Chapter 4

Natasha's POV

The ship's violent shudder woke me. My head throbbed where it had struck the wooden wall during the night, and for a moment I couldn't remember where I was. Then the stench hit—vomit, unwashed bodies.

My hands flew to my chest. The binding cloth was still there, tight enough to make breathing uncomfortable. Thank God.

"Lina," I rasped, shaking the warm body beside me. "Wake up. The ship's stopped."

Davelina stirred, her face pale in the dim light filtering through cracks in the hull. Around us, other prisoners were beginning to move, groaning and crying out. A child somewhere was sobbing for his mother.

The hatch above exploded open. Blinding grey light poured in, and a voice like grinding stone bellowed: "On your feet! Anyone still down in ten seconds gets the whip!"

Bodies scrambled upward. I helped Davelina stand, her legs shaking beneath her. We climbed the ladder with the others, pushed from behind by desperate hands, pulled forward by terror.

The deck was chaos. Creatures—Lycans, I supposed—prowled among us with leather whips, sorting prisoners like livestock. One grabbed a young woman by the hair and dragged her to the left. Another shoved an elderly man toward the right. Children screamed. Someone was praying in rapid French.

But it was the view beyond the ship that made my blood freeze.

We'd arrived at hell.

Massive black rocks jutted from churning water like rotted teeth. The sky was the color of lead, stained darker by what looked like volcanic ash. A crude stone harbor stretched before us, and everywhere I looked, I saw male prisoners—dozens of them—hauling crates under the supervision of Lycan overseers. Their backs bore whip marks. Their faces held no expression at all.

This was Bloodmoon Harbor. It had to be.

"Remember what I told you," Davelina whispered urgently, gripping my arm.

I nodded, keeping my cap pulled low.

A one-eyed Lycan with mottled brown fur strode onto the gangplank, surveying us with cold assessment. "Listen well, livestock. Males to the left—you're bound for mining. Females to the right for inspection. Pretty ones go to the fortress. Ugly ones to the kitchens."

No. No, no, no—

Rough hands seized my shoulder, yanking me away from Davelina. I struggled, but the grip was iron. "Stop! Let me stay with her!"

"Shut your mouth, boy." A clawed hand cuffed me across the ear, making my vision blur. "You're mine now."

I was dragged toward a line of male prisoners, their faces uniformly hopeless. Behind me, I heard Davelina cry out, but when I tried to turn, another blow knocked me to my knees.

Then—hoofbeats.

A massive wolf, easily the size of a horse, thundered onto the dock. The Lycan rider wore black leather and an expression of barely-contained irritation. He dismounted with fluid grace and strode toward the one-eyed overseer.

"Hold," the rider commanded. His voice carried authority that made even the overseer stiffen. "North Lord Fergus sends word. The fortress is short on labor. Most of the woman slaves died last week, and there's no one left to haul the corpses or scrub the floors clean. I'll have some of your males."

Last week. The words settled like ice in my stomach.

The overseer scowled. "Pick who you want, then. I need the rest for the mines."

The black-clad rider's gaze swept over us. It paused on me—small, young-looking in my oversized clothes—then moved to two other boys near my age. "You three. You look sturdy enough for hauling and cleaning. You are coming along with the females."

They marched us through the harbor in chains. Davelina walked ahead of me, her spine rigid with forced composure. I kept my eyes down, but peripheral vision showed me enough: male slaves bearing crates of black stone, their muscles corded with strain. Lycan guards lounging near braziers, passing a wineskin and laughing at some private joke. And in the distance, perched on a cliff of volcanic rock, a fortress that seemed carved from nightmare itself.

Howling Citadel. Girl's Hell.

The whispers around me confirmed it. An older prisoner, his face scarred, muttered to his companion: "See that tower? That's where they keep the sex slave. None last more than a night or two."

"Shut up," his companion hissed. "You want the whip?"

We entered through a servants' gate at the fortress's rear. No grand entrance for cargo. Just a narrow passage that reeked of sulfur and something sweeter—rot, perhaps, or old blood. The walls were slick with moisture, and iron rings studded the stone at regular intervals. Shackles hung from some of them, still stained dark.

Davelina glanced back at me once.

Then the female servants pulled her away, down a corridor carpeted in red. I watched her go, memorizing every detail of this place, storing it for later.

The rider who'd claimed us—clearly a lower-rank Lycan guard—shoved me and the other boys toward a different passage. "Down. There's cells for the likes of you in the sublevel."

The stairs descended into darkness lit only by guttering torches. The air grew colder with each step, and the smell shifted from sulfur to pure damp rot. At the bottom, a corridor stretched into shadow, lined with iron-banded doors.

The guard stopped at one and kicked it open. "Your kennel, boy. Hay's in the corner. Don't expect blankets."

He shoved me inside hard enough that I sprawled across moldy straw. The door slammed shut before I could rise.

"Ten minutes!" the guard called through the grate. "Then you're hauling water to the upper baths. Big night tonight—some fresh meat for the Lycan King."

His footsteps faded.

I lay in the darkness, breathing through my mouth to avoid the worst of the smell. The cell was barely six feet across. No window save for a palm-sized ventilation shaft high on one wall. Water dripped somewhere close by, a maddening rhythm.

Davelina, I thought desperately. Where did they take you?

But I knew. The red carpet, the careful handling—they were preparing her for something specific. Something the guard's words had made horrifyingly clear.

Fresh meat for the Lycan King.

I curled into a ball on the straw, arms wrapped around my knees, and tried not to scream.

True to his word, the guard returned in what felt like minutes. He dragged me out of the cell and thrust two wooden buckets into my hands. "Upper floor. Preparation chamber. Fill the bath, go."

The buckets were heavy with steaming water. My arms shook as I climbed the stairs, following a dour-faced female servant who said nothing. We passed through corridors that gradually became less crude—stone giving way to polished wood, torches to actual lamps.

Then I smelled it: jasmine and rose oil, thick enough to choke on.

The servant pushed open an ornate door, and I stumbled into a chamber of cruel luxury. A massive copper bathtub dominated the center, already half-filled with milky water. Steam rose in languid curls. Around the room, other servants bustled with oils and perfumes, laying out sheer fabrics that might generously be called clothing.

And there, standing in the middle of it all, naked and shaking—

Davelina.

My hands nearly dropped the buckets.