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Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights in the empty office building buzzed like a swarm of dying insects, their flicker casting jagged shadows across the linoleum floor. Caroline stood in the middle of the twenty-third floor, her small frame dwarfed by the cavernous space of cubicles and glass partitions. Her long, wild brown hair was scraped back into a messy bun, strands escaping like tendrils of smoke. Her blue eyes, hollowed by grief and exhaustion, caught her reflection in a nearby glass door—a pale specter staring back, barely recognizable as herself. She gripped the mop handle, its wood biting into her palms, and began her night shift as a contract cleaner in this cursed city where skyscrapers loomed like indifferent giants against a starless sky.

Her earbuds, her usual shield against the world, were gone, destroyed in a careless wash cycle two days ago. Without music to drown them out, her thoughts spiraled, sharp and relentless. You’re nothing. You’re nowhere. You’re a ghost haunting your own life. The mop’s heavy drag mirrored the weight in her chest, each stroke a reminder of how far she’d fallen. Four years ago, she’d been a girl with dreams—college, a family, a future. Now, at 22, she was a shadow, scrubbing floors in a building that felt as empty as her heart. The locket around her neck, a cheap silver thing, pressed against her chest through the thin fabric of her smock. It was empty, its promise unfulfilled, but its weight was a constant anchor, tethering her to a past she couldn’t escape.

She pushed the mop harder, the soapy water sloshing in the bucket, its metallic clang echoing in the silent office. The memory came unbidden: her high school boyfriend, Ethan, standing behind her on a dew-soaked lacrosse field, his hands warm and steady over hers as he taught her how to hold the stick. His smile had been real and genuine as he promised her a future—college together, a wedding, a house, all for a baby that wasn't planned but loved nevertheless. “We’ll get married. It will be ok,” he’d said, his voice soft as he held her tight. She’d believed him, believed in the warmth of his touch, the certainty of his words.

The office was a maze of sterile desks, each one identical—gray metal, fake wood grain, littered with the detritus of corporate life: staplers, coffee mugs, Post-it notes curled at the edges. The air smelled of lemon cleaner and dust, a sterile scent that clung to her skin. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled, its lights winking like distant stars in a sky too polluted to show the real ones. She moved to a desk, wiping it down with a rag that reeked of ammonia, the cleaning solution burning her fingertips. Her cuticles were ripped and nails were bitten short and bloody. Her movements were mechanical but precise. She’d learned to clean like her life depended on it—because it did. Medical bills didn’t pay themselves, and her double shifts as a cleaner and hotel housekeeper were all that kept her and her mom afloat.

She paused at a window, the glass cool against her fingertips as she wiped away smudges. Outside, the city was a blur of headlights and neon, the streets alive with people who had places to go, lives to live. Her reflection stared back, a ghostly outline against the dark. Then, something shifted in the corner of her vision—a dark, vague figure. Her heart stuttered, a cold prickle racing down her spine. The figure was tall, its edges blurred, like a smudge of ink in water. Maybe her contacts were playing tricks. She leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass, but when she blinked, it was gone.

Her mind flashed to another shadow: Ethan, walking out of the hospital room four years ago, his silhouette swallowed by the fluorescent-lit hallway. “I can’t do this, Caro,” he’d said, his voice breaking as he left her alone with the beeping machines and the blood-soaked sheets. She shook her head, dismissing the figure as a trick of the empty halls, a projection of her fractured mind. Maybe she really was losing it. But the unease lingered, a weight in her gut, as she returned to her work, the mop’s rhythm a steady counterpoint to her racing pulse.

The shift dragged on, each minute stretching into eternity. She vacuumed carpets worn thin by years of footsteps, emptied trash cans overflowing with crumpled paper and coffee cups, and polished conference tables that gleamed under the flickering lights. Her body ached—her back from bending, her hands from gripping, her heart from remembering. The locket around her neck seemed to grow heavier with each step, a reminder of the life she’d lost. At 18, she’d been pregnant, hopeful, wearing that locket like a talisman. Ethan had given it to her instead of a ring, promising to marry her, to build a life together. He’d given up MIT for her, for their baby. But the miscarriage had changed everything—her body betraying her, the genetic mutation they’d later identified as GNE-47X turning her dreams to dust.

She clocked out at 2 a.m., her body screaming for rest but her mind too restless to comply. The city streets were quieter now, the air sharp with the chill of early fall. She pulled her threadbare jacket tighter and walked to the corner liquor store. Its neon sign buzzed, casting a sickly glow over the cracked sidewalk. Inside, the shelves were lined with bottles, their labels promising escape. She bypassed the wine aisle—wine was for the girl she used to be, the one who sipped a stolen bottle of merlot with Ethan in the backseat of their friend's car after prom, dreaming of a future that no longer existed. Instead, she grabbed a bottle of bourbon, its amber liquid glinting under the store’s harsh lights. Bourbon was stronger, sharper, better at numbing the ache that never left her.

At the counter, the clerk barely glanced at her, his eyes fixed on his phone. She paid with crumpled bills, and the clerk looked up, eyes lingering on her chest. She pulled her jacket tighter, her fingers brushing the locket. The memory hit her like a wave: her wedding day, a small courthouse affair, Ethan slipping the locket around her neck. “For our baby’s hair,” he’d whispered, his breath warm against her ear. They’d been so young, so certain, before the hospital, before the blood, before he walked away. She pushed the memory down, her throat tight, and stepped back into the night.

The bus stop was a block away, the bench graffitied and cold. She sat, clutching her bag, the bourbon bottle a heavy presence inside. The city hummed around her—car horns, distant laughter, the rumble of a late-night delivery truck. As the bus pulled up, its headlights cutting through the dark, she thought she saw the figure again—tall, indistinct, standing in the crowd across the street. Her heart skipped, but she shook her head, climbing aboard. Paranoia, she told herself, settling into a seat near the back. The bus lurched forward, and she stared out the window, the city blurring past, her reflection a ghost in the glass.

Her apartment was on the edge of the city, a squat brick building with peeling paint and a flickering hallway light. She climbed the stairs, her sneakers scuffing against the worn linoleum, and unlocked the door to a dim, quiet space. Her mom’s chair by the window was empty, its faded cushions sagging. Her mom was probably working late again, pulling a night shift to keep them afloat. Caroline’s gaze lingered on the chair, and another memory surfaced: her mom at the hospital, her face streaked with tears, begging her to get the hysterectomy. “You almost died, Caro,” she’d said, her voice cracking. “I can’t lose you again.” The doctors had explained it almost smiling, excited by the novelty of an undiscovered de novo mutation in the GNE-47X gene. The ultrasound images of her ovaries and fallopian tubes haunted her with their freakish branches and cauliflower crowns. Her uterus pockmarked with the scars of over a dozen embryos that had implanted, grown and died. She had been so diligent about taking her birth control since she got her first period. But it still failed the night she lost her virginity. The pregnancy had felt like a miracle until it became a nightmare, her body bleeding out, her dreams bleeding with it.

She kicked off her shoes, the linoleum cold against her socks, and grabbed a slice of pizza from the fridge. It was cold, the cheese congealed, but she ate it standing at the counter, too tired to heat it up. Her life felt as sparse as the meal—barely enough to sustain her. She sank onto the couch, the bourbon bottle in her lap, the TV flickering with a mindless string of a sitcom she didn’t care about. The laugh track grated her nerves until the alcohol took hold.

She opened her journal, its cover worn soft from years of use, and tried to write. This was how she was going to fix herself, she had told herself months ago. Self-administered therapy. But the pen was unruly in her hand, the bourbon blurring her words into messy scribbles. She stared at the page, and another memory clawed its way up: her one semester at college, the lecture halls smelling of chalk and coffee, her professor’s pitying look when she’d confessed why she was dropping out. “I had a miscarriage,” she’d said, her voice flat. That was only the beginning of the truth. Really, it was the hasty divorce and the haze of depression that made her unable to continue. She quit because she was drowning and now, years later, she was still deep in the abyss. She swallowed a greedy mouthful of bourbon– a lifeline she knew was a lie. She was chasing a death wish, she admitted to herself. She was at massive risk of a stroke from her extra strong birth control the doctors had prescribed until she could get the hysterectomy. But still she delayed.

The bourbon burned her throat, and she drank deeper, the room spinning softly. She must have dozed off, because she woke with a start. Something had pinched her. The TV was blurry, asking “Are you still watching?” The bottle half-empty on the coffee table. Her heart pounded, her skin clammy, as a dream clung to her. In it, a dark figure in a hoodie slowly rose from its knees. It stood over her, its face obscured, its gold-green eyes too vivid and unblinking. Grim reaper, her mind whispered. Her gaze shot downward. A needle glinted in its hand, the streetlight streaming through the window turning it silver. The needle shifted, a specter of the IV drip from the hospital, blood pooling around her on the sterile sheets, the doctors’ voices a muffled drone: “Code red!” The green eyes watched her bleed inside her dream, their gaze a mix of pity and predation. The darkness closed in as her inner voice reveled, this is how it finally ends.

Chapter Text

Caroline drifted upward, a slow ascent through molasses-thick shadows. Consciousness flickered weakly. Her body felt heavy, tethered to some unseen anchor, yet her mind floated, free, in a dreamlike haze. The world was a smudge of amber light, soft and wavering, like firelight caught in honey. She blinked—or thought she did—but the blur remained. Her contacts were gone. The realization settled slowly, her inner monologue drowsy. Without them, the world was a watercolor smear, edges bleeding into one another.

An ache pulsed in her arm, foreign yet familiar. She squinted, her vision swimming, and made out the glint of an IV needle taped to her skin, its tube snaking into the haze. A hospital? The thought drifted past, slippery, hard to hold. Her heart should have raced, but it didn’t. Instead, it beat a languid rhythm, as if time itself had slowed to cradle her. That's rather strange, she thought.

Her gaze wandered to her hand, resting limp on a metal sheet. Her nails–long and elegantly tapered—caught her attention. She stared, or tried to, through the fog. They hadn’t been long before. The last time she was awake, they were bitten down, practical, unpolished. Time had slipped away from her, days or weeks or longer, and the thought should have sparked panic. But it didn’t. It was as if her emotions were swaddled in cotton, soft and distant.

A shadow moved in the amber glow, coalescing into the shape of a man. His face hovered close, indistinct at first, then sharpening just enough for her to trace its contours. Brown hair, pulled back neatly, framed a face that was… pleasant. His eyes, though—vivid green circled with gold, like sunlight through forest leaves—held her. Her brain protested calmly. Too green, it cautioned. They were steady, intent, as he gently pried open her drooping eyelid with a warm hand. The touch was clinical, precise, yet something in it felt intimate, as if he were searching for more than just her pupil’s response.

She should have been afraid. A stranger’s face so close, his fingers on her skin, her body unresponsive—she should have screamed, or tried to. But fear was a stranger too, locked out by the warm, syrupy calm that coated her thoughts. It’s the bourbon, she decided. Her mind was a quiet sea, and she floated on its surface, able to examine each ripple of thought with a curious detachment. Who was he? Why was he here? The questions drifted by, unhurried, unanswered.

He released her eyelid, and the world dimmed again. She wanted to open her eyes, to chase that glimpse of green and gold, to study the planes of his pleasant face. But her body refused her. She willed her arms to lift, her fingers to curl, but they lay still, heavy as stone. The haze pressed closer, wrapping her in its embrace.

His voice came then, low and soft, his accent foreign and melodic. “You’re alright, Caroline,” he said, her name curling through the fog like a ribbon. A weight pressed over her nose and mouth, cool and unyielding, carrying a sharp, chemical scent biting at her senses. She wanted to speak, to ask who he was, where she was, why time had stretched her nails long. But her lips stayed still, her thoughts dissolving into the haze. The amber light flickered, then faded to black as consciousness slipped away, swallowed by the mist.

***

Caroline surfaced again, her mind bobbing up through layers of fog, each one thinner than the last. The world felt solid now, less like a dream and more like a place she could touch, even if it remained just out of reach. She was lying on her side, her cheek pressed against a pillow that smelled foreign. A bed, she realized, its sheets cool beneath her. A rhythmic sound pulsed behind her, steady and low, like a distant engine or the hum of a far-off storm. She couldn’t place it at first, her thoughts sluggish, piecing together fragments. Then it clicked—a purr, deep and resonant, vibrating against her back. It was calming, almost hypnotic, soothing the edges of her confusion.

She opened her eyes, expecting the familiar blur of her nearsightedness, the world reduced to soft smears without her contacts. But the room was sharp, vivid, as if someone had slipped new lenses into her eyes while she slept. The amber light was gone, replaced by the muted glow of a single light on the wall, casting shadows across a plain, unfamiliar room. A metal table in the corner, a cabinet in the wall, a mirror—each detail crisp, too crisp. That’s strange, she thought, her mind lingering on the anomaly, but the purr vibrated through her, lulling her questions into silence.

Her arm rested on the bed, heavy but present, and she became aware of another weight—a man’s arm draped over hers, warm and heavy. Her breath caught, or should have, but the fear she expected didn’t come. Instead, a strange calm held her, as if her emotions were still wrapped in that cottony haze. She felt his breath, warm and steady, against the back of her neck, stirring the fine hairs there. He was close—too close—his body curved against hers, spooning her in a way that was intimate, possessive. Her heart should have pounded, her instincts screaming to pull away, but the purr thrummed on, and she felt only a quiet curiosity, as if observing herself from a distance.

She willed her body to move, to test its boundaries. Nothing. Her limbs were leaden, unresponsive, as if they belonged to someone else. She waited, letting the purr’s vibration anchor her, its rhythm syncing with her pulse. She tried again, focusing on her fingertips, imagining them curling. A faint twitch rewarded her effort, her index finger trembling slightly. She stared at it, mesmerized. Her nails were longer now, impossibly elegant, their buffed tips gleaming in the lamplight. How much time has passed? The question floated, unanswered, as the purr hummed on.

She tried again, pouring her will into lifting her hand. It rose, just a fraction, trembling against the weight of the man’s arm. The purring stopped abruptly, the silence jarring. His hand tightened on her arm, fingers firm, not painful but unyielding. She had woken him. His body shifted, pressing closer, his grip pulling her tightly against him. She felt the grind of his pelvis against her buttocks, the unmistakable hardness of an erection, and the realization should have sent panic spiking through her. But it didn’t. The haze held her, soft and dreamlike, and she felt only a strange, detached awareness, as if she were watching a scene unfold in someone else’s story.

His hand moved, groping across the bed near her face, finding something. He pressed it over her nose and mouth, the cool mask sealing against her skin. The sharp, chemical sting of sedative mist flooded her senses, biting and cold. She tried to hold her breath, but her body betrayed her, inhaling the mist as her vision blurred at the edges. His voice came then, low and soothing, curling through the fog like smoke. “Shh, Caroline. Not time to wake up yet.” Her name in his mouth, the vowels elongated with his strange accent, felt like a tether, pulling her under. The room dissolved, the light fading to black, and she sank back into the haze, his words echoing as consciousness slipped away.

***

Caroline drifted back to awareness, her mind clawing through layers of fog, each one heavier than the last. Before her eyes opened, a sound pierced the haze—clunking, metallic, deliberate. The clatter of instruments, not quite familiar, not quite hospital-like, stirred her senses. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy as if weighted with coins, and when they parted, the world was sharp again, unnaturally clear despite her nearsightedness. She was in a medical room, but it wasn’t the hospital she’d imagined. The walls curved inward, metallic and seamless, gleaming under a cold, sterile light. Devices lined the edges—sleek, unfamiliar machines with blinking lights and screens displaying symbols that twisted like vines, nothing like any language she knew. A computer hummed nearby, its screen alive with text that was alien, otherworldly, its characters sharp and jagged yet strangely fluid, as if they might slither off the display.

She tried to move, to sit up, but her body refused. Her arms, pinned to the bed, were bound by smooth, cool straps that didn’t bite but held her firm. Panic, sharp and jagged, finally broke through the sedative’s veil. It clawed at her chest, her breath quickening, shallow and ragged. A machine to her left beeped, its tone shrill, mirroring the rising tempo of her heart. She was trapped, exposed, in a place that felt wrong, like a dream turned inside out.

A voice came from above, behind her head, low and familiar, cutting through her spiraling thoughts. “Don’t worry, Caroline,” he said, his tone soothing but laced with an edge of urgency. “I’m sorry, but you need to be awake for this part. It’ll be over soon.” The man with the green-gold eyes, she realized, though she couldn’t see him now. His words sent a chill through her, not from pain—there was none—but from the implication. He was doing something to her brain. She felt it, a faint pressure, a subtle hum inside her skull, like a tuning fork vibrating deep within. It didn’t hurt, and that absence of pain terrified her more than any agony could have. Her mind screamed to resist, to fight, but her body remained still.

He began speaking again, his voice shifting into a language she didn’t recognize—exotic, musical, its syllables rising and falling like a song. The sounds were alien, yet beautiful, each word shimmering with an otherworldly cadence. Then, as if a switch had been flipped in her mind, meaning bloomed. She understood him, though the words remained foreign, their intonation unchanged. He was explaining something technical, clinical, his tone calm but precise. “The mutation in your GNE-47X gene,” he said, the alien syllables somehow translating in her head, “a single nucleotide polymorphism at position 3072. A rare de novo variant. This singular alteration, hyperactivates FSHR signaling, dramatically enhancing follicular recruitment and maturation in the ovaries.”

Her panic surged again, a wave crashing against the shore of her understanding. The words were too specific, too real, yet they belonged to this strange, metallic room, to this man whose face she could barely recall but whose voice anchored her fear. The machine beeped again, faster now, and the pressure in her skull intensified, not painful but relentless. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but her voice was as trapped as her body. The alien words flowed on, and as her vision blurred at the edges, she felt herself slipping, the hum in her brain pulling her back into the dark.

***

Caroline clawed her way back to consciousness, the haze parting like a heavy curtain. A gentle tug at her scalp anchored her, a rhythmic pull that was both foreign and familiar. Her hair, she realized, was being tugged, each motion deliberate. A low, resonant purr vibrated through the air, familiar yet unsettling, curling around her like a living thing. Her eyes fluttered open, the world snapping into focus with that unnatural clarity that defied her nearsightedness. She was propped up in a bed, the sheets cool and smooth against her skin. The room was unfamiliar, its metallic, curved walls glinting faintly under low, amber lights that pulsed like a heartbeat. A metal brush caught the light, gleaming as it moved through her hair.

