protested, until my breath came in short, shallow gasps. Until the soft curves were compressed into something that could pass–barely–for a boy’s flat chest.

My vision swam. Black spots danced at the edges.

Tighter. It has to be tighter.

I pulled the final loop with all my strength and tied it off with shaking hands. When I looked down, my chest was flat. Flat enough. It would

have to be.

My fingers fumbled with the rough work shirt someone had thrown at meesterday. The buttons were mismatched–brass, bone, wood- salvaged from God knows how many dead slaves‘ clothes.

I forced them through the holes one by one, my hands clumsy with fear and exhaustion.

Then another thought hit me, sharp as a blade between my ribs: Lucy.

She’d known everything. Seen me naked on the floor, writhing like an animal in heat. Seen me touch myself. Heard me moan and beg and-

My stomach heaved.

If Lucy decided to trade my secret for a chance at a better life… if she told one of the guards, or worse, one of the Lords…

“Find Davelina first,” I told myself firmly. “That’s all that matters. Find out if she’s still alive. Everything else can wait.”

But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I pulled on the rough canvas trousers and tied them with a length of rope.

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Chapter 12

If Daveling’s dead, what’s the point of any of this?

I shoved the thought away and started walking.

The corridors beneath Howling Citadel stank of rot and suffering.

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The walls were black volcanic rock, slick with moisture that seeped constantly from cracks in the stone. Torches burned in iron sconces, their

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