Chapter 5

Natasha's POV

An older woman in severe black—clearly the head servant—was circling my sister like a merchant inspecting livestock. "The water's too hot," she snapped at someone. "Add cold. We can't scald her skin before presentation."

I forced myself to move, to walk forward on numb legs, to pour the buckets into the bath as ordered. My eyes stayed down, but I was close enough now to see the tremors running through Davelina's body, the way her hands clenched at her sides.

"You. Yes, fisher boy." The older woman's voice cut through my thoughts. "Come here."

I approached slowly, keeping my cap low, praying she wouldn't look too close.

She grabbed my chin with surprising strength and jerked my face up, her pale eyes boring into mine. They were sharp, calculating, missing nothing. Her gaze traveled over my features.

"For a fisherman's son, your hands are remarkably uncalloused," she said softly. "And your face is... very clean. Very pretty. Too pretty for a boy who's supposedly hauled nets his whole life."

My heart hammered against my ribs. Behind her, I saw Davelina's eyes widen in terror.

"I—I mend nets, ma'am," I managed, forcing my voice lower, rougher. "Don't go to sea much. Stay on shore, mostly."

The woman—Madam Victoria, I'd heard another servant call her—studied me a moment longer. Then, inexplicably, she released me and turned away.

"Pity you're assigned to the male quarters," she said, almost to herself. "A face like that could be useful as a pet. But I suppose the fortress needs strong backs more than pretty faces right now." She waved dismissively. "Get the rest of that water in the tub, then get out. You're cluttering my workspace."

I poured the remaining bucket with shaking hands, stealing one last glance at Davelina. She stood frozen, eyes locked on mine.

Three male Lycans entered the chamber then—guards by their weapons and swagger. They began examining Davelina with hands that lingered, comments that made my stomach turn. One grabbed her breast, weighing it like fruit.

"This'll do," he grunted. "Firm enough. Good hips for breeding, if she survives the first night."

Victoria's voice cut through sharply: "Enough pawing. You'll damage the goods." She pointed at me with one sharp finger. "You—boy. Out. Go scrub the hallway floors. The east corridor's filthy."

A guard seized my shoulder and hauled me toward the door. In the moment before it closed, I heard Davelina's first sob—small, quickly muffled, but unmistakable.

The door shut. The lock clicked.

And I stood alone in a torch-lit corridor, holding an empty bucket, my sister's muffled crying echoing in my ears.

The guard who'd dragged me out had already disappeared, probably back to whatever post he'd abandoned. No one was watching me.

East corridor, Victoria had said. But there were passages everywhere in this cursed fortress, branching like veins.

I chose the darkest one.

The servants' passages were a maze of narrow halls and tight corners, built for efficiency rather than comfort. Perfect for a small person to slip through unnoticed. I moved quickly but carefully, bucket still in hand as camouflage, ears straining for voices.

Then I heard them—two male voices, speaking in low tones behind a half-open door.

"...how long do you think the new girl will last, Fergus? The King's been worse lately. More erratic."

"It doesn't matter." The second voice was colder. "She'll last the night or she won't. When she dies, we'll toss her body into the sea and fetch another."

I pressed myself against the wall, barely breathing, and peered through the crack.

Two massive Lycans stood in what looked like a war room, maps spread across a table between them. One had silver-grey fur and mismatched eyes—one blood-red, one amber. The other was russet-colored, leaner but no less dangerous.

"The blonde won't survive," the russet one said matter-of-factly. "None of them do anymore. The King is too far gone." He paused. "What about the boys we brought in? That small one with the pretty face—"

"What of him?"

"If the girl dies quickly, and the King's still in need..." The russet one shrugged. "He's young, soft-looking. Might serve in a pinch. Any warm hole will do when the beast's desperate. Better than risking another breakout."

My hand clamped over my mouth, stifling the gasp.

My boot scraped stone.

Fergus's head snapped toward the door, those mismatched eyes locking onto the darkness where I hid. "Come out, little mouse. I can hear your heartbeat from here. Sounds like it's about to explode."

I ran.

Behind me, I heard the door slam open, heavy footsteps giving chase. The servants' passage twisted and turned, but it wasn't built for escape—just efficiency. A dead end loomed ahead, and I skidded to a stop, spinning—

Fergus materialized from the shadows like something conjured from nightmare. One massive hand closed around my throat, lifting me clean off the ground and slamming me against the stone wall hard enough to rattle my teeth.

His face came close, nose twitching as he scented me. Those mismatched eyes narrowed in confusion. "Strange," he murmured. "You smell like salt and sea air, but underneath..." He inhaled deeper, and I saw the exact moment his expression shifted from curiosity to suspicion. "Something sweeter. Something—"

He released me abruptly, and I collapsed to the floor, gasping.

"You were listening," Fergus said flatly. Not a question.

I couldn't form words. Could only stare up at him, praying he'd make it quick.

But Fergus didn't kill me. Instead, he called for guards with a sharp whistle. When they arrived, he gestured at me with disgust. "Lock him back in his cell. If the King isn't satisfied tonight, we'll have this one scrubbed and sent up." His lip curled. "Better a spare piece of meat than another massacre."

The guards hauled me to my feet and dragged me back through the passages, down the stairs, to that tiny cell with its rotting straw. They threw me in hard enough that I skidded across the floor.

The door slammed. The lock turned.

I don't know how long I stayed curled on that straw.

Then a new sensation crept over me. At first I thought it was just the cold of the cell, but no—this was different. Heat. Starting deep in my belly and spreading outward like fever.

I sat up, confused. My skin felt too tight. My breathing quickened without cause. The binding cloth around my chest suddenly felt unbearably constrictive, and I clawed at it, trying to loosen the fabric.

What was wrong with me?

The heat intensified, pooling low in my abdomen, and with it came a strange, terrible awareness of my own body. Every nerve felt raw and oversensitive. The rough straw beneath me was suddenly unbearable, the damp air too close.

I pressed against the cold stone wall, but it brought no relief. If anything, the contrast made it worse—the chill against my burning skin creating sensations that shouldn't feel good but somehow did.

No, I thought desperately. Not now. Not here.