He was there, the man with the green-gold eyes, sitting cross-legged beside her on the bed. His bare chest glistened, muscles flexing with each slow stroke of the brush. Strange tattoos shimmered just beneath his skin. No, not tattoos, subtle streaks of color, their patterns shifting like a cuttlefish or octopus, hypnotic and alive, pulsing in time with his purr. His hair was wet, messy, strands clinging to his forehead and neck, as if he’d just bathed. Her gaze drifted to her own hair, cascading over the pillow in long waves—far longer than it should have been. Her heart stuttered. Years, she thought, the word sharp and cold. How many years have I been lost in this haze? The thought should have sparked panic, but it lingered, muted, as if the purr were holding her fear at bay.

He paused, the brush stilling as his eyes met hers, green and gold locking onto her with an intensity that made her breath catch. For a moment, he just stared, his expression unreadable, then he resumed brushing, the bristles gliding through her hair with care. “You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice disjointed, emotional. “I wish you could stay awake, Caroline. With me. But you can’t. The journey’s too long.” His words stumbled, fraying at the edges, as if he were unraveling. “I’m lonely, you know. Watching you sleep. Taking care of you. Bathing you. Sleeping beside you. Keeping you safe.” The confession hung in the air, intimate and raw, each word heavy with a weight she couldn’t grasp.

He set the brush aside and began braiding her hair, his fingers deft but trembling slightly, as if the act were a ritual to ground him. “I’m keeping you safe,” he said, his voice dipping into a vague, reverent tone. “And fixing you. Making you stronger. For the hive.” That word—hive—landed like a stone in her mind, foreign and ominous. She didn’t know what it meant, but it stirred something deep, a flicker of dread that the purr couldn’t fully smother. Fixing me? Her thoughts spun, grasping for meaning, but the haze blurred the edges, leaving her confused, adrift.

His movements grew restless, the braid tightening under his fingers as his speech unraveled further. “You’re lovely, Caroline, but not finished yet. Not complete. The hive needs you. Needs us. I’ve been away too long…” His words tumbled, erratic, his eyes darting as if chasing thoughts she couldn’t see. Her pulse quickened, a spike of fear breaking through the sedative’s grip. His gaze snapped back to her, and he frowned, a flicker of regret crossing his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, reaching for the mask on the bedside table. He pressed it over her nose and mouth, the cold sting of sedative mist flooding her senses. “Sleep now,” he murmured, his voice fading as the amber light dimmed, pulling her back into the dark.

***

Caroline clawed her way back from the abyss, her consciousness rising through layers of syrupy fog, each one clinging to her like damp silk. A sharp, electric buzz pierced the haze—a machine, its hum low and insistent, like a swarm of mechanical bees. Intermittent whines, high and keening, marked the release of a capacitor, the sound prickling her skin. A warmth bloomed deep within her, unfamiliar and invasive, radiating from her pelvis, her genitals, with an intensity that felt both intimate and alien. Her eyes snapped open, fear slicing through the sedative’s lingering veil like a shard of glass. She was back in the medical chamber, its curved, metallic walls gleaming under stark, clinical light, their seamless surfaces reflecting distorted fragments of her surroundings. The air was thick with the hum of otherworldly machines, their blinking lights pulsing in rhythms that seemed to mock her heartbeat. A computer in the corner flickered, its screen alive with jagged, writhing symbols—alien script that twisted like living things, defying comprehension. This was no hospital. This was something else, something wrong.

Her body was not her own. She was strapped to a medical chair, its cold, smooth surface pressing against her back. Restraints—sleek, metallic, impossibly strong—bound her wrists and ankles, holding her immobile. Her legs were elevated, spread wide in stirrups, leaving her exposed, vulnerable, the loose fabric of a thin gown barely covering her. The warmth in her pelvis intensified, a pulsing, electric sensation that made her stomach lurch with dread. Between her legs sat the man, his brown hair unbound, wild, and tangled, cascading over his shoulders. His green-gold eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with dark circles, as if sleep had forsaken him for days, perhaps weeks. His bare chest glistened with a faint sheen of sweat, the strange, cuttlefish-like markings beneath his skin pulsing in hypnotic patterns, their colors shifting—blues, purples, silvers—in time with the machine’s hum. In his hand, he held a sleek, wand-like device, its tip glowing a bright, unnatural blue, casting eerie shadows across his face. The device hummed, and with each pulse, the electric warmth surged through her, intense, unrelenting, and deeply unsettling.

Fear clawed at her chest, raw and unfiltered, no longer dulled by the haze. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. The man looked up, his gaze locking onto hers, and a smirk curled his lips, sharp and predatory, yet tinged with a manic glee that made her skin prick. He laughed—a low, rolling sound that started soft but grew wild, teetering on the edge of hysteria. “Oh, Caroline,” he said, his voice lilting, teasing, as if they were sharing a private joke. “Don’t look so frightened. I’m making you better. So much better. I got too excited, you see—I couldn’t wait. I had to wake you up to show you what I’ve done, what I’m doing.” His words spilled out in a rush, his tone feverish, his eyes glinting with an unhinged intensity. He leaned closer, the device still humming in his hand, its blue glow reflecting in his pupils like twin stars. “You’re going to love it, Caroline. Love it. And we’re not even done yet.”

His excitement was palpable, his movements animated, almost frenetic, as he set the device aside with a clatter and tugged at the thin gown draped over her. With a flourish, he pulled it aside, exposing her breasts to the cold air. They were fuller, rounder, impossibly altered, their weight heavy and foreign against her chest. The skin was smooth, flawless, but the change was undeniable, grotesque in its perfection. “Look at these,” he marveled, his voice thick with awe, his fingers hovering just above her skin. “I multiplied your milk ducts—such a delicate process. Stem cell activation, targeted glandular expansion, a little nudge to the prolactin pathways. They’re perfect now.” He tilted his head, studying her with a mix of pride and obsession. “You love them, don't you, Caroline?”

Her breath hitched, her fear spiking as she stared at her transformed body, her mind reeling at the violation. He reached out, his fingers closing around one breast, squeezing gently, and the sensation was electric, overwhelming, her nerves screaming with a sensitivity that was unnatural, excruciating. She flinched, a choked gasp escaping her lips, her body betraying her with its heightened response. “Oh, that’s right,” he said, chuckling, his smirk widening as he leaned back, his eyes gleaming with delight. “I forgot to tell you—I expanded the nerve endings in your erogenous zones. Every touch, every sensation, it’s amplified now. You’re alive in ways you never were before.” His voice was teasing, almost playful, but there was a darkness beneath it, a hunger that made her stomach twist. “You’ll thank me later” he teased as he winked.

His hand moved, gliding down her legs, his touch feather-light yet searing, as if her skin were raw and exposed. Her legs were smooth, unnaturally so, not a trace of hair or stubble. “And this,” he said, his voice softening, almost reverent, as his fingers traced the curve of her calf. “I noticed you shaved, back on Earth. I thought, why not make it permanent? Laser ablation, follicle by follicle, all body hair below the neck—gone. Clean, perfect, just for you.” The words back on Earth struck her like a physical blow, her mind spinning. Not on Earth? Her pulse surged, her chest tightening as the implications crashed over her. Where was she? What was this place? Her breath came faster, ragged, the machine beside her beeping in frantic rhythm with her panic.

He laughed again, the sound wild and unmoored, as if her fear were a delightful game. “Oh, Caroline, don’t be so dramatic,” he teased, his smirk unwavering as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “You’re safe with me.” His hand moved again, tugging the gown higher, his fingers brushing her mons pubis with a deliberate, almost clinical precision. He lifted the skin gently, and her breath caught as she saw it—her clitoris, freakishly enlarged, protruding boldly from its hood, the size of her fingertip, glistening under the sterile light. Confusion and terror swirled in her mind, her body no longer her own, remade into something alien, something for him. “Isn’t it lovely?” he said, his voice dripping with admiration. “Enhanced sensitivity, more nerve endings, perfect proportions. I did this for you.”

Her fear surged, a tidal wave threatening to drown her. She wanted to scream, to thrash against the restraints, but her body remained pinned, helpless. He leaned closer still, his wild hair brushing her shoulder as he whispered in her ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “One last thing,” he said, his tone softening, almost tender, as his fingers traced the entrance to her vagina, gentle yet invasive, sending a tingling jolt through her hyper-sensitive nerves. “I saw you’d suffered here, long ago. Trauma, pain, something broken. I fixed it for you.” His touch lingered, teasing, and her mind scrambled to understand. Then it hit her—her hymen. He had repaired it, rebuilt what her highschool boyfriend had erased, as if rewriting her history. Her panic erupted, her breath coming in short, frantic gasps, hyperventilating as the room spun, the walls closing in.

He laughed, a wild, unhinged sound that echoed off the metallic walls, and reached for the mask on the nearby tray. “Oh, Caroline, you’re too much,” he said, his voice teasing, almost affectionate, as he pressed the mask over her nose and mouth. The sharp, chemical sting of the sedative mist flooded her senses, cold and biting. “Sleep now, my dear. We’re almost there.” His words followed her as her vision blurred, the blue glow of the device fading, the hum of the machines softening, and the world dissolved into black.

Chapter Text

Caroline stirred, her mind emerging through a thick fog, awareness returning in sluggish waves. She lay naked on the strange bed, the air humming with the man's unnatural purr. Its rhythmic vibration seemed to pulse through her bones. Darkness enveloped the room, broken only by a dim amber glow spilling from a doorway, casting long shadows across smooth, curved walls that gleamed faintly. His heavy arm draped over her waist, warm against her skin, his steady breaths signaling deep sleep. She spotted the mask that had kept her under, just within her peripheral vision lying near her nose, its sedative haze no longer clouding her senses. Slowly, her awareness returned, leaving her heart pounding with the dawning realization that she was awake, and he didn’t know.

Her body was heavy, limbs unresponsive from the drug's lingering effects. Over what felt like hours, she regained control—first her fingers twitched, then her toes curled. She held her breath, careful not to stir him. Every so often, he shifted in his sleep, his erection pressing into her backside, hard and insistent, sending a jolt of fear through her. She clenched her jaw, fighting the panic; her mind a storm of confusion and dread.

What had he done to her? Her body felt foreign, altered in ways that twisted her sense of self. Her breasts were heavier, swollen to an unnatural fullness, the nipples hypersensitive, tingling with even the subtlest shift of air across her skin. But the worst was between her legs—a throbbing sensitivity that made every nerve ending feel alive, exposed, as if he'd rewired her from the inside. She pressed her thighs together, trying to quell the persistent ache, but it only heightened the sensation, a warm flush spreading through her core.

Disturbed didn't begin to cover it. Horror clawed at her thoughts. She imagined the procedures, cold instruments probing, reshaping her from the inside out. The idea made her want to scream, but her voice felt trapped, a side effect of the sedative or perhaps another deliberate change. Tears pricked her eyes as she ruminated on the loss—not just of her freedom, but of her autonomy, her identity eroded by these invasive modifications.

He stirred again, his erection grinding lazily against her, the low, contented rumbling purr escaping his chest. The contact sent an unwelcome spark through her, her altered nerves betraying her with a rush of heat. No, she thought desperately. Determination flickered amid the fear. She had to get away, to find some way out of this nightmare.

With painstaking care, she began to extricate herself. Inch by inch, she lifted his heavy arm, her muscles trembling from the effort and the lingering weakness. She slid out from under it, placing it gently back on the bed. He mumbled in his sleep but his eyes remained closed, his breathing even. Relief washed over her as she swung her legs over the edge, her bare feet meeting the cool, smooth floor. Standing was a challenge; her legs wobbled like jelly, threatening to buckle. She gripped the bedframe for support, steadying herself as a wave of dizziness passed.

As she took her first tentative steps, she felt it—a warm trickle of fluid seeping down her inner thighs, unbidden and relentless. Fearing that she had urinated, Caroline cautiously wiped some up with a shaking hand and examined it in the dim light. Clear, slippery like egg whites. Not urine. It was another grotesque modification to her body.

Caroline turned back to peak at her captor, the man who had so violated her. He lay undisturbed, still vibrating with that alien purr, arm reaching out over the sheets still warm from her body heat. His wild brown hair half obscuring his face. He was naked. His muscular back was exposed, the ridges and planes rising and falling with deep, sleeping breaths. The dimpled top of his strong buttocks peaked from under the sheet. The subtle, iridescent markings danced across the taut skin there too, shifting in lazy patterns.

Caroline turned away and on shaking, unsteady legs moved toward the door. The fluid leaking down her legs left glistening spots on the dark floor, marking her path like a trail of shame. Each movement amplified the sensitivity in her genitals, the friction of her thighs rubbing together sending jolts of electricity that clashed with her revulsion. She pressed a hand to her mound, trying to stem the flow, but the touch was electric, making her knees weaken further. Her hair, now woven into a thick braid that cascaded down to her thighs, swung with her movements. It felt heavy, alien, another unwanted adornment.

The bedroom doorway loomed, and she slipped through into the dimly lit corridors beyond into a maze of curving passages. The amber glow from various chambers provided just enough illumination to navigate, but the shadows played tricks, making every turn feel uncertain. The air was warm, carrying a faint ozone scent mingled with something metallic, almost electric. There were no windows anywhere. Caroline's mind reeled, It's like a submarine or a ship. The word hung. Ship. A spaceship. He had told her as much the last time she was conscious. They were no longer on Earth. How far from home was she? The question gnawed at her, fueling her aimless wandering. She needed to find a control room or anything that might offer escape. But the ship seemed endless, corridors branching in unpredictable ways.

As she moved, her body's changes asserted themselves more insistently. Her swollen breasts swayed with each step, the nipples hardening in the cool air, sending unwanted tingles through her skin. The fluid continued to seep, her vulva throbbing with heightened awareness and increased blood flow, every brush of skin against skin building an unwelcome tension. She paused at a reflective panel, staring at her altered form in the low light. Her face was still hers—wide blue eyes, freckles dusting her nose—but the body below was a stranger's: lush, exaggerated curves designed for allure or utility, she couldn't tell which. Yet, around her neck, her silver locket remained. She clutched it tightly, the cool metal grounding her, a remnant of her old life. Tears blurred her vision, but she pushed on, driven by desperation.

Deeper into the ship, she stumbled upon a brighter chamber—the medical room. The amber light was stronger here, illuminating consoles flickering with data and trays laden with gleaming, ominous instruments. On a central table, printouts from numerous body scans were piled, disorganized. Her stomach churned, the evidence of his experiments laid bare. Stacked nearby were familiar volumes—medical textbooks: Gray's Anatomy, guides on obstetrics and fertility, ophthalmology. He'd studied her meticulously, preparing for this invasion of her body. The realization deepened her horror, a violation that extended beyond the physical to the intellectual.

Suddenly, a bang and a resonant voice echoed through the ship—his voice, calling her name with a playful lilt. "Caroline! Where have you wandered off to?"

Panic exploded in her chest. Her heart raced as she bolted from the room, bare feet slapping against the floor. But her legs were still unsteady, her movements clumsy, and the ship’s layout confounded her. She turned down one corridor, then another, the amber lights blurring as she ran. The arousal fluid continued to betray her, leaving a slick trail that she knew he could follow. His laughter reverberated from behind, closer now. "I can smell you, sweet thing."

She whimpered silently, her voice still eluding her, as she ducked into a side room—a storage area filled with crates, but too open, no good hiding spots. She backed out, heart pounding, and hurried down another passage. The corridors twisted, some narrowing, others widening into chambers that offered no concealment. One room held strange machinery, humming softly, but the lights were brighter there, exposing her. She retreated, sweat beading on her skin despite the warmth.

His footsteps echoed, deliberate and unhurried, as if he savored the chase. "Come now, darling. Come back to bed." His tone was teasing, light-hearted, like a lover playing coy. It unnerved her more than anger would have, this playful pursuit amid her terror.

She stumbled into another corridor, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A door hissed open to her left—a utility room with panels and conduits, but again, too exposed. She pressed on, legs burning from the effort, the sensitivity between her thighs making each step a torment of unwanted stimulation. Another turn led to a dead end, forcing her to backtrack, his voice growing nearer. "You're getting warmer... or is that just your body heating up for me? I can sense it, you know—that sweet nectar calling my name."

Desperation mounted as she explored further, time stretching in her panic. Finally, she turned into a promising chamber—a larger room cluttered with crates, shelves, and cabinets. Spotting a tall, wide cabinet in the shadowed corner, she wrenched it open and squeezed inside, pulling the doors shut behind her, leaving only a thin crack. She huddled in the darkness, trying to quiet her breathing, the scent of dust and metal thick around her. Her body trembled, the arousal fluid pooling at her feet, but she hoped the confined space would mask it.

The footsteps slowed, entering the room with a soft thud. Through the crack, she glimpsed him—his towering frame a silhouette of power in the dim light. Muscles flexed across his broad chest and arms. His skin shimmered with the iridescent markings that shifted fluidly—now playful swirls and loops. His hair was a wild, dark mane tumbling to his shoulders, framing a face with high cheekbones and vivid green-gold eyes, wide and feral, pupils dilated with excitement. He grinned, an unhinged, animalistic gleam in his gaze.

And he was still naked. Caroline's eyes went wide as she took in his erection which jutted prominently upwards, long, thick and rigid with a flared mushroom tip engorged to a deep reddish purple. It glistened in the amber light with a clear, dripping liquid, bobbing slightly with his movements.

"Oh, Caroline," he purred, his voice a velvet tease as he sniffed the air dramatically. "You're close—I can taste you in the air. Hiding like a shy little kitten, are we?" He prowled the room slowly, opening crates with exaggerated care, his markings twisting into whimsical patterns. "Is she behind this one? No? How about here? Ah, the suspense is delicious"

She bit her lip hard to stifle a whimper, her body betraying her with another warm gush between her legs, the sensitivity making her thighs quiver. He paused, nostrils flaring, a chuckle escaping him. "You're making this too easy, love."

He circled closer, his erection twitching in anticipation, the dripping fluid making long strings down to the floor. "Imagine the fun we'll have when I catch you. All that running must have you so... worked up." His tone was light, teasing, like this was a game, but it only heightened her fear.

Suddenly, he lunged for the cabinet, the doors flying open. His hands gripped her arms firmly, pulling her out with effortless strength. She thrashed wildly, a silent scream trapped in her throat, but he was far too powerful. He wrestled her down gently yet inexorably, flipping her onto her stomach on the cool floor. His weight settled over her, pinning her in place, one hand cupping her swollen breast, fingers teasing the nipple with a playful pinch that sent shocks of pleasure-pain racing through her. The other hand splayed across her pubic bone, pressing possessively.

"Ah, there you are," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear, voice laced with amusement. "My silly girl, you are so bad at hiding." There was no anger, just a playful admonishment.

She bucked beneath him, desperate to escape, but his hold was unyielding, his body a solid cage. He laughed softly, grinding his erection into the cleft of her buttocks, the slick length sliding slowly, deliberately. The friction ignited her nerves, her altered body responding with a flood of arousal. "Feel that? That's what you did to me. And you... oh, you're positively soaked."

He continued grinding, his movements languid, teasing, drawing out the sensation. Each thrust sent waves of unwanted pleasure through her. She whimpered, her mind screaming in protest while her body arched into him traitorously. His hand on her breast kneaded gently, rolling the nipple between fingers, amplifying the sensitivity until she was trembling. "See? Your body's singing for me."

Shifting slightly, he slid his erection lower, nestling it between her thighs, rubbing up and down her slick vulva with exquisite slowness. The engorged mushroom tip dragged over her swollen clitoris, again and again, each pass building the pressure like a coiled spring. She gasped, her hips twitching involuntarily, the hypersensitivity turning every stroke into ecstasy and torment. Fluid gushed from her, soaking them both, the puddle spreading beneath her on the floor.

"That's my girl," he teased, his voice husky and breathing labored. "Getting all slippery just for me. I could do this all night—tease you until you're begging." He quickened his pace slightly, an unexpected bulge at the base of his penis swelling, sliding insistently against her entrance. The throbbing there matched her own pulsing need.

Her climax built relentlessly, a tidal wave she couldn't hold back. It crashed over her in shuddering waves, her body convulsing silently, inner walls clenching around nothing as pleasure exploded through her. “That's it, Caroline.” He muttered breathlessly. Moments later, he followed, a low moan escaping him. His penis throbbed powerfully against her sensitive core, the bulge pulsing dramatically as hot semen erupted in thick spurts onto her clitoris, and dripped down, slowly flooding the floor and her thighs, the warm puddle expanding beneath them.

Panting heavily, he leaned close, his lips grazing her ear, his voice low and serious, devoid of all his previous humor. "Attempt another escape, my dear, and I’ll surgically transect the ligaments in your lower extremities—you’ll be paralyzed for the rest of our voyage.” Then, his tone shifted abruptly, light and teasing again as he chuckled. "Let’s get you back to bed, kitten." he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her ear.

Chapter Text

Caroline’s consciousness clawed its way back to the surface. Her body felt heavy, as if gravity itself had thickened, pressing her into the smooth, contoured chair beneath her. She blinked, her eyelids sluggish. A faint hum vibrated through the chair, its surface cool and metallic, pulsing with a soft, mechanical energy that seemed to sync with her heartbeat. Her wrists and ankles were bound. The restraints were gentle but unyielding, anchoring her to the chair. 

She was in a sort of control room. The walls were a seamless, pearlescent gray. Panels of glowing symbols—curving, indecipherable glyphs—lined the walls, pulsing faintly. Before her, a vast, curved window dominated the space, offering a view that chilled Caroline's nerves. It was a skyline of a sprawling city stretched across the horizon, its towers and domes glinting under a violet sky streaked with gold and crimson clouds. The architecture was grand and exotic—white stone columns, arched roofs adorned with glinting mosaics, and metallic domes that shifted in the light.

Caroline’s breath caught as she took in the alien world, its strangeness both mesmerizing and terrifying. She then glimpsed down, expecting herself to be naked again. But she wasn't. Instead, she wore a flowing white dress, its fitted bodice hugging her torso, long sleeves adorned with intricate gold embroidery that swirled like vines. The skirt cascaded around her, pooling to the floor, heavy with its own elegance. Gold jewelry weighed on her—coiled bracelets, thin rings stacked on her every finger, a large, heavy necklace pressing against her chest, each piece radiating ritualistic significance. Her brown hair, once a practical shoulder-length mess, was now a thick, intricate braid dangling to the floor, its weight tugging at her scalp. It really had been years since she left Earth.

Her mind churned, snagging on fragments of memory. The alien. That's what he was after all. His hands holding her tightly, carrying her through the ship’s corridors after he had caught her. He’d caught her. The memory surged, vivid and raw: his breath hot against her skin, the wild hunger in his eyes, his wild thrusts against her core. Her cheeks burned, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memories. But they clung to her, stirring up shame and embarrassment.

Steps approached, and her eyes snapped wide. The alien man entered, his presence heavy. He was different now, no longer the untamed man of her memories. His dark brown hair was neatly gathered into a top knot, the sides shaved, sharpening the angles of his face. He wore a formal outfit: a long indigo cape edged with silver embroidery, a fitted tunic and trousers, and a sword sheathed at his hip, its scabbard glinting with strange luminescence. His movements were controlled, his expression stoic. She realized, with a jolt, how strikingly handsome he was, and the thought deepened her embarrassment. She looked away, fixing her gaze on the walls.

“Caroline,” he said, his voice low and resonant with that otherworldly accent, carrying a weight that made her heart stutter. He approached slowly, boots clicking against the polished floor. “We have arrived home. You will be presented to my people.”

She kept her eyes averted, her face burning. The memory of their intimacy hung heavy. She couldn’t face him.

He stopped before her, close enough that she felt the warmth of his presence. His hand, steady and firm, grasped her chin, tilting her face toward his. His touch sent a shiver through her, but his grip was unyielding, forcing her to meet his green-gold eyes. “I lost control,” he said, his tone even, unapologetic but tinged with regret. “The journey was long, Caroline. It… wore on me.”

She swallowed, her throat tight. She tried to speak, to demand answers, but her vocal cords refused, sluggish and silent. Panic flickered, but Lysanther’s gaze softened, a teasing glint sparking within. “In the future, kitten, don't play hide and seek if you don't want to be found,” he said, a faint smile curving his lips. “I'll always find you.”

The playful tone eased her racing heart, but her cheeks still burned. She wanted to retort, to ask what he’d done to her, but her voice remained trapped. “Your voice will return,” he murmured. “The years of disuse atrophied your vocal cords, but they will heal. Be patient.” He came closer then, resting his forehead against her temple. “And I perfected the final modifications,” he whispered.

Caroline’s blush deepened as he shifted, resting on his heels before her, his indigo cape pooling on the floor. His eyes held hers, intense and unwavering. “Caroline, the life you lived on Earth is over. You carry a gift—a mutation that makes you extraordinary. Unique among the many planets I have searched. You are a holy vessel, and will be a mother to thousands, saving my species from extinction. When we disembark, your people will greet you as their queen. They will love and serve you, and you will love and serve them. You will birth a new generation for the Hive.”

Her mind reeled. His words were absurd, impossible. She was just Caroline—short, unremarkable. Not unremarkable. Damaged. Did he know she was hopelessly disfigured inside? Her mind returned yet again to the images seared in her mind. The blood on the sheets. The ultrasound screen. Her grotesquely deformed ovaries that looked like a cancerous cauliflower top. Her fallopian tubes that branched like freakish tentacles from her pockmarked uterus.

Tears spilled before she could stop them. She tried to speak, to protest, but no noise escaped. He leaned forward, his lips brushing her cheeks, kissing away her tears with a tenderness that she didn’t deserve.

He rose, unfastening the straps with careful precision, his hands avoiding unnecessary touch, as if mindful of his past abuses. Her limbs were heavy, unresponsive. He lifted her into his arms effortlessly. “It is time,” he said, his voice firm.

He carried her through the ship, her head against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. The corridors blurred with her tears—sleek silver walls, soft ambient light—until a wide door opened, and they stepped onto an outside.

The air was warm, fragrant with a scent like jasmine but wilder, sharper. The sky was a deep violet, streaked with gold and crimson clouds, as if frozen in eternal dusk. The landing pad was a vast circle of stone. Beyond it sprawled the grand city, its architecture exotic. Towering columns of white stone supported arched roofs with mosaics of swirling blues and reds. Domes curved against the sky, etched with shifting patterns. But as they walked closer, it was clear many buildings were crumbling, vines of silvery plants curling over broken cornices, reclaiming the stone. Exotic birds with iridescent feathers flitted through the air, their calls sharp and cat-like creatures prowled, their emerald eyes glinting.

No people. No aliens. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the rustle of leaves and distant bird calls. Lysanther’s steps faltered, his brow furrowing. “This is wrong,” he said, his voice tight.

He carried her through the city, past dry fountains filled with luminous moss, along avenues overtaken by weeds and small silver trees. Signs of life flickered—curtains in windows, a half-eaten fruit on a bench—but no one appeared. Caroline’s eyes darted, taking in the decay: cracked statues, collapsed arches, nature swallowing the city’s grandeur. She wanted to ask, her curiosity bubbled, but her voice remained silent.

They approached a massive building, its white stone walls inlaid with gold and turquoise. Arched entrances were flanked by winged statues, their faces weathered and crowned by birds’ nests. The towering doors, carved with celestial scenes, stood open, revealing a cavernous interior lit by filtered light.

Her captor carried her inside, the air cool and heavy with incense. The hall was vast, its ceiling supported by spiraling columns like ancient trees. Scattered within, stood dozens of male aliens. Their eyes burned with vivid intensity, some looking up from conversation, nostrils flaring, toward Caroline in surprise, others disbelieving. A few squinted and sneered with open hostility.

At the back of the hall stood a dais and throne where a group in black robes stood, their faces obscured under pointed hoods, exuding a heavy, ominous presence. One, positioned closest to the throne, wore ornate robes embroidered with intricate silver threads that twisted like serpents in the dim light. Unlike the others, his face was uncovered, revealing a severe visage that spoke of age and authority. His long black hair, streaked with strands of silver was tightly bound back, accentuating the sharp planes of his face. His eyes, a vivid light blue, gleamed like chips of ice, piercing Caroline with a vicious glare that seemed to strip her bare, judging her as an intruder in his sacred domain.

On the throne lounged a tall, lean alien, muscular yet graceful, his silver-blond hair short and unkempt. His gray eyes gleamed with cold amusement as he spun a knife between his fingers. The king, Caroline realized, her stomach twisting.

Her guardian set her down at the foot of the dais, her legs trembling but holding her up precariously. She clutched his arm for support. The king’s gaze swept over her, and he laughed—a harsh, mocking sound that echoed through the hall.

“Lysanther,” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “Centuries wandering the stars, and this is what you bring?” He gestured at Caroline, his knife glinting. “Look at her! As short as a child, wrists like twigs. She’s barely a woman, let alone a queen. Weak, barren, a mockery of the vessel you promised.”

Caroline’s face burned, her heart pounding. She wanted to shrink away, but Lysanther’s hand steadied her. “Silva,” he said, his voice calm but edged with steel. “She is strong and healthy, I assure you. But more importantly, I have confirmed her genetic makeup will make her capable of sustaining our race.”

Silva’s laughter grew sharper, unhinged. “Sustaining our race? This frail thing? She’s a false vessel, Lysanther, an evil omen. The prophecy has warned of her—a queen to breed our ruin, to overthrow me and enslave us.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve been gone too long, old friend. Chasing myths. And for what?” The hoodless priest at the king’s side lifted his chin, eyes narrowing.

Lysanther’s jaw tightened. “You’re wrong, Silva. She is our salvation. Whoever has prophesied otherwise is telling you lies. Our people are dying—look at this empty city! She can save us.”

Save them? The words echoed in Caroline’s mind, absurd and overwhelming. She tried to speak, but couldn't make a sound. Silva’s eyes locked onto her, and he stepped off the dais toward her, his knife still in hand. “Save us?” he spat. “Look at her!” He grabbed her wrist, his grip bruising, and yanked her forward, making her stumble. “Look at these bones! Fragile as glass.” The king's nostrils flared, scenting Caroline's fear. “And she reeks,” he seethed, “Her stench is polluting this sacred chamber.”

“Release her,” Lysanther growled, his hand on his sword. But before he could draw, the surrounding aliens surged forward, seizing his arms. One wrenched the sword from his hip, the scabbard clattering to the floor. Lysanther struggled, his eyes blazing, but the guards held firm.

Silva smirked, twisting Caroline’s wrist until she gasped in pain and her knees hit the floor. “Pathetic,” he said, bringing his face to hers, “I see you, void. I see your plans for our destruction.” The king twisted her wrist painfully until she crumpled to the floor. “You conspire to make us slaves? I will make you a slave.”

Her tormentor dropped her wrist and laughed. “You’ve failed, Lysanther. You bring me a stinking abomination.” His voice dropped, fervent and unhinged. “I’ve seen the truth. Our species is meant to die, to return to the earth. The new faith of our people embraces our end. Nature will reclaim this world, as it should.”

Lysanther’s voice was low, dangerous. “You were my friend, Silva. What has happened to you? You are mad.”

Silva’s eyes flashed. “Mad? I see clearly. You’re the one blinded, wasting years of your life on bringing us this wretch.” He stepped closer, his knife grazing Caroline’s cheek, the cold metal making her flinch. 

Lysanther lunged forward but the guards’ iron grips tightened, slamming him to his knees with a jarring thud that reverberated through the stone hall. Silva stepped closer, bending to her face, his voice low and venomous with words meant only for her ears. “I see through you,” he sneered, his gray eyes glinting with malice. “I see the monster beneath your pretty skin, plotting my downfall, scheming to put my people in chains.”

Caroline’s heart thundered, her breath ragged and shallow, as Silva towered over her. He straightened, turning to the assembled aliens, their vivid eyes fixed on the scene. “I am merciful,” he declared, his voice sharp and cruel, cutting through the heavy silence. “I’ll spare her life—but it is only fitting that the witch who would have us all enslaved, enslaved herself. Who among you will take this curse and be her master?”

The hall was deathly still, the aliens’ faces unreadable, their silence a palpable rejection. Not one stepped forward, their bright eyes darting between Silva and Caroline, some with disdain, others with unease. The air grew thick, the weight of their refusal pressing against her.

Lysanther’s voice broke the quiet, steady but strained, as he rose against the guards’ hold. “I will take her,” he said, his tone resolute. “I will keep her in my home, hidden from all eyes.”

Silva’s lips curled into a cruel, mocking smile, his gaze flicking back to Lysanther. “Fitting,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “You, who abandoned the Hive for centuries, chasing myths across the stars, now tethered to this abomination. You will be shunned and despised for the rest of your days. A just punishment for your betrayal.” He waved a hand dismissively, the knife in his grip catching the light.

The king turned to return to his throne and Caroline breathed in relief. But suddenly, Silva turned back, rushing towards her, eyes gleamed with madness as he grabbed her braid, yanking her head up painfully. “And this,” he sneered, raising his knife, “is a mockery of royalty.” With a swift, brutal slice, he severed the braid, the thick rope of brown hair dangling like a dead snake in his hand.

Chapter Text

Lysanther’s arms gripped Caroline tightly, his steps measured and deliberate as he carried her through the desolate streets of the alien city. His face was a mask of stoic resolve, jaw set, eyes fixed ahead, betraying none of the turmoil that must have churned within. The city, once a testament to the Hive’s grandeur, now lay in quiet ruin, its crumbling spires and moss-choked arches whispering of a civilization unraveling. Caroline was crumbling. Her nerves unraveling. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of exotic flora and it choked her. Her shallow breaths struggling to fill her lungs.

As he carried her, Lysanther’s resonant purr echoed loudly against her ear, the deep vibration that rumbled from his chest and into hers, meant to soothe her racing heart. It was louder than she'd ever heard it before, but it did little to quell the fear coiling in her gut. Men—no, aliens with those vivid eyes—watched from doorways and broken windows, their gazes heavy with suspicion or outright disdain. Some whispered to each other, their voices sharp, their eyes narrowing as they took in the sight of Caroline in her white dress, her shorn hair a jagged reminder of shame. She clung tighter to Lysanther, her weak fingers digging into his arms.

The city’s decay grew more pronounced as they moved deeper. They passed empty buildings now home to strange animals and cobblestone streets overtaken with trees, their branches drooping under the weight of neglect. Finally, Lysanther turned down a narrow street, where a large home loomed behind a vine-covered wall, its white stone walls cracked and stained, its once-grand columns leaning like weary sentinels. The home, a relic of a prouder era, now a hollow shell. Vines of silvery plants snaked up the facade, curling through broken windows, and the heavy wooden gate hung askew, creaking in the faint breeze.

Lysanther pushed through the gates, his boots crunching on gravel scattered with fallen leaves. The courtyard was overgrown, its mosaic tiles faded, depicting scenes of celestial battles now fractured and incomplete. He carried her into the house, the air inside cool and musty, tinged with the scent of dust and abandonment. The entrance hall was cavernous, its high ceiling supported by spiraling columns, but the once-vibrant tapestries hung in tatters, and the floor was littered with debris—broken pottery, scattered papers, a child’s toy carved from wood, left forgotten.

A figure emerged from the shadows, lean and wiry, his movements cautious. “Lysanther,” he said, his voice rough, as if unused to speaking. This man looked familiar. While he shared Lysanther’s sharp features and green-gold eyes, he was a stark contrast. Where Lysanther was broad and commanding, this man was gaunt, his skin tanned and weathered from labor under the alien sun, marked with scars that crisscrossed his arms and neck like a map of suffering. His brown hair was cropped short, uneven, as if hacked off with a dull blade, and his clothes were tattered. He looked malnourished, his cheekbones sharp, his tall frame brittle, as if the years had whittled him down to bone and will.

“Kiran, my brother." Lysanther said, his voice steady but heavy with unspoken grief. He shifted Caroline in his arms, her body still weak but stronger now. “Come,” Kiran bid and led them to an adjacent room. A kitchen. Lysanther sat Caroline in a wooden chair at the worn table, its surface scarred and stained. The kitchen was sparse, with cracked stone counters and a single window casting filtered light into the room. Caroline sat upright, her hands trembling as she gripped the table’s edge, her long white dress pooling around her, its hem already marred by dust and dirt.

Kiran’s eyes flicked to Caroline, wide with a mix of awe and wariness. “I knew you were coming,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “The news of your imminent return reached me weeks ago, carried by the few who still dare speak of you. But this…” He gestured vaguely at the ruined house around them. “This is what you return to, brother. A city in ruins, a people broken. And…” His voice cracked, and he shook his head. “Silva’s madness has consumed us.”

Lysanther’s jaw tightened, his hand resting briefly on Caroline’s shoulder, steadying her. “Our father,” he said, his tone flat but laced with dread. “Where is he?”

Kiran’s face darkened, his scarred hands clenching into fists. “Purged,” he said bluntly. “The new religion demanded it. Our father's generation, those who remembered the queens of old, were taken. They said their memories were a threat, a tether to a past that defied Silva’s mandate. Father was among them. Executed in the square, with the rest.”

Lysanther’s eyes closed briefly, pain flickering across his stoic mask. “And our brothers?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost afraid of the answer.

Kiran leaned against the counter, his shoulders sagging. “Scattered. Dead. Missing. There were uprisings, Lysanther, after you left. Wars against Silva’s regime, against the new faith. Some of our brothers fought and fell. Others were hunted, killed in the streets. A few fled, but no one knows where. The Hive is a shadow of what it was. The city empty, the fields lie fallow, and Silva’s priests rule through fear.” He gestured to the crumbling walls around them. “Our family’s name is a curse now. Our titles stripped, our wealth seized, all because they saw you as a threat.”

Lysanther’s hand moved to Caroline’s head, stroking her shorn hair gently, his touch grounding her as her mind reeled. The weight of Kiran’s words pressed against her, amplifying her fear. She was a prisoner, a pariah.

Kiran’s gaze softened as he looked at her, curiosity overtaking his wariness. “May I approach?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

Lysanther nodded, his hand still resting on Caroline’s hair. “She is not mine, Kiran. I brought her back for the entire Hive,” he said, his tone carrying a bitter edge.

Kiran stepped closer, his movements slow, almost reverent. He stopped a foot away, his vivid eyes studying her face, her small frame, the gold jewelry glinting against her pale skin. “I’ve never seen a female,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “Not in my lifetime.” He leaned slightly closer, inhaling, then frowned. “She smells… strange. Sharp, like fear.”

“She is afraid,” Lysanther said, his voice softening. “She’s far from her world, surrounded by strangers. It’s natural.”

Kiran nodded, his expression troubled. He attempted to purr, mimicking Lysanther’s soothing vibration, but the sound was stilted, awkward, like a machine struggling to start. Caroline flinched slightly, her hands gripping the table tighter, and Kiran stepped back, abashed. “Is it true?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “What you've said about her? That she’s… fit to bear our kind?”

Lysanther’s hand paused in Caroline’s shorn hair, his touch lingering as he met Kiran’s gaze, his face shadowed with unease. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Her genetic mutation makes her capable. I confirmed it on the ship, Kiran—her DNA, her potential. If I could return to the vessel, I could show you the data, the scans, the proof of...”

Kiran’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear igniting behind them. “Don’t,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to an urgent, almost desperate whisper. He glanced toward the open doorway, where shadows clung, as if expecting the black-robed priests to materialize from the gloom. “Don’t even speak of it, Lysanther. I shouldn't have asked. Any talk of a new generation is treason now. You’d be marked for death before you crossed the city to the landing pad. They’d burn you both in the square.”

Lysanther’s brow furrowed, confusion carving deep lines into his stoic face. “Treason.” he repeated, his voice low, edged with disbelief. “What has happened to the other princes? The firstborns?”

Kiran cut him off, his voice sharp and brittle. “You don’t understand what he’s become.” He leaned closer, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying his fear. “He murdered them, Lysanther. All of them. His brothers—Rhydian, Toren, Vael, and the others—every firstborn son of the last queen, the only ones with the genetic ability to open a womb. He hunted them down after you left, slaughtered them in cold blood under the banner of the new religion. He called them heretics, traitors to his vision of a dying Hive. Now, only Silva remains, the last prince, the only one who can unlock her.” Kiran’s eyes flicked to Caroline, who sat rigid, her face pale, her shorn hair framing her like a broken halo under the dim light. “And he never will. He's determined to see us extinct. If you try to use her to breed a new generation, he’ll see it as a direct challenge to his rule. He’ll kill you both, and he’ll make it slow, a spectacle to feed his followers’ fear.”

Lysanther’s hand tightened briefly on Caroline’s shoulder, his jaw clenching as the weight of Kiran’s words settled over him like a shroud. “He killed them?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, pain flickering in his eyes. “All of them?”

Kiran nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor, his shoulders hunching as if the memory were a physical burden crushing him. “I saw Rhydian’s body myself, strung up in the square, his blood pooling on the stones while the priests chanted their hymns. Toren was poisoned, his body left to rot in a ditch. Vael was beheaded, his head displayed on a spike as a warning. Silva stood there each time, smiling, as if their deaths were offerings to his twisted god. He’s not the prince you knew, Lysanther. He’s a monster now, wielding his power to choke the life from our people.” Kiran’s voice cracked, and he ran a scarred hand through his unevenly cropped hair. “He’s convinced the Hive is meant to die, that extinction is our fate. A new queen, a new brood, would unravel everything he’s built.”

Caroline’s breath hitched, her hands trembling as she clutched the table for support. The idea of her body as a vessel, a tool for this alien race, was already overwhelming, but now the weight of Silva’s madness pressed against her, a suffocating force that made her chest tighten. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, to reject the role they’d thrust upon her, but her voice remained trapped, her throat paralyzed. Lysanther’s hand moved to her hair again, stroking gently, his touch a quiet anchor in the storm of her fear, though it did little to ease the terror clawing at her heart.

“Why?” Lysanther asked, his voice raw, almost pleading, as if searching for a shred of sense in the madness. “Why would he do this? Our species will fade to extinction. Doesn't he see that?”

Kiran’s laugh was bitter, a hollow sound that echoed in the barren kitchen. “He sees it, brother, and he welcomes it. He calls himself the shepherd of our extinction, guiding us to oblivion.” He glanced at Caroline again, his eyes softening with pity, though fear lingered beneath. “She’s a miracle, Lysanther. But she’s a miracle he’ll crush without hesitation. He’s already marked you both as pariahs, untouchables. If you push this, if you even talk about fulfilling her purpose, you’ll be signing her death warrant—and yours.” 

Silence pressed the air until Lysanther’s gaze shifted to Caroline, softening. “She is probably hungry” he stated, his tone gentle. “What can you fix for her that won't upset her stomach?”

Kiran moved to a corner of the kitchen, where a rusted stove stood beside a shelf of mismatched jars. “Broth,” he said, pulling a pot from a cupboard. He began to prepare it, his hands deft, as Lysanther helped Caroline adjust in the chair, ensuring she was steady.

“She hasn’t eaten real food in years,” Lysanther said, his voice low as he knelt beside her. “The stasis sustained her, but her body needs time to adjust.” He lifted a clay cup from the table, filling it with water from a cracked pitcher nearby. “Sip slowly,” he instructed, holding it to her lips. Her hands shook as she took it, the cool water soothing her parched throat, though swallowing was an effort.

As Kiran stirred the broth, the faint scent of herbs and boiled roots filled the air, a meager comfort in the barren kitchen. Lysanther sat beside Caroline, his presence steadying her. “I found her on Earth,” he said to Kiran, his voice low, almost confessional. “I watched her for months, learned her routines. When the time came, I took her. Drugged her, brought her aboard.”

Kiran glanced over, his expression unreadable. “And the journey? How did you fair?”

“She did well.” Lysanther said, his hand resting on Caroline’s arm as she sipped the water. “I monitored her constantly—her vitals, her health. The journey took years, Kiran. I… grew attached.”

Caroline’s cheeks flushed, the memory of him on top of her naked, prone body flooding back. She focused on the cup, avoiding their eyes, her hands trembling as she set it down.

Kiran brought the pot of broth, ladling it into a bowl. “Here,” he said, setting it before her. Lysanther took a spoon and helped her eat, guiding her shaky hands. The broth was thin, faintly savory, with a bitter undertone from unfamiliar herbs, but it warmed her, grounding her in her body. Kiran watched, his eyes flicking between awe and sorrow, as Lysanther fed her with a tenderness that belied his stoic exterior.

She ate in silence for a time, the only sounds were the clink of the spoon and the faint crackle of the stove. Caroline’s strength returned slowly, her movements less shaky, though her body still felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. When the bowl was empty, Lysanther stood, helping her to her feet. “She needs rest,” he said to Kiran. “And a bath. Her body’s adjusting from the journey. It’ll be hard on her.”

Kiran nodded, leading them through the house. Caroline leaned heavily on Lysanther, her legs unsteady, as they passed through empty rooms, their walls stained with watermarks, their floors littered with debris. Broken furniture lay scattered, and faded murals of starry skies peeled from the ceilings. They reached a small chamber with a white stone tub stood, its edges worn and chipped. Kiran turned a rusted valve, and hot water trickled in slowly, filling the room with a faint mineral scent.

Lysanther set Caroline on the tub’s edge, his hands steadying her. “Strip,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. Her cheeks burned, and she hesitated.

Lysanther’s lips quirked in a teasing smile. “I’ve seen you naked thousands of times, Caroline. I’ve even seen inside you when I burned away the pre-cancerous cells from your cervix. There’s no need for modesty.”

Caroline’s face flushed hotter, her eyes darting to Kiran, who looked equally embarrassed, his tanned cheeks darkening. “I’ll… wait outside,” Kiran muttered, slipping out and closing the door with a thud.

Lysanther helped her undo the gold clasps of her various bracelets. He pulled the thin rings from her fingers and unhooked the heavy gold necklace. With careful fingers, avoiding unnecessary touch, Lysanther unbuttoned her dress at her back. The fabric slid to the floor, sending electric tingles through her over-sensitive breasts. She was naked except for the locket around her neck that has been hiding under her adornments. It was the only piece of her past she still carried. Lysanther reached for it, but she shook her head.

He nodded, his expression softening. “As you wish.” He eased her into the tub, the warm water enveloping her, waking up her sensitive hairless skin and soothing her aching muscles. She sank into it, her body relaxing for the first time in what felt like forever. Lysanther knelt beside her, taking a small blade from his belt. “Your hair,” he said, gesturing to the jagged ends left by Silva’s knife. “Let me fix it.”

She nodded, and he worked carefully, trimming the rough edges, his hands steady as the blade sliced away the uneven strands. She reached her hand tentatively to it, worried about what she'd find. Chin length. She silently mourned as the loss of her braid still stung, a reminder of her humiliation. The water clouded slightly with dust and sweat, and she scrubbed her skin, feeling the weight of the journey slough away.

The violet sky outside deepened to indigo, the sun setting in a blaze of crimson and gold. Her body was humming with relaxed electricity. The slight lapping of warm water like a lover's caress on her nerve ending, making them sing with pleasure. Caroline’s eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion pulling at her like a tide. Lysanther noticed, his voice soft. “The recovery will be difficult,” he said. “Your body is recovering from the stasis and adjusting to our planet's lunar cycle.”

She was too tired to respond even by nodding, her limbs and head leaden. He lifted her from the tub, wrapping her in a thin towel. Her limp body sagged against him, and he scooped her into his arms. His purr rumbled softly, as he carried her, her body giving in to sleep before she could see where he was taking her.

Chapter Text

Caroline woke slowly. Her body felt anchored, weighed down by a dull ache low in her abdomen. She lay in a vast, round bed that seemed to consume the entire room, its surface a chaotic sprawl of mismatched pillows and blankets in faded hues of blue and grey. The room was cave-like, its low, curved ceiling braced by rafters that twisted like ancient tree branches, their dark wood etched with faint, spiraling patterns. Frosted skylights, set like clouded jewels in the ceiling, allowed a dim morning glow to filter in, bathing the space in a silvery half-light that softened the crumbling walls. The air was cool, tinged with the musty scent of dust and a faint, sweet trace of alien blooms drifting from outside.

Her eyes moved about the room and found Kiran lying on the bed a few feet away, propped on one elbow, his green eyes fixed on her with a quiet intensity that made her a little nervous. He was covered by a blanket from the waist down but his bare chest was revealed, carved with lean muscle from hard labor, though his frame was painfully thin, almost gaunt. His tanned skin, weathered by the alien sun, bore faint markings like Lysanther’s that shimmered weakly, as if starved of vitality. Scars crisscrossed his torso and arms, some faded, others raw and red, a map of survival etched into his flesh. His short, unevenly cropped hair framed a face that echoed Lysanther’s sharp features, but his expression was softer, tinged with a trace of sorrow as he watched her.

Lysanther’s warmth pressed against her back, his naked body curled around hers in a protective, possessive embrace. His skin was hot against hers, and she felt the unmistakable hardness of his erection pressing against her buttocks, stirring a flush of heat across her face and a confusing pulse between her legs. His steady breathing told her he was still asleep, his arm draped over her waist, anchoring her to him.

Kiran’s voice broke the silence, soft and sweet. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes tracing her face, her shorn hair, the gold jewelry glinting against her pale skin. “Like a vision from the old tales. I’ve never seen anything like you.”

Caroline’s cheeks warmed, and she ducked her gaze, unsure how to respond. Her voice was still trapped in her throat, and she could only manage a small nod. Lysanther stirred behind her, his arm tightening briefly as he woke, his breath hitching against her neck. “Caroline,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, vibrating against her skin. “How did you sleep? Are you feeling stronger?”

She nodded, her movements slow, her body still heavy from the long stasis. The ache in her abdomen sharpened, a familiar twinge that made her tense. Lysanther shifted, propping himself on one elbow to look at her, his eyes soft but searching. “I meant to give you space,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But I couldn’t sleep without touching you. Not after the years of feeling you near me on the ship.”

Kiran cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing as he slid off the bed, his movements awkward, his trousers doing little to conceal the bulge of his own arousal. He adjusted them hastily, his embarrassment evident, and muttered, “I’ll… make breakfast.” He slipped out of the room, his bare feet silent on the cracked stone floor.

Lysanther’s low chuckle rumbled softly, a warm vibration that sent a shiver down Caroline’s spine as he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her neck. “Kiran’s not used to you,” he murmured, his voice laced with teasing warmth. “None of them are.” He slid from the bed, his naked form moving with unselfconscious grace, every muscle defined in the dim, silvery light filtering through the skylights. His erection stood proud, thick and prominent, the skin flushed, catching her eye with an almost magnetic pull. He made no effort to hide it, his demeanor utterly unashamed, as if his arousal were as natural as breathing. Caroline’s breath stilled, her gaze lingering, mesmerized by the raw power of him, the bold curve and undeniable virility that stirred a deep, primal heat within her. A slick warmth bloomed between her legs, her body betraying her with a flush of desire she couldn’t quell, and her cheeks burned as she tore her eyes away.

He moved to a corner of the room, pulling on a simple white shirt, open at the neck to reveal the strong lines of his collarbone, and dark trousers that clung to his muscular frame, the fabric worn but clean. He laid out clothes for her—a man’s oversized shirt, soft but faded, and a cloth belt to cinch it like a dress. “We’ll dress and eat,” he said, his tone calm, oblivious to the storm of sensations he’d ignited in her. “We need to lie low, Caroline. We’re a target right now. I’ll stay with you today, help you regain your strength. Your body’s still adjusting to this world and our lunar cycles. It’ll take time.”

Caroline sat up slowly, her limbs trembling but steadier than the day before. Lysanther pulled the blanket back to help her stand, and her breath caught at the sight beneath her—a smear of blood staining the sheets, bright and alarming against the white fabric. Her heart lurched, the memory surging: the miscarriage years ago, the hemorrhage that had nearly killed her, the sterile hospital room and the cold hands of doctors pulling her back from the edge. Panic clawed at her chest, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, and she clutched the blankets, her eyes wide with terror.

Lysanther was at her side in an instant, his hands gentle but firm as he cupped her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Caroline,” he said, his voice steady, cutting through her fear. “It’s your menstrual cycle. Our planet’s lunar pull is strong—stronger than Earth’s. It’s thrown your body out of rhythm, that’s all. You’re alright.”

She shook her head, her hands trembling as she gripped his wrists, her face burning with shame. The blood felt like a brand, a mark of her vulnerability in this alien world. Lysanther’s thumbs brushed her cheeks, his touch soothing as he purred softly, the vibration calming her racing heart. “I’ve managed this for you dozens of times on our journey,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. “I monitored your cycles, eased your pain. You’re safe with me.”

Despite his reassurances, the mention of pain sent a fresh wave of fear through her. On Earth, her cycles had been torturous before she’d found the right combination of birth control and painkillers—a cocktail that dulled the cramps, the nausea, the debilitating ache that left her curled in bed for days. She had no such relief here, and already, the cramps were tightening, a dull throb growing sharper. Her eyes widened, and Lysanther read her thoughts, his expression softening. “I’ll find you something for the pain,” he promised, his voice firm. “I won’t let you suffer.”

He stood, moving to a corner of the room where a small chest held supplies. He returned with a bundle of clean rags, placing them beneath her to catch the blood. “Stay here,” he said, helping her lie back against the pillows. “I’ll be quick.”

He left the room, and moments later, Kiran appeared in the doorway. Lysanther spoke to him in low tones, and Kiran’s face tightened, his eyes flicking to Caroline. “Pain relief?” Kiran said, his voice heavy with doubt. “There’s little of that left in the city. The appthecaries shut down years ago and were stripped by Silva’s priests or looters. But… there’s a healer on the outskirts. He might have something, but he won’t speak to me. Not after what happened in the last uprising.”

Lysanther’s jaw clenched, his hand resting briefly on Caroline’s shoulder. “I’ll go,” he said, his tone resolute. “Kiran, stay with her. Guard her. Don’t let anyone in this house. If Silva’s men come, hide her. Her life depends on it.”

Kiran nodded, his expression grim, his eyes shadowed with resolve. “I’ll keep her safe,” he vowed.

Lysanther knelt beside Caroline, his hand brushing her shorn hair, his touch gentle but heavy with unspoken worry. “I’ll be back soon,” he said softly, his green-gold eyes locking onto hers. “Stay with Kiran. Rest. Don’t go outside .” He stood and paused at the doorway, glancing back at Kiran. “Where do I find this healer?”

Kiran’s twitched, his gaze flickering toward the open windows. “The outskirts, near the old aqueduct,” he said, his voice cautious. “Follow the eastern road past the broken spire, where the ruins of the library are. His dwelling is carved into the hillside. But be careful, Lysanther—he’s a recluse, and he trusts no one.” He hesitated, then added, “Don’t mention my name. He’ll turn you away if you do.”

Lysanther nodded, his jaw tight, and strode out, his footsteps echoing through the empty house, fading into silence.

Kiran turned to Caroline, his awkwardness resurfacing, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “Broth? Tea?” he asked, his voice tentative, almost hesitant to disturb the quiet. “Something to help?”

She nodded, the cramps a steady, gnawing pain that made her wince, her body curling inward. She tried to speak, to ask for tea, but her voice failed entirely, her throat tight and silent, producing only a faint, frustrated breath.

Kiran nodded and disappeared to the kitchen, and Caroline waited, the minutes stretching into what felt like hours. Maybe it was hours. The pain intensified, a relentless vise squeezing her abdomen, each wave sharper than the last. She tried to call Kiran’s name, her voice nonexistent. The silence of the house pressed against her, broken only by the distant calls of birds outside and the creak of the old walls settling. The pain became unbearable, a searing heat that left her gasping, her hands clutching the blood-stained sheets.

She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to do something. A bath might help, she thought, recalling how warm water had felt so good last night. She pushed herself up, her legs trembling, and staggered through the house, holding the rags between her legs.

The bathroom was as she remembered, the white stone tub beckoning to her. She turned the rusted valve, and water trickled in, hot just as she needed. She threw off the bloodied rags, her hands shaking, and eased into the tub, the water tinged pink then red as it mixed with her blood. The warmth dulled the pain slightly, but it still throbbed, a constant reminder of her body’s rebellion.

She tried to relax her muscles but a shadow fell across the room, and her heart stopped as she opened her eyes to see Silva standing in the doorway. The king. Her tormentor, his tall, lean frame filling the space, and his silver-blond hair catching the dim light. His gray eyes gleamed with cold amusement, and in his hands, he held her severed braid, now twisted like a whip with a silver handle, its strands glinting like a cruel trophy. He wrapped it around his arm, his movements compulsive, almost ritualistic, and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply, a twisted smile curling his lips.

“Look at you,” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom, “bleeding like a gutted beast, defiling this ancient house with your vile ichor. It is proof of your barrenness, your evil nature.” He stepped closer, his boots clicking on the floor, the braid-whip dangling from his hand. “You thought you could slink into my city, seduce my people, birth a brood to usurp me? Your blood betrays you, slave. It screams your worthlessness.”

Caroline shrank back, her heart pounding, the water sloshing around her. She wanted to scream, to fight, but her body was weak, her voice silent. Silva’s eyes raked over her, cold and cruel, and he laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that echoed in the small room. “Pathetic,” he spat. “Like a child, frail as a twig, bleeding like a broken thing. You’re no queen. You’re a stain, a mockery of everything holy.”

Caroline’s heart pounded, her body frozen in the cooling water of the tub as Silva loomed closer, his silver-blond hair glinting like a blade in the dim light. The braid-whip coiled around his arm like a serpent. His gray eyes, cold and predatory, locked onto hers, and his twisted smile widened, savoring her fear. The air in the small bathroom thickened, heavy with the mineral scent of the water and the sharp tang of her own blood, which swirled in faint red tendrils around her trembling form.

“You’re nothing,” he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper that seemed to crawl under her skin. He stepped closer, the braid-whip unfurling in his hand, its strands brushing the stone floor with a soft, sinister rasp. “Bleeding, broken, traitorous.” He leaned in, his breath hot against her cheek, the braid now dangling inches from her face. “Do you know what we do with traitors?” he murmured, his tone almost intimate, laced with malice. “We kill them.”

She wanted to scream, to beg, but her voice remained locked in her throat. Silva’s hand shot forward, seizing the braid-whip and looping it around her neck in a single, fluid motion. The coarse strands bit into her skin, rough and unyielding, tightening just enough to make her gasp, her breath catching in a panicked hitch. “You thought you could defile my city,” he growled, his voice rising, each word a lash. “You thought you could birth a brood to challenge me?” He tugged the braid, pulling her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze, his eyes gleaming with a manic intensity that sent a chill through her core.

Before she could react, he shoved her head down with merciless force, plunging her face into the water. The world dissolved into a muffled blur, the warm liquid flooding her nose and mouth, stinging her eyes as she thrashed weakly, her hands clawing at the braid around her neck. The tub was shallow, but his grip was iron, pressing her down until her forehead grazed the stone bottom, the water closing over her like a suffocating veil. Her lungs burned, a desperate ache spreading through her chest as she fought to breathe, bubbles escaping her lips in frantic bursts. Her legs kicked, splashing water over the tub’s edge, but his strength was unrelenting, his hand a vice on the back of her head.

Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, slow and insidious, like ink spreading through water. Her thrashing grew weaker, her limbs heavy, her body screaming for air that wouldn’t come. Memories flickered—Earth, the hospital, her failures, her death-wish. Was this how it ended? Drowned in an alien tub, her life snuffed out by a mad king? Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, slowing with each passing second, the world fading into a dim, watery haze.

Silva’s voice cut through the muffled silence, distorted but cruelly clear. “This is your place, slave,” he taunted, his words vibrating through the water. “Beneath us, choking on your own failure.” He held her longer, his grip tightening, the braid cutting deeper into her neck, a burning line of pain that grounded her fading consciousness.

Just as her vision blackened, her limbs going limp, he yanked her up by the braid, the whip slicing into her skin as she broke the surface. She gasped, coughing violently, water streaming down her face, stinging her eyes and throat. Her chest heaved, dragging in ragged breaths, each one a knife in her lungs. Silva pulled harder, forcing her to her feet, the dripping braid still tight around her throat, its coarse strands scraping her raw skin. She stood naked, her body shaking with cold and terror, the cramps in her abdomen a distant echo beneath the pain of her near-drowning.

Silva’s gray eyes raked over her trembling form, his cruel smile sharpening into something predatory. “Look at you,” he sneered, his voice thick with dark contempt. “A drowned, dripping rat.” His gaze lingered, tracing the curves of her naked body. His eyes widened as they fell on her breasts, a flicker of something dark crossing his face.

His hand creeped slowly, fingers brushing the locket at her neck, the small relic from Earth. His touch lingered, the back of his knuckles grazing her collarbone, a deliberate, invasive caress that made her skin crawl. With sudden, vicious force, he ripped the locket free, the chain snapping with a sharp sting that left a red mark on her neck. “No relics for slaves,” he said, his voice a growl as he pocketed the locket, his eyes never leaving her body.

Chapter Text

Caroline’s days had blurred into a haze of exhaustion and despair, her body confined to the vast bed that seemed to engulf the cave-like room. The low, curved ceiling, braced by twisting rafters. The silvery glow of morning light filtering through the frosted skylights. Her menstrual cycle had ended, the bleeding finally stopped, but a bone-deep fatigue clung to her, her muscles weak, her spirit crushed under the weight of relentless memories. Silva’s cruel hands, the braid-whip choking her, the suffocating terror of being held underwater until her vision darkened. And worst of all, her locket was gone. Her last connection to Earth and her old life, ripped from her. The images looped endlessly, each one a fresh wound, and she longed to retreat into herself, to be left alone in the suffocating quiet of her grief.

Lysanther had been a constant shadow, tending to her with a quiet, relentless devotion that both comforted and overwhelmed her. Maybe he felt guilty for leaving her. When he had returned, he found her in the bathroom.She was curled in the white stone tub with water gone cold, sobbing silently, her body trembling from Silva’s assault. Her voice, still lost to her, had failed to convey the horror, but Lysanther’s eyes had widened with a mix of fear and fury, his face tightening as he knelt beside her, the water red with her blood. His hands, gentle but trembling with suppressed rage, had lifted her from the tub, wrapping her in a towel. He’d held a small vial of tonic to her lips, its bitter, herbal taste sharp on her tongue. It had done a little to dull the searing cramps that twisted her abdomen, but not as much as she'd hoped it would. He’d carried her to bed and turned on Kiran with a ferocity that shook the air.

“You left her alone!” Lysanther roared, his voice a thunderclap that rattled the peeling walls, sending flakes of ancient paint drifting to the cracked stone floor. “She was distraught, Kiran—freezing in that tub! Did something happen?” His eyes blazed with fury, his broad frame looming in the dim light of the bedroom, his chest heaving with barely restrained rage. “Speak!”

Kiran, standing in the doorway, flinched as if struck, his face paling, his gaunt frame shrinking back into the shadows. “I was only gone a moment,” he stammered, his voice thin and unconvincing, his eyes darting to the floor, unable to meet Lysanther’s gaze. “I went to check the perimeter, to ensure no one saw her. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think!” Lysanther cut him off, his voice a raw snarl, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles whitened. “A moment could be enough, Kiran. She was defenseless, alone in this rotting house, with Silva’s men prowling the city!” His body shook, the weight of his fear and anger spilling over, and before Kiran could react, Lysanther lunged forward, his fist connecting with Kiran’s jaw in a sharp, brutal strike. The impact sent Kiran stumbling back, crashing against the doorframe, a pained grunt escaping him as his hand flew to his face, blood trickling from a split lip.

Caroline flinched under the blankets, her silent tears soaking the pillow, her body trembling as the sound of the blow echoed in the small room. Lysanther stood over Kiran, his chest heaving, his fist still raised, his eyes burning with a mix of rage and betrayal. “You were supposed to protect her,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, each word a blade. “She can’t even tell me if something had happened…” His voice cracked, the unspoken fear hanging heavy, and he turned back to Caroline, his expression softening as he knelt beside her, stroking her shorn hair with a gentleness that belied the violence of moments before. Her shivering eased slightly under his touch, though her silent sobs continued, her voice still trapped in her throat.

The pain relief had been a frail shadow of what she’d known on Earth, barely touching the relentless cramps that had left her gasping. Lysanther had sat beside her, his hand and purr never leaving her, his voice heavy with frustration. “The technology, the medicine—it’s all but lost,” he’d said, his eyes shadowed with grief. “The wars, the uprisings, the purges… they’ve gutted the Hive. The apothecaries are empty, their shelves stripped bare. The establishments that once produced advanced remedies lie abandoned. We’re a dying race, Caroline.” His words had deepened her despair, the realization that she was trapped in a world without the drugs that had once tamed her cycles, leaving her vulnerable to pain she couldn’t escape.

Now, days later, she lay staring at the rafters, her body no longer bleeding but her mind heavy with sorrow. Kiran had kept his distance, his awkwardness a palpable barrier, and she harbored a quiet anger toward him for abandoning her that day, for leaving her to Silva’s cruelty. Lysanther, sensing her need for solitude, had given her space, but this morning, he entered the room with a new resolve, his broad frame filling the doorway.

“Enough,” he said, his voice firm. “You’ve lingered in this bed too long, Caroline. It’s time to move.” Before she could protest, he ripped the blankets away, the cool air hitting her unnaturally hairless skin like a shock, making her curl inward, her hands shielding her face. Lysanther was relentless, his touch insistent but careful as he pulled her to sit up, his eyes unyielding. “This house is not a tomb, and you’re not dead. You need sunlight, air, something to pull you out of this darkness.”

He handed her the oversized man’s shirt and cloth belt, helping her dress with hands that lingered just long enough to send a shiver through her. Her body was still weak, her legs unsteady, and he half-carried her through the house, past the cracked walls adorned with peeling murals of starry skies, past the scattered debris of a once-grand life. They reached the courtyard, an overgrown expanse of cracked mosaic tiles depicting celestial battles, now choked with silver vines and vibrant, alien flowers that shimmered in the golden light of the sun. Lysanther set her on a stone bench, its surface worn smooth by time, its edges cool against her thighs.

“The sun will do you good,” he said matter of factly. And it did. The golden light seeped into her bones like honey. Lysanther worked, cleaning decades of overgrowth from the once-stately courtyard. He peeled off his shirt, revealing the broad, muscular planes of his chest and back, his skin catching the light like polished bronze, his alien markings dancing with vital energy. He knelt to pull weeds from the cracked earth, his hands deft and strong, each movement fluid and powerful. Caroline watched, her eyes drawn to the ripple of his back muscles, the way they flexed and shifted under his skin, a living tapestry of strength and grace. Sweat beaded on his shoulders, glinting in the sunlight, and she was mesmerized, a warmth stirring in her chest, unexpected and disarming after days of despair. Her gaze traced the curve of his spine, the taut lines of his arms, and a restless heat began to coil in her core, her body awakening despite her exhaustion.

Later, he brought her inside for lunch, setting a simple meal of hearty flatbread and soup on the kitchen table. She watched him eat, her eyes fixating on his lips—the graceful cupid’s bow of his upper lip was a little broader than the average man's. More of a longbow than a cupid's bow, the silly thought entered her head. His lips really were wonderful, full and precise, curving around the spoon with an ease that made her breath come faster. Each movement was deliberate, his lips glistening faintly with broth and his tongue darting out to lick them, and the sight ignited a spark deep within her, a flicker of desire that felt both foreign and undeniable. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the soup too hot and the room feeling stifling.

After lunch, Lysanther took up a broom, sweeping the dust and debris from the kitchen floor with long, steady strokes. His hands, beautiful and strong, gripped the handle with a quiet authority, the tendons in his forearms flexing with each movement, their strength somehow erotic in its simplicity. She looked away, her cheeks burning, but the heat lingered, a restless energy that refused to be ignored.

That night, they returned to the vast bed. Kiran kept his distance on the far side, his lean frame curled tightly, his breathing soft and even as he sank into sleep. Lysanther’s hand rested lightly on her arm, his naked body a furnace just a few feet away, his warmth radiating across the space, both comforting and inflaming her. His touch, even so slight, sent a shiver through her, stirring the restless heat that had plagued her all day. But sleep eluded her, her body uncomfortably warm, her skin crawling and her mind a tempest of vivid, unrelenting images that refused to let her rest.

Lysanther flooded her thoughts—the image of him that she had peaked through the crack in the cabinet doors during her attempted escape aboard the ship was seared into her mind. His naked body. His alien erection, which jutted proudly upwards with that elegant curve. So long and thick and rigid with the flared mushroom tip the color of a plum. So overly engorged it looked almost painful. It glistened with that clear liquid, dripping strings of honey to the floor, like an overflowing cup that could spill at any moment. Fuck. She was thirsty. Her mind reeled. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t sleep.

She saw him in the courtyard, shirtless under the alien sun, his back muscles rippling as he knelt to pull weeds from the cracked earth. In her mind’s eye, the scene shifted—his sweat-slicked skin glistened, each movement deliberate, his hands sinking into the dark soil with a sensual strength. He turned to her, his eyes smoldering, and instead of weeding, his hands reached for her, pulling her down into the soft earth, his body pressing against hers, the scent of alien herbs and his musk overwhelming her senses. She held her breath at the thought, her nipples hardening against the rough fabric of her shirt, aching with a heightened sensitivity.

The memory of their meal bubbled to the surface, his lips—full and precise, with that graceful cupid’s bow—closing around the spoon, the broth glistening on his mouth. Not a cupid’s bow, she remembered. A long bow pulled taught with a virile archer’s deadly strength. Ready to snap. In her fantasy, he set the spoon aside, his gaze locking onto hers, and leaned across the table, his lips brushing hers, slow and teasing, tasting of the savory broth. His tongue flicked out, exploring her mouth with the same deliberate care he’d given the spoon, and her body responded, a pulse of heat flooding her core. She imagined him laying her on the table, his lips trailing lower, down her neck, her chest, lingering on her breasts, sucking her aching nipples into his hot mouth.

Then, the memory of him sweeping the kitchen floor took hold, his beautiful, strong hands gripping the broom’s handle with an erotic authority, the tendons in his arm flexing with measured control. In her mind, the broom vanished, and those hands were on her instead, their strength tempered by gentleness as they roamed her body, fingers tracing the curve of her hips, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She saw him pressing her against the wall, his grip firm, his hands sliding under her dress, finding the wetness that betrayed her desire. The fantasy was so vivid, she could almost feel the calluses on his palms, the heat of his touch igniting her. Why is this room so fucking hot, she questioned, frustrated.

And then, the image of his erection that first morning in the house—thick, prominent, unashamed—replayed relentlessly, its bold length straining against his skin, a promise of pleasure she couldn’t shake. In her mind, he stood before her, naked and unyielding, his arousal a testament to his want for her. She imagined him stepping closer, his body towering over hers, his shaft gliding against her, teasing her enlarged clitoris, the sensation so intense it stole her breath. Her body was feral, her sensitive nipples throbbing, scraping painfully against the coarse blanket. Her clitoris horribly swollen pulsed with every heartbeat, hypersensitive, each throb a torment. Wetness slicked her thighs, seeping into the sheets, her core hot and restless, her skin flushed with a crawling heat that refused to abate.

She tossed and turned, the discomfort unbearable, her body crying out. The blankets tangled around her legs, the air in the room thick and stifling, amplifying her frustration. She pressed her thighs together, seeking relief, but it only heightened the ache, her body betraying her with a need so fierce it felt like madness. Her hands clenched the sheets, her breath shallow and ragged, as the images looped endlessly—Lysanther’s back, his lips, his hands, his erection—each one more vivid, more consuming, driving her to the edge of sanity. Sleep was a distant hope, her body a live wire, sparking with desire she couldn’t quench, leaving her to writhe quietly in the dark, caught in a storm of her own making.

The sun rose, painting the skylights with a soft golden glow, and Caroline was exhausted, her eyes heavy with sleeplessness. She dragged herself from the bed, pulling on the oversized shirt and belt, and shuffled to the kitchen, determined to distract herself. Standing at the counter, she sliced into a loaf of bread with a dull knife, her hands shaking, tears streaming down her face. She was tired, frustrated, her body betraying her. The wetness between her legs seeped down her thighs, soaking the fabric of her makeshift dress, and she should have been embarrassed, but she was too overwhelmed to care, her silent sobs shaking her small frame.

Lysanther entered, the faint creak of his boots on the cracked stone floor slicing through the silence. Before Caroline could turn from the counter, where her hands wrestled with a dull knife over the loaf of bread, he was behind her, his broad frame caging her against the countertop, his warmth enveloping her. His hands, unyielding, closed over hers, prying the knife from her grip with deliberate slowness, setting it aside. “Caroline,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing, a playful lilt curling around her name as his breath grazed her ear. He leaned in, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply, a mischievous glint sparking in his eyes. “What’s that smell?” he asked, his tone light, almost innocent, but heavy with implication. “Something you’re cooking? It’s sweet, like ripe nectar fruit, but tart, too—a sharp, wild tang that makes my mouth water. I'm hungry for breakfast, Caroline.”

Her cheeks burned, her body tensing as she realized he was scenting the wetness seeping down her thighs, betraying her in a way she couldn’t hide. His chest pressed against her back, his erection unmistakable through his trousers, a hard, insistent promise that sent a pulse of heat through her core. He chuckled, the sound low and wicked, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her neck, making her shiver. “You stubborn little thing,” he teased, his voice laced with a playful cruelty that stung as much as it thrilled. “Did you think you could hide this from me? That sweet scent, so thick it’s practically dripping off you, begging to be tasted. Why did you spend all night writhing in the dark? Are you too proud to ask for what you need? You're not very smart, are you, Caroline? Letting yourself suffer when your medicine lying next to you.” His words cut, sharp and mocking, but the teasing warmth in his tone made her squirm, caught between embarrassment and desire. His hand slid to her hip, his grip firm, possessive, and he leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “You’re not fooling anyone, least of all me. Are you ready for me to help you? I will, but you need to trust me, silly girl, or I’ll let you stew in this torment a little longer, just to teach you a lesson. Can you trust me?”

She nodded, her breath shaky and uneven, her body trembling with a heady mix of anticipation and nerves, her silence amplifying the tension in the room. Lysanther’s presence loomed behind her, his broad frame a wall of heat and strength, pinning her against the scarred wooden counter. His hands slid to her hips, fingers digging into her flesh with a possessive firmness that made her pulse race, anchoring her in place as his lips found the sensitive curve of her neck. The kiss was slow, deliberate, a teasing brush that deepened into a lingering press, his breath hot and tantalizing, sending a jolt of electricity through her core. Her skin prickled, a shiver racing down her spine as her body responded, the wetness between her thighs growing slicker.

He shifted, his movements confident, almost predatory, and with a gentle nudge of his knee, he kicked her legs apart, widening her stance. The cool air of the kitchen brushed her exposed skin, heightening her awareness of her vulnerability, her arousal. His hands moved to the hem of her oversized shirt, tugging it upward with a slow, deliberate motion, baring her thighs to the dim light filtering through the cracked window. The fabric bunched at her waist, and she felt the weight of his gaze, heavy and hungry, as he took in the sight of her. Her cheeks burned, but her body betrayed her, the heat in her core pulsing with need.

Lysanther’s fingers moved to his trousers, freeing his erection with a deft, unhurried motion. His shaft was thick and prominent, the skin taut and flushed, a stark symbol of his desire that made her breath catch. He stepped closer, and with both hands, firmly pulled her hips backwards. His chest then pressed against her back forcing her upper body forward until she hunched over the countertop. With one hand still gripping her hip, he used the other to guide his erection between her thighs, not entering her but pressing it firmly against her vulva. The slick heat of her arousal coated him, easing the glide as he began to thrust, slow and controlled, the length of his perfectly curved shaft sliding along her sensitive folds. The tip brushed her enlarged clitoris, each contact a spark that set her nerves alight, the swollen bud throbbing under the teasing pressure.

His hand joined the rhythm, fingers splaying across her lower abdomen before sliding lower, cupping her mound with a possessive warmth. His thumb found her clitoris, pressing downward, pinning it against his thrusts, the sensation overwhelming, electric, like a storm building inside her. His other fingers reached under his shaft, pressing it up against her vulva, each thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through her, her body arching involuntarily. Her hands groped the counter, looking to hold on but there was nothing to grasp. Her thighs trembled, the slickness of her arousal mingling with his, creating a friction that was both maddening and exquisite. The kitchen filled with the soft sounds of their breathing, her silent gasps, and the faint, wet glide of his movements, the air thick with the sweet-tart scent of her need.

Lysanther’s thrusts grew more insistent, his hips rocking against her, his erection sliding faster now, the tip grazing her clitoris with every pass, driving her toward the edge. His breath was ragged against her ear, his purr rumbling low, a primal sound that vibrated through her, amplifying her pleasure. “That’s it, Caroline,” he murmured, his voice husky, laced with a teasing. “Stop thinking and let go.” The sensation was too much, too intense, and her body shattered, an orgasm ripping through her with forceful contractions that left her gasping, her legs buckling as she leaned into the counter for support. 

Lysanther groaned, a low, guttural sound, and his own release followed, his come spurting forcefully against her overly sensitive clitoris. The knot at the base of his penis pulsated dramatically against her buttocks. His hand, still cupping her, pressing his throbbing against her, filled with his release, the copious excess spilling onto the floor. When his shaft stopped twitching, Lysanther withdrew and pressed his semen-filled hand to her, coating her vulva, mingling with her wetness in a slick, possessive claim. He paused, his hand pressing gently against her, holding her through the tremors. He leaned forward, his lips brushing her neck once more, a softer kiss now, almost reverent, as he caught his breath, his chest heaving against her back.

“No bath today,” he commanded, his voice husky but firm, a possessive edge to it that made her shiver. She was breathless, her body sated, the tension unraveling like a cut thread. Caroline shifted, glancing down at the puddle that had pooled at her feet. Clear fluid. No traces of white as she had expected. 

Lysanther plucked a piece of the bread from the counter, pressing it playfully into her lips, a teasing smile curving his mouth. “Eat,” he murmured, “and go back to bed. You need your rest.”

She obeyed, shuffling back to bed, dripping. She sank into the pillows, exhaustion claiming her, and slept deeply, her dreams a hazy tangle of Lysanther’s touch and his body moving over hers replayed in endless loops.

She woke in the afternoon, the light through the skylights now a warm amber, casting long shadows across the room. She rose, still wearing the oversized shirt, and wandered through the house, searching for Lysanther. In the hallway, she nearly collided with Kiran, his lean frame tense, his green eyes widening as he caught her scent. His cheeks flushed, and he muttered a hurried apology, sidestepping her and disappearing down the hall, his embarrassment obvious.

Frustration simmered as she searched the empty rooms, the cracked walls and scattered debris mocking her growing irritation. Her body was already heating again, the restless ache returning, a pulse that made her skin flush. She stepped into the courtyard, annoyed, where she found Lysanther tending a small vegetable garden, his shirt off, his back muscles rippling as he pulled weeds from the earth. The sight reignited her desire, but it was tempered by anger—he’d left her alone, again, after promising to stay. Tears of frustration pricked her eyes, her voice still silent, unable to vent her churning thoughts.

He looked up from the vegetable garden, his green-gold eyes glinting with wicked amusement and a slow, teasing laugh spilled from his lips. “Well, look at you, storming out here like a little tempest,” he drawled, his voice dripping with playful mockery as he rose to his knees, brushing dirt from his hands with deliberate nonchalance. “What’s got you so riled, Caroline? So fiery today, all flushed and furious, stomping through the garden like you’re ready to burn the world down.” His gaze raked over her, lingering on her tear-streaked face, her trembling hands, and the oversized shirt clinging to her curves, his lips curling into a smug, knowing smile. “Haven’t you learned your lesson yet, you stubborn girl?”

He stepped closer, his shirtless form towering over her, sweat glistening on his muscled chest, catching the golden light of the alien sun. His hands found her hips, firm and possessive, and he pulled her down to the ground with an unyielding tug, laying her on the soft, loamy earth. The scent of rich soil and sharp, alien herbs enveloped them. “Poor thing,” he teased, his voice low and taunting, a playful cruelty dancing in his eyes. “You think you can fight this, don’t you? Marching out here, glaring at me like I’ve wronged you, when we both know this is all your fault.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek, his vibrant eyes locking onto hers with a promise that sent a shiver through her. “Stop fighting and give into it, Caroline,” he murmured.

He spread her legs, his hands gentle but insistent, and lowered his head between her thighs. She squirmed, embarrassment flooding her—no one had ever done this to her before, and the thought of him there, with her still marked by their earlier encounter, made her cheeks burn. She pushed weakly at his shoulders, protesting. 

Lysanther looked up from between her thighs, his smirk showing his amusement. “Do you think this is the first time I’ve done this to you?” he asked, his voice low and mocking, a condescending edge cutting through its soothing tone. “You really are dense, aren’t you, Dear? I’ve tasted every part of you, cared for you, night after night of our journey, while you slept.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her sensitive skin, his gaze pinning her with a playful cruelty. “Trust me, stubborn girl, I know your body better than you do.”

He pressed her down, his strength unyielding, and his tongue found her, slow and deliberate, exploring her with a reverence that made her tremble. He circled her swollen clitoris with precision, his tongue warm and soft, then pressed firmly, drawing a silent gasp as her body arched. When he gently sucked the engorged bud, pulling even more blood flow to the hopelessly sensitive tissue, Caroline thought she might explode. The rhythmic pressure of his lips, the gentle sucking, the teasing flicks of his tongue—it overwhelmed her, building a crescendo of sensation. Her hands clutched the earth, her fingers digging into the soil as a first orgasm shuddered through her, her body shaking. He didn’t stop, his tongue relentless, coaxing another climax, then another, each one sharper, her silent cries trapped in her throat as her body surrendered to the waves of pleasure.

He pulled back, his lips glistening, a satisfied smirk curving them, and helped her sit up, her body weak but sated, her skin flushed with heat. “That’ll keep you for a few hours,” he teased, “Come on now. It’s dinner time.” They returned to the house for dinner, where Kiran sat awkwardly, his eyes avoiding hers, his movements stiff as he ate the meal. His discomfort was palpable, his cheeks flushing faintly, his shoulders tensing with each careful bite, as if he could taste her presence in the air.

Caroline felt a pang of guilt twist in her chest, sharp and unexpected, as she watched him shrink into himself, his awkwardness a silent acknowledgment of the intimacy he’d inadvertently intruded upon. She knew her scent must be overwhelming, a reminder of her connection with Lysanther that excluded him. The guilt gnawed at her, softening her heart toward his quiet shame, but it was quickly overshadowed by a smoldering anger that flared anew. The memory of his absence when she’d needed protection, when Silva’s braid-whip had choked her, when she’d nearly drowned—burned in her chest, fueling her resentment. She wanted to forgive him, to let the guilt erase her anger, but the sting of his failure lingered, a wound that refused to heal.

After dinner, she moved toward the bathroom, intending to wash away the day, but Lysanther caught her in the hall, firmly grabbing her wrist. “Not yet,” he said, his voice low, a hint of command in it. “Let it stay.” His eyes held hers, a possessive glint in them, and she flushed, nodding, following him back to the bed.

That night, as they settled into the vast bed, Kiran kept his distance, his lean frame curled on the far side. Lysanther’s hand rested on her arm, his naked body warm against hers. He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. “Let me care for you again,” he whispered, “before we sleep.” Caroline hesitated, her eyes flicking to Kiran who was not yet sleeping, unease curling in her chest. Lysanther sensed it, his hand stroking her arm. “It’s normal for us,” he murmured. “The Hive shares its queens. He won’t mind.” But the thought felt too strange, too foreign, and she shook her head in refusal.

They slept but Caroline soon stirred, the middle of the night pressing around her like a heavy shroud, the air in the cave-like room thick and warm, clinging to her skin with a stifling intimacy. Her body was a furnace, slick with sweat. Her core throbbed with a relentless, aching need, a pulse that radiated outward, making her thighs tremble and her breath come in shallow, uneven gasps.

She shifted, the blankets tangling around her legs, her hands slipping beneath the fabric to press between her thighs, desperate for relief. Her fingers moved, tentative at first, then urgent, seeking a stubborn release that eluded her. Each touch sent a jolt through her, but no matter how she tried—circling, pressing, stroking—the pleasure built to a maddening peak without breaking, leaving her teetering on the edge, frustrated and panting. She bit her lip, stifling a silent whimper.

A soft chuckle broke the darkness, low and teasing, cutting through the haze of her desperation. Lysanther stirred beside her, his eyes glinting with amusement in the faint starlight that filtered through the skylights, his naked body a shadowed silhouette of muscle and heat. “Struggling, are you?” he teased, his voice a playful drawl that sent a shiver down her spine. “Writhing in the dark, chasing what you can’t catch.” He propped himself on one elbow, his gaze raking over her flushed face, her sweat-dampened hair, the way her hands pressed desperately between her thighs. His smirk widened, wicked and knowing, as he inhaled deeply, savoring the sweet-tart scent of her arousal. “You’re a mess, Caroline, and yet you’re too proud to ask for help.”

He moved over her, his naked body pinning her gently to the bed, his skin hot and smooth against hers, a furnace of strength and desire. His erection pressed against her thigh, its warmth a tantalizing promise that made her stomach flip. He shifted, guiding it to glide against her core, slick with her arousal, the contact electric, sending a jolt through her hypersensitive clitoris. She gasped silently, her body arching off the bed, her hands clutching the sheets as the sensation overwhelmed her. Lysanther’s movements were slow, deliberate, his length sliding along her folds without entering, teasing her with each pass, the mushroom tip brushing her swollen clitoris, igniting sparks that made her tremble. His hand rested on her hip, steadying her, his touch both possessive and gentle, grounding her in the storm of sensation. The pleasure built, a crescendo that left her panting, her body taut with anticipation. Her clitoris throbbed under the relentless glide, each stroke pushing her closer to the edge until she broke apart in climax.

After a long moment, Lysanther’s broke the silence, his voice a low, guttural growl that vibrated through her. “I want to tear into you, Caroline,” his words were heavy. His eyes burned with an intensity that stripped away all pretense, no trace of his usual teasing in their depths. “I’ve never taken you fully, not even when you were in stasis. I’ve held back all this time, but fuck Caroline, I want to go all the way in, to feel you tight around me, to claim every part of you.” His words were a fervent plea, each one weighted with a hunger that bordered on pain. He pressed slightly, the tip of his shaft resting hot and heavy against her entrance, a deliberate, testing pressure that made her heart race, but there was no playfulness in his touch, only a serious need. “Do you want it, Caroline?” he asked, his voice low and earnest, his eyes locking onto hers, searching, almost pleading for her answer.

Did she? Her mind couldn’t decide.

He bit at her earlobe, increasing the pressure on her entrance slightly. “I want to press my cock-head to the entrance to your womb and make it bloom,” he growled, “enter the place no man has been.” His hand slid to her thigh, fingers tracing the curve of her skin with a possessive tenderness, his touch igniting sparks that made her breath hitch. “I’ll find a way to make it inside.” He bit at the base of her neck lightly, punctuating his filthy words. “To open you.” Another bite, stronger than the last. “To breed you.” His bite grasped hard against her, his breath ragged through his teeth, his body trembling with the intensity of his desire. “I’m going to fill you, darling. Until your tummy bulges and grows round and heavy with an entire brood of sons for me. Will you give me a dozen sons, my sweet girl?”

Caroline’s heart raced, her body trembling under the weight of Lysanther’s words, her mind reeling with bewilderment at the intensity of his words. His teeth grazed her earlobe, a sharp nip that sent a jolt through her, while the pressure of his erection against her entrance intensified. As he pressed slightly harder, testing her, a sharp, burning pain flared where her hymen resisted, a tight, unyielding barrier that stretched under his careful insistence, sending a stab of discomfort through her core. She tensed, her fingers clutching the sheets. The idea of him pressing into her, into her cervix, filling her with a brood of sons—a dozen sons—it was overwhelming, a concept so alien and grotesque it sent fear creeping through her veins, cold and sharp, like ice spreading beneath her skin. Her heart pounded, her silent gasps quickening as the scent of her fear—sharp, acrid, like burnt citrus—rose in the air. Lysanther’s nostrils flared, his eyes darkening as he sensed it, his hips snapping away from her.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Caroline,” he murmured, his voice low and earnest. His hands moved to caress her, one sliding up her side in a slow, soothing stroke, the other cupping her face, his thumb brushing away the tears that had begun to well in her eyes. His purr rumbled softly, a calming vibration that seeped into her, and he whispered, “There’s no hurry, my darling. We have time—days, weeks, as long as you need to be ready for me fully. Don't be afraid.”

His touch and purr worked their magic, her racing heart slowing, her body relaxing under his gentle ministrations until the fear ebbed, replaced by a fragile calm. Emboldened by his tenderness, Caroline reached down, her fingers tentatively wrapping around his pulsing erection, now an angry red color from her denial. Her touch was hesitant at first but growing bolder as she began to pump him, her small hand moving with a shy determination, drawing a low groan from his lips. “Yes, Caroline. Keep going,” he purred, “and I’ll give you your medicine." She did and within minutes, Lysanther shifted, kneeling at the base of her open legs, gripping his shaft, pumping it with slow, deliberate strokes.

He groaned, gently pressing his slit against her entrance and his release came. His semen spilled hot and fast against her entrance, spurting inside her in a potent intrusion. The heat of his release mingled with her wetness, a possessive claim that soothed the ache in her core. He leaned down, his lips brushing her forehead, and his purr rumbled softly, lulling her into a fragile calm as her body trembled with the aftershocks of pleasure.

Lysanther shifted behind her, spooning her close, his naked body a warm, protective curve against her back, his arm draping over her waist as he pulled her into the cocoon of his heat. As her eyelids grew heavy, the fragile calm lulling her toward sleep, he leaned closer, his voice a teasing whisper threaded with seriousness. “I’ll give you time to come to terms with it, darling, but don’t misunderstand me—it’s not a question of if I have you fully, only when.” A heavy pause lingered before he finished his thought. “I plucked you from the stars to birth my lineage and you will do just that for me in due time.” His words, ironclad, hung in the air, a vow that sent a shiver through her as she slipped into sleep.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn had barely begun to seep through the violet sky, painting the edges of the opaque skylights in a faint, ethereal glow that filtered into the cave-like bedroom like a whisper.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Caroline jolted awake, her heart slamming against her ribs, the remnants of sleep scattering. Lysanther stirred beside her, his naked body tense and alert, his green-gold eyes snapping open with the sharpness of a predator sensing danger. Caroline clutched the blanket to her chest, her body still humming with the aftershocks of their intimacy from the previous night, but now a cold dread seeped in, chilling her to the core. Kiran was not in the bed, his absence conspicuous. The knocking at the door was thunderous, insistent, each blow echoing through the crumbling walls like the pounding of war drums, vibrating through the stone floor and into her bones, rattling the loose debris on the shelves and making the peeling murals on the walls seem to shiver.

Lysanther was up in an instant, his muscular frame moving with fluid grace as he pulled on his trousers and white shirt. “Stay here,” he commanded, his voice low and edged with steel, his hand briefly resting on Caroline’s shoulder, a touch meant to reassure but only amplifying her growing fear. The knocking grew louder, more relentless, accompanied by gruff voices shouting from outside. Caroline’s mind raced, a whirlwind of terror: images of Silva’s cruel face flashing before her, his bloodshot gray eyes gleaming with malice, the braid-whip coiled in his hands like a serpent ready to strike. She wanted to cry out, to beg him not to go, to cling to the safety of his arms, but her voice remained trapped in her throat, her lips parting in a futile attempt to form words that wouldn't come. So instead, she wrapped herself in a blanket and followed him, keeping to the shadows of the entrance hall.

Lysanther strode to the door, his boots echoing on stone. He flung it open, the hinges creaking in protest, revealing Silva's guards standing there—a phalanx of aliens with vivid eyes glinting in the early light like jewels set in stone faces. Their postures radiated menace, swords sheathed at their hips, hands resting on hilts with fingers twitching as if eager for use. The lead guard, his sapphire eyes cold and unblinking, stepped forward. “Lysanther,” he intoned, his voice flat and mechanical, devoid of emotion but carrying the weight of royal command, “you are summoned to court. The king demands your presence immediately. Do not delay, or we will drag you.”

Lysanther’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides, the muscles in his forearms flexing under the white shirt, but he nodded curtly, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the threat. “Very well,” he said, his tone controlled. He turned back to the house, his eyes finding Kiran, who had appeared in the hallway, his gaunt frame tense.

“Watch her,” Lysanther said, his voice a low growl, pointing at Caroline with a finger that trembled slightly with suppressed rage. “Guard her with your life until I return. If anything happens to her—I’ll kill you myself, brother or not. Do you understand?”

Kiran swallowed hard, his face paling further. His lean body shifting as if ready to bolt, but he nodded, his voice steady. “I’ll watch over her,” he said, his tone resolute, though his gaze flicked to Caroline with a mix of guilt and determination, the memory of his previous failure hanging between them like a shadow. Caroline’s fear deepened, a knot twisting in her stomach as Lysanther cast one last glance at her, his eyes softening for a fleeting moment, a silent promise in their depths that did little to ease the terror clawing at her chest. 

The guards waited impatiently. Lysanther stepped out, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud that echoed like a finality, the sound reverberating through the house. Caroline shuffled back to the bedroom and huddled in the bed, her body trembling, the warmth of the blankets doing nothing to chase away the chill of dread. 

Lysanther was led through the ruined city, the early morning light casting long, ominous shadows over the crumbling architecture—towering white stone columns, now leaning like weary giants, arched roofs adorned with fading mosaics of swirling blues and reds, domes gilded with flaking metals, cracked and overgrown with silvery vines that rustled in the breeze. The streets were eerily quiet, the exotic birds with iridescent feathers still nestled in their perches, their sharp calls silent for now, the cat-like creatures slinking through alleys with glowing emerald eyes that watched the procession with predatory curiosity. The guards flanked him, their presence a silent threat, their eyes scanning the empty buildings for any sign of movement. Lysanther’s mind raced, piecing together a possible reason for the summons—Silva’s paranoia was unpredictable. Each step toward the cathedral feeling like a march to his doom. 

The palace loomed ahead, white stone walls inlaid with gold and turquoise that caught the dawn light, making them shimmer like a mirage. The towering doors stood open like a maw ready to swallow him whole. The guards pushed him inside, shafts of colored light streaming through stained-glass windows depicting ancient queens and princely broods, now a mocking reminder of what Silva feared.

Silva lounged on his black stone throne on the raised dais, his lean frame, clad in a disheveled tunic that hung loosely on his form. His gray eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights or a mind fraying at the edges. His expression was erratic, shifting from a mocking smile that twisted his full lips to an irate scowl that furrowed his brow, his fingers twitching restlessly on the throne’s armrest. In his hands, he held the braid-whip, crafted from Caroline’s severed brown hair, and he wrapped it obsessively around his arm, the strands coiling like a living thing. He brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment in a twisted, almost ecstatic shudder, the sight sending a wave of revulsion and anger through Lysanther, his stomach churning at the perversion.

The head priest stood beside the throne, his long black hair streaked with gray bound in a high knot, accentuating the sharp planes of his severe face. His eyes were ice cold, unblinking and penetrating, his bare face a contrast to the hooded figures around him. Lysanther was pushed forward, the guards halting him at the foot of the dais, their hands hovering near their swords.

“Lysanther,” Silva drawled, his voice cruel and mocking, rising in pitch with irate energy that made his words spit like venom. “You slink back to my court reeking of treason. What have you been plotting in that wretched hovel of yours?”

Lysanther met his gaze steadily, his voice calm but laced with defiance, his body taut as a bowstring. “Nothing, Silva. I’ve done as you commanded—kept her hidden, nothing more. Your summons drags me here for what? More paranoia?”

Silva’s laugh was sharp, unhinged, echoing through the hall like shattering glass, his bloodshot eyes bulging as he leaned forward. “Paranoia? You dare accuse me?” He unwrapped the braid-whip, snapping it in the air with a crack that made the guards flinch, the sound reverberating off the spiraling columns, then wrapped it tighter around his arm, his body twitching with erratic energy. “You think I don’t know? Nerothys, tell him of your dream.”

The head priest, Nerothys, stepped forward, his movements measured, his voice stoic and monotone, devoid of emotion, as if reciting ancient scripture from a dusty tome. “Last night I had a vision, granted by the stars, I saw you, Lysanther, conspiring in the shadows of your ruined home. You mixed strange tonics that you had collected from far off worlds, and harnessed advanced technology salvaged from the ruins of our past glory—the forbidden tools of the old queens. With them, you opened that female's womb, unlocking her potential, her womb blooming under your touch. You bred her, fathering a new princely brood, thus supplanting our king, claiming his crown for yourself.”

Silva surged to his feet, his erratic energy boiling over, his face contorted with rage, veins bulging in his neck. He approached Lysanther, leaning in close, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply, his bloodshot eyes widening with a manic gleam. “You reek of her,” he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper that rose to a scream. “That false queen’s stench clings to you like a whore’s perfume. Traitor! You’ve defiled her, plotted against me, conspired to take my throne!”

Lysanther’s jaw clenched. “I haven’t. I wouldn’t. She’s no threat—I’ve kept her as a slave, as you commanded. Nerothys’ dreams are madness. We were friends once—remember that. You have twisted into something unrecognizable.”

Silva’s face sharpened further, his irate screams filling the hall. “Madness? You dare call me mad? You, who brought this blight upon us from the stars! You’ve always envied me, Lysanther—always lurked in my shadow, plotting your ascent!” He paced erratically, his steps jerky, wrapping and unwrapping the braid-whip, his fingers trembling with rage, his silver-blond hair whipping across his face.

The priest leaned in, his ice-blue eyes unblinking, whispering in Silva’s ear, his voice a low murmur. Silva’s expression shifted, a cruel smile creeping across his face, slow and sadistic, his bloodshot eyes narrowing with triumph. He nodded, signaling the guards with a sharp gesture. The doors burst open with a boom, and more guards dragged Caroline in, her small frame struggling against their iron grips, her oversized shirt torn at the seams from the rough handling, her shorn hair disheveled and matted with sweat. She was crying, silent sobs wracking her body, her face pale with terror, her thin wrists bruised from the guards' hold. Behind her, additional guards carried in a small wooden table, its surface stained with dark spots that hinted at past uses, placing it at the center of the hall with a heavy thud.

Lysanther’s heart seized, his face draining of color, irate fury and terror warring in his green-gold eyes. “No!” he roared, lunging forward, his muscles straining against the guards' hold. “Silva, let her go! She’s innocent! I’ll swear loyalty, give you anything—my ship, my knowledge from Earth—just release her!”

Silva’s laugh was manic, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with sadistic delight, his fingers tightening on the braid-whip. “Begging now, old friend? How pathetic. Your pleas are music to me. But you know there’s only one way to be certain you haven’t conspired against me.” He gestured to the guards, his voice a command that brooked no argument. “Put her on the table. Open her legs.”

The guards forced Caroline onto the table, her struggles futile against their overwhelming strength, her small body twisting and kicking, her silent cries breaking Lysanther’s heart as tears streamed down her face. They pried her legs apart, holding her down with brutal efficiency, her body exposed and trembling, the cold air of the hall raising goosebumps on her pale skin.

The head priest approached, his movements unhurried, his ice-blue eyes devoid of mercy or emotion. He leaned over her chest and grasped hold of the neckline of her loose shirt, yanking it down, exposing her breast. His cold fingers reached for her nipple, pinching it with deliberate precision, pulling it outward in a slow, invasive tug. The sensation was sharp, making her flinch, her hypersensitive skin recoiling under his touch as he searched for signs of her treachery. Finding none there, his expression remained impassive, and he moved downward to the apex of her pinned legs. He examined her there with cold precision, his fingers invasively prodding her entrance, making her flinch and sob silently. “She produces no milk and her womb and channel are closed,” he declared clinically, his voice echoing in the silent hall like a death knell.

Silva’s eyes narrowed, his voice rising and falling in erratic waves, while he paced like a caged beast. “You see? The dream is a warning, a prophecy from the stars! You would open her, breed a new line to usurp me, to tear down everything I’ve built! But I won’t let it happen. Your family’s legacy ends here, Lysanther. You thought you could bring this human filth here and use her to become a king? You’re a fool, a traitor, and she’s the vessel of your downfall.” Lysanther tried to reason, his voice desperate, straining against the guards. “Silva, listen! This is paranoia—this religion has twisted you. Who is speaking in your ear?”

Nerothys stepped forward, “This man's words are poison. Muzzle him before he spreads it further” Silva motioned and a guard produced a metal device from his pocket, sealing it over Lysanther’s mouth, silencing him mid-plea. He could only growl, muffled and helpless, his eyes blazing with helpless rage, his body straining against the guards' hold. “Take him to the cavern,” Silva ordered, his voice cold now, the braid-whip wrapped tightly around his arm like a talisman.

The guards dragged Lysanther down a spiral staircase carved into the stone beneath the palace, the air growing colder, damper, with the scent of mold and decay thickening like a fog. Torchlight flickered on the walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock him, the iron gag cold against his lips, his muffled roars echoing off the narrow passage. They threw him into a cell roughly, his body slamming against the cold, damp floor, chains rattling as they locked the heavy iron door, leaving him in semi-darkness, lit only by the sputtering flames of distant torches mounted on the walls.

A while later, footsteps echoed down the passage, heavy and purposeful, and Caroline was brought in, struggling against the guards’ grips, her small body twisting futilely, her bare feet scraping on the cold stone. Silva followed close behind, his silver-blond hair wild, his bloodshot eyes manic, the braid-whip coiled in his hand, accompanied by the Nerothys and a group of lesser priests, their black robes rustling, buckets of water sloshing in their hands. The guards held her just outside Lysanther’s cell, her tear-streaked face visible through the bars, her eyes wide with terror. Silva's voice was erratic, wrapping and unwrapping the braid-whip, smelling it obsessively. “How foolish you’ve been, Lysanther. Thinking you could bring this abomination here and not pay the price. You’ve plotted, defiled her, dreamed of overthrowing me with your princely brood! But look at her—pathetic.”

As he spoke, he drew his knife, the blade glinting in the torchlight, and approached Caroline with slow, deliberate steps. With cruel precision, he sliced her oversized shirt, the fabric parting with a soft rip, revealing her pale skin, her full breasts with their pink nipples hardening in the cold air, her narrow waist flaring to hips that trembled under the guards' hold. 

Lysanther raged silently, slamming against the bars with a clang that echoed through the dungeon, his muffled growls vibrating through the iron gag, his green-gold eyes wild with fury. The head priest stepped forward, his voice a venomous hiss. “She defiles this sacred place with her whore’s stench, her filth tainting the air.” He gestured to the lesser priests. “Wash her.”

One priest seized Caroline from behind, his arms pinning her tightly, his body pressed against her back, and she felt the unmistakable hardness of his erection grinding into her spine, a sickening pressure that made her stomach churn. Two others approached with the bucket of hot soapy water. They dipped coarse cloths into the steaming water, the bubbles frothing, and began washing her, their touch lingering far longer than necessary. Their hands roamed over her arms, her shoulders, her breasts, fingers grazing her sensitive nipples, making her flinch, each touch a jolt of unwanted sensation. They lifted her arms above her head, exposing the soft skin under her arms, scrubbing with a slow, invasive thoroughness, their fingers brushing the sides of her breasts. Then, they lifted her knee, forcing her legs apart to wash her at her apex, their hands and the cloths lingering over all her most intimate parts. The hypersensitive flesh sending shudders through her, her silent sobs intensifying as shame and terror overwhelmed her. Caroline’s eyes darted, catching Silva staring, his bloodshot eyes fixed on her with a mix of contempt and dark hunger, the braid-whip wrapped so tight his hand looked vaguely purple. Behind him, she noticed a lesser priest among the group, his hands hidden in the folds of his robe, moving rhythmically.

Lysanther’s rage boiled over, his body slamming against the bars with force, the metal groaning but holding, his muffled roars echoing through the dungeon. Tears of frustration welled as he watched the violation unfold. The head priest, Nerothys, signaled, and a priest dumped the second bucket of cold water over Caroline, the icy shock making her gasp, her body trembling as water streamed down her skin. The priests took rags, drying her roughly, their hands groping her breasts, her thighs, lingering on her sensitive skin, their touches invasive. The Nerothys spoke again, his voice dripping with scorn. “See how she quivers, her filth cleansed but her shame eternal.”

Silva watched, his manic smile widening as he saw Lysanther’s anguish. “Look at you, Lysanther, writhing like a caged beast over your precious slave. Does it pain you to see her handled so? To know she’s nothing but a toy for me?” He laughed, inhaling the braid-whip on his arm.

The priests stepped back, and Silva ordered, “Lock her across from him. Let him gaze upon what he cannot touch. His torture will be slow.” The guards shoved Caroline into the cell opposite Lysanther’s, her naked body collapsing on the cold, damp floor, crying silently, her sobs shaking her small frame as she curled into herself. As they turned to leave, a priest grabbed the bucket of soapy water, still warm and frothing, and dumped it over Lysanther through the bars, the liquid splashing his face and chest, soaking his shirt. Silva’s laughter echoed as the priests and guards departed, leaving Lysanther and Caroline in the flickering torchlight, separated by bars. The dungeon’s chill seeped into their bones as their eyes locked in shared despair.

Chapter Text

Hours had crawled by in the dungeon beneath the cathedral, each one an eternity marked by the relentless drip of water from the damp stone ceiling and the flickering dance of torchlight on the rusted bars. The air was thick with the scent of mold and decay, a cloying miasma that clung to the lungs, mingling with the faint, tang of the soapy water still soaking Lysanther’s clothes. His white shirt, now stained and clinging to his broad chest, was cold and heavy, the chill seeping into his bones, making his muscles ache with a deep, gnawing cold. Across from him, in the cell opposite, Caroline sat curled on the cold stone floor, her naked body trembling, her pale skin prickled with goosebumps, her shorn hair falling in jagged strands around her face. She hugged her knees to her chest, rubbing her arms in a futile attempt to generate warmth.

Lysanther’s heart twisted, a visceral ache that surpassed the physical cold, as he watched her through the bars. Helplessness clawed at him, a suffocating weight that made his chest tighten. He wanted to break through the bars, to wrap her in his arms, to shield her from the dungeon’s chill and the horrors they’d endured. But he could do nothing but purr, as loud as his body would allow, to soothe her. His thoughts churned—guilt for bringing her to this dying world, fury at Silva’s madness, and a deep fear that he’d failed her utterly. He met her eyes, her gaze wide and haunted, shimmering with unshed tears, and the look they shared was a silent exchange of anguish and longing, a desperate wish to bridge the gap between their cells. Her eyes pleaded for comfort, for rescue.

The heavy tread of boots echoed down the passage, jarring the silence, and Silva appeared, his tall, lean frame filling the doorway. His gray eyes were wild, bloodshot, and unnaturally dilated, gleaming with a manic intensity. His movements were jerky and erratic, like a predator teetering on the edge of control. His disheveled tunic hung loosely, stained with sweat, and his face was flushed, his lips curled in a cruel, unhinged smile that made Lysanther’s blood run colder than the dungeon’s chill.

Silva’s gaze locked onto Lysanther, his smile widening as he stepped into Caroline’s cell, the iron door creaking open with a groan. “Look at you, old friend,” he taunted, his voice like venom. “Caged like a beast, gagged and useless, watching your precious slave suffer.” He moved closer to Caroline, who shrank back, her naked body curling tighter, her eyes wide with terror. Silva’s hands reached out, groping her roughly, his fingers digging into her arms, her shoulders, then sliding to her breasts, squeezing with a cruel possessiveness that made her flinch. He pushed her against the bars, her back pressed to the cold iron, forcing him to witness every moment. “Does it break you, Lysanther?” Silva mocked, his voice rising with sadistic glee. “To see her handled like this, your prize defiled by your king?”

Lysanther slammed against the bars, his muffled roars vibrating through the gag, veins bulging in his neck as he strained. His heart pounded, rage and despair warring within him, his thoughts a chaotic storm—kill Silva, tear him apart, save her. Caroline’s eyes met his, filled with fear and shame.

Silva stepped back, unwrapping the braid-whip and using it to bind Caroline’s hands behind her back, the coarse strands biting into her wrists as he tied them tightly, forcing her to her knees before him. “Kneel to your king, slave,” he sneered, his voice thick with contempt. He reached for his trousers, freeing his penis with a slow, deliberate motion. Caroline’s eyes went wide. It was strikingly different from Lysanther’s, though the knot at the base was the same. Alien—longer, thicker, a freakish organ designed to pierce what should not be pierced. Its head pointed bluntly like a spade and was flushed a deep purple, painful looking. And from its snake-eye slit, it leaked a shimmering, pearlescent fluid that streamed onto the stone floor. Silva stroked it slowly, his fingers gliding along its length, coaxing more of the fluid to spill, his breath deepening with a twisted pleasure.

“You’ve been a curse since you arrived,” Silva growled, his voice erratic, his wild eyes fixed on Caroline. “Do you know what you’ve done to me? Since you set foot on this planet, I’m always hard, always leaking, tormented.” He stroked himself faster, the pearlescent fluid flowing with every stoke, pooling at his feet “You’ve poisoned me, and now you’ll pay for it.”

He stepped closer, his voice a cruel command. “Open your mouth, slave.” Caroline hesitated, her eyes darting to Lysanther who was looking on with burning eyes. Fear overwhelmed her, and she obeyed, her lips parting. Silva turned to Lysanther, his smile sadistic. “Watch, traitor,” he hissed. “See how I treat my toys.”

Lysanther’s eyes were wild, tears of rage and helplessness welling as he watched, powerless. Silva stroked himself faster, the pearlescent fluid haphazardly stringing down onto Caroline’s face. His body shuddering as he ejaculated, the shimmering liquid splashing violently onto Caroline’s face, into her open mouth, coating her lips and chin. The fluid tingled on her skin, a strange, electric sensation. “Swallow it,” Silva commanded, his voice cruel. She obeyed, her throat working as she choked it down, her face burning with shame.

Silva laughed, a manic sound that echoed through the dungeon. “Look at her, Lysanther—drinking from her king’s cup.” He stepped back, re-sheathing himself, the braid-whip dangling from his hand as he turned to leave. “I am a generous king,” he laughed, his wild eyes glinting with satisfaction.

***

The dungeon’s chill settled deeper as the hours dragged on, the flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows across the damp stone walls. Sleep came fitfully, uncomfortable and fragmented, their bodies aching against the unforgiving stone. Caroline drifted into a shallow doze, her dreams. Lysanther’s sleep was no better, his mind trapped in a loop of fury and failure. The dungeon’s silence was broken only by the drip of water from the ceiling, a torturous rhythm that marked the passage of time.

The clatter of boots on stone jolted them awake, the sound echoing like a storm breaking the quiet. Silva appeared at the dungeon’s entrance, his lean frame swaying slightly, his hair sticking to his sweat-slicked face. His gray eyes were bloodshot red, pupils dilated to unnatural voids, rimmed with dark circles so deep they looked like bruises, giving him the appearance of a man consumed by some alien narcotic. He paced back and forth in front of Lysanther’s cell, his steps uneven, his voice a disjointed. “She poisoned me, Lysanther.” his words slurring, his eyes darting wildly. “I can’t sleep, my friend. She’ll kill me if I sleep! Stab me. Bleed me.” His voice rose to a scream, his hands trembling as he clutched the braid-whip. “How could you do this to me!”

Silva’s gaze shifted to Caroline, his smile twisting into something darker, more sadistic. “I want her to suffer,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “I want her to suffer, to feel pain, to bleed for what she’s done.” He entered her cell, the iron door creaking open, and Caroline scrambled back, her naked body pressing against the cold stone wall, her eyes wide with terror as she tried to escape. But Silva was faster, his strength overwhelming, and he grabbed her roughly, slamming her against the bars, her tear-streaked cheeks pressed to the iron.

Lysanther’s heart shattered, his muffled screams echoing, his body straining against the bars as Silva pinned Caroline from behind, his hands gripping her shoulders with bruising force. Silva’s voice was irrational, disjointed, a mad torrent of words. “You’ve poisoned me, you wretched thing,” he growled, his breath hot against her neck. “Your scent, your body—it’s driven me mad, made me burn!” A deep growl formed in his throat. It was an alien sound, primal, brutal. Like a tuning fork, its vibrations sent a sudden, sharp cramp through Caroline’s core, a visceral response that shocked her, her arousal fluid gushing unexpectedly, slicking her thighs and spilling onto the floor. Silva grabbed her wrists, yanking them above her head, pinning them against the bars with one hand, his strength unyielding.

Without warning, he freed his penis with one hand and slammed the freakish organ into her, tearing her hymen with a brutal thrust. The pain seared. Caroline screamed, her voice breaking free, a raw, piercing cry that echoed through the dungeon, tearing at Lysanther’s soul. He roared against the gag, his body slamming the bars, tears of rage streaming down his face.

Silva paused, his eyes widening with a flicker of clarity through his drugged haze. “Don’t open. Don’t open. Just a taste.” he muttered, his voice erratic, almost panicked. He thrust shallowly, his movements jerky but controlled. The pearlescent fluid leaking from him sparked on Caroline’s nerves and a tingling electricity spread through her core. Her cervix, unseen, bloomed like a flower opening to the sun.

The sensation was overwhelming, unnatural, and despite the pain, her body betrayed her. Her vaginal walls contracted with the strength of a twisting fist, as an orgasm crashed through her, unlike any she’d ever known. It was primal, painful, as her muscles clenched and pulled, yanking Silva’s knot inside. Her open cervix pulsed in time, sucking his spade cockhead into her womb. Her muscles squeezed rhythmically around his knot, milking him, urging his release.

Silva’s eyes widened in shock, his face paling as he realized what had happened. “No!” he gasped, ripping himself out of her, the knot tearing her. The sharp pain made her cry out again, blood trickling down her thigh. He stumbled back, as he ejaculated onto the cell floor, the pearlescent semen jetting onto the stone in thick ropes. His breath was ragged, his wild eyes darting between Caroline and Lysanther, his drugged haze shattered by panic. “What did you do, witch?” he stammered, his voice trembling with shock. He clutched the braid-whip and bolted from the dungeon, the iron door locking behind him.

Chapter Text

The palace corridors stretched like endless veins through the heart of the dying Hive. Silva stumbled along them, his boots scraping against the stone floor in an erratic cadence, each step a labored effort to escape the invisible claws raking his mind. His lean, muscular frame trembled uncontrollably, as if the very bones beneath his skin were rebelling against him.

The drug—whatever potent concoction it was—had held him in its grip for hours, elevating him to a manic euphoria, but now it was crashing down, leaving him in a vortex of nausea and disorientation. His heart pounded with a frantic, irregular rhythm and his breath struggled, the world tilting slightly with every inhalation.

His hands delved compulsively into the pocket of his disheveled tunic, fingers closing around Caroline's locket. The small, tarnished relic from Earth felt unnaturally heavy in his palm—the chain snapped like a broken promise, its surface etched with simple, alien designs that spoke of a distant world he had never seen but now haunted his every thought. He fiddled with it obsessively, twisting the chain around his digits until the metal bit into his skin, the sharp pain a fleeting anchor in the storm of his thoughts. The locket seemed to throb with a life of its own, or perhaps that was the drug's lingering illusion, amplifying every sensation to excruciating heights— the cool metal against his fevered skin, the faint click of the chain links, the imagined scent of Caroline clinging to it like a ghost.

"What have you done to me?" he muttered to the empty air, his voice a hoarse, broken whisper that echoed off the walls, sounding like a stranger's lament. The memory of the dungeon replayed in his mind with vivid, torturous clarity—the woman’s body blooming beneath him, her womb opening like a poisonous flower, drawing him in against his will, her scream etched into his soul. He had meant to punish her, to shatter Lysanther's spirit with her suffering, but instead, he had unleashed the very catastrophe his prophecy demanded he avert. The thought sent a wave of distress crashing over him, his stomach churning with bile, his vision swimming as he quickened his pace, desperate for the solitude of his private office to piece together the fragments.

He burst through the heavy wooden door, slamming it behind him with a force that rattled the ancient scrolls on the shelves. The room was dimly illuminated by a single torch mounted in a silver bracket on the wall. Silva leaned against the desk, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge, the wood cool and solid under his palms, a brief reprieve from the fever burning in his veins. The drug's grip was loosening, but the descent was brutal—a nauseating plummet that left him dizzy, his vision blurring at the edges, colors pulsing unnaturally as if the world itself was unraveling. His skin felt clammy, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down his temples in cold rivulets, and a pounding headache bloomed behind his eyes, each throb a hammer strike that made him wince and clutch his head.

The room spun slightly, the shadows lengthening and contracting in his distorted perception, and a deep, gnawing concern settled in his gut like a stone: he had opened her womb. The false queen, the harbinger of ruin, now carried the potential for a new princely line. His divine mandate to guide the Hive to its extinction, lay in tatters because of his lapse. He paced the room, his mind a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts—rage at Lysanther for bringing her here, confusion at his own uncontrollable actions in the dungeon, and a creeping fear that he had doomed the Hive to a revival it was not meant to have.

Nerothys, the head priest, was already there, standing in the shadows. He watched Silva with a calculated patience, his bare face a mask of stoic authority, though a subtle flicker of impatience danced in those icy depths, a sign that even his composure had limits when the king's madness threatened the grand design. “My king,” Nerothys intoned, his voice smooth and resonant, stepping forward into the light. “You return from the dungeon in such turmoil. Your face is pale, your eyes… troubled. What has befallen you?”

Silva whirled on him, his red eyes wide and wild, his fingers still twisting the locket in his pocket as if it were a talisman against the madness threatening to consume him. His skin crawled with phantom itches. “It… it happened,” he stammered, his voice cracking like brittle stone under pressure, irrational thoughts spilling out in disjointed fragments. “She… it opened. I didn’t mean for it… her body, it pulled me in. Like a trap, a curse from the void, sucking me in like a black hole. I’ve doomed us all, Nerothys. The extinction… the prophecy we’ve built everything on… shattered because of her, because of my weakness!”

His hands shook violently, the locket slipping from his grasp and clattering to the desk with a sharp, metallic ring that pierced the quiet like an accusation. He clutched his head, the headache intensifying to a blinding crescendo, the drug’s withdrawal making his vision swim with spots of light, colors pulsing at the edges like hallucinations from a fever dream.

Nerothys’s eyes narrowed, his stoic facade cracking with a flash of impatience that he quickly masked, his blue gaze boring into Silva like a drill. He stepped closer. “Opened? How, my king? You must tell me everything, every detail, no matter how painful. If the womb is breached, the consequences are dire—we must act with precision.” His voice sharpened, a subtle demand hidden beneath the veneer of priestly concern, his mind already calculating the implications, the opportunities hidden in the king's lapse.

Silva collapsed into the chair, his body slumping as if the weight of the Hive rested solely on his shoulders, his erratic breathing slowing to labored gasps that filled the room with a sense of impending doom. He clutched the locket tighter, its edges digging into his palm, the pain a fleeting distraction from the headache pounding like a forge hammer in his skull. “I… I entered her,” he confessed, his voice a ragged whisper, his mind still fractured, words tumbling out in fits and starts like water from a cracked dam. “To make her suffer, to break him—Lysanther. But her body... It sucked me in. It pulled my knot inside against my will. I ripped free, spilled on the floor, but… it’s done. She’s opened. The end we envisioned—the sacred fade into nature—gone because of one moment of madness!”

Nerothys leaned forward, his impatience barely masked as his blue eyes flashed with a cold, calculating light. “This is not your fault, my king,” he said, his voice shifting to a soothing, honeyed tone, “See how they have bewitched you? The false queen and her keeper—they’ve cast a spell upon you, twisted your mind with their alien magic from that wretched Earth, turning your strength against you. It’s their sorcery that drove you to this act. You, the shepherd of our sacred end, ensnared by their curse like a fly in a web. Execution is the only path to purification, the only way to sever their hold. Remember, whoever breeds her first will claim the throne—your throne, my king. She’s too dangerous alive. Let me arrange the executions.”

Silva’s eyes, still dilated and bloodshot, flickered with confusion, his mind a fog of conflict, the drug’s comedown making every thought feel like wading through thick mud. He rubbed his temples with shaking hands, his heart racing with a mix of fear, and regret. “Executed… but if she’s opened, perhaps it’s the void’s will, a test of my resolve. And the new line… it could be mine, Nerothys.”

Nerothys’s voice hardened further, his impatience breaking through as he leaned closer, his blue eyes like frozen daggers piercing Silva's confusion. “No, my king. It’s their enchantment at work, clouding your judgment like fog. Think—whoever claims her womb becomes the new sovereign, supplanting you, stealing the throne that is yours by right. She’s too dangerous to live; her genetic mutation, it’s a weapon forged against you, a blade aimed at your heart. The Hive looks to you for strength—show it now, or lose it forever to the whispers of traitors.”

Silva’s resistance crumbled under the relentless pressure, his erratic thoughts giving way to submission, the head priest’s words worming into the cracks of his doubt like vines through stone. He nodded weakly, his hands trembling as he called to a guard outside the door, his voice cracking with the weight of his decision. “Prepare the prisoners for execution. Immediately, in the square.” The guard bowed deeply and left, his boots echoing down the hall like a death knell.

Nerothys’s lips curled in a faint, satisfied smile, hidden in the shadows, his blue eyes gleaming with triumph. “I will ensure it is done, my king,” he said, his voice smooth once more, a velvet glove over the iron fist of his ambition. “The prisoners will be collected and prepared personally. Rest now—your divine purpose demands it.” He bowed deeply, his robes sweeping the floor and exited.

Silva sat alone in the office, the torch’s flame dancing erratically on the wall, casting shifting shadows that seemed to mock him with their fleeting forms, twisting like the doubts in his mind. He tried to collect his emotions, his hands shaking as he retrieved the locket from the desk, clutching it like a talisman against the storm raging inside him. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in with an almost physical force. His headache throbbed relentlessly, each pulse a reminder of his fractured state.

Confusion swirled like a vortex—why had he lost control in the dungeon? Why did her locket, her scent, haunt him so, lingering in his nostrils like a curse? He paced the office. He stopped at the window, staring out at the ruined city, the crumbling spires silhouetted against the dawning sky, nature’s vines reclaiming the stone like fingers of fate. His reflection in the glass was ghostly—pale skin stretched taut over sharp features, haunted eyes staring back with a stranger’s gaze, a king unravelling thread by thread.

He opened the desk drawer, his fingers fumbling with a desperation born of habit, searching for the tonics the priests had prepared for his nerves—small, delicate vials of black liquid meant to calm the storms in his mind. But they were empty, not a drop left to ease his torment. Panic flickered in his chest, a spark igniting the embers of suspicion that had been smoldering since the dungeon; had he consumed them all in his drugged haze? Or had they been tampered with, diluted or replaced by unseen hands to push him further into madness? The thought sent a chill down his spine, the drug’s withdrawal amplifying his paranoia to fever pitch, making every shadow in the room seem like a conspirator lurking, every creak of the palace a whisper of treason. He slammed the drawer shut, and left the office, pacing the hall, the locket a burning weight in his pocket.

The palace halls were silent in the pre-dawn hour, the flickering torches casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to whisper secrets of conspiracy. Silva’s tunic clung to his skin, damp with sweat, his mind a whirlwind of fragmented images—Caroline’s body blooming in the dungeon, her scream that had pierced his soul, his seed spilling on the cold stone floor, wasted. 

He muttered to himself, disjointed words spilling out in a stream of consciousness: “Cursed… bewitched… my rule… the end… how could I…” His heart raced faster, a pounding that made his chest ache. The drug’s comedown was merciless, waves of nausea rolling through him like ocean swells, his vision spotting with black dots that danced at the edges like mocking spirits, his skin crawling with phantom sensations that made him wrap the hair-whip tight around his arms. 

Without conscious direction, his wandering feet carried him outside, the cool morning air hitting him like a slap to the face.The ruined city sprawled before him, its crumbling spires and moss-choked arches a testament to his rule, nature reclaiming what the Hive had lost. The city woke slowly, a few males peering from broken windows with suspicion, their faces gaunt from the decline, but Silva paid them no heed, his mind locked in its spiral of confusion and regret.

His steps led him to the square, a wide, open plaza at the city’s heart. Once a place of gatherings and rituals, now held an air of desolation, the wind whistling through the gaps in the stone, carrying the scent of decay. Two gallows were being prepared in the center, wooden platforms erected with hasty efficiency by guards. Nooses swayed in the breeze like grim pendulums. Priests in black robes chanted softly, incense wafting from censers in their hands, the smoke filling the air with a bitter aroma that stung the eyes.

Lysanther was there, on his knees near the gallows, the iron gag still clamped over his mouth. His eyes blazed with defiance despite the bruises swelling on his face, purple and angry. Guards surrounded him, their swords drawn and glinting.

Silva’s anger flared anew, a burning tide that washed away his confusion, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as he approached, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword with white-knuckled force. The guards and priests paused, their eyes flicking to him with surprise, the chants faltering like a skipped heartbeat. “You,” Silva hissed, his voice trembling with rage, his fingers twitching on the locket in his pocket, the metal warm from his constant handling. “You’ve brought this upon us. You and your witch. You’ve poisoned my mind, my rule, turned me into this… monster.” He drew his sword, the blade singing as it left the scabbard with a high-pitched whine, its edge glinting in the dawn light, the metal cold and unforgiving in his hand, the weight a familiar comfort amid the chaos. “I’ll kill you myself, traitor. End you with my own hand.”

He approached Lysanther, his steps unsteady but determined and removed the gag with a rough yank, the metal clattering to the ground with a sharp ring. “State your last words,” Silva demanded, his sword raised, the blade trembling slightly in his grip, his heart racing with a mix of fury and the lingering drug, his bloodshot eyes locked on Lysanther’s, searching for any sign of weakness.

Lysanther gasped, his voice hoarse but steady, his eyes meeting Silva’s without flinching. “Silva, my old friend, you’re not yourself. You’re drugged, manipulated by those around you. Look at your eyes—dilated, bloodshot like a madman’s, rimmed with shadows that speak of poison, not prophecy. Your movements are erratic. Your paranoia consuming you.”

Silva’s sword wavered, the words piercing the fog in his mind like shafts of light through storm clouds, illuminating the shadows of doubt. It made sense—the empty vials, his irrational outbursts, the confusion that had plagued him since Caroline’s arrival. The locket in his pocket felt heavier, a reminder of his unnatural fixation, but now he saw it as part of the manipulation, a symptom of the poison in his veins. “The tonics…” he muttered, his bloodshot eyes widening with realization, the blade lowering slightly as the truth began to crystallize.

Lysanther leaned forward, his bruised face set with determination. “Where is Caroline? We were dragged from the dungeon together. Why isn’t she here, Silva? Why separate us now, at the end? Think—they’ve taken her, hidden her away.”

Silva’s eyes widened further, the pieces clicking into place like a lock tumbling open in a silent room: the tampered tonics that had fueled his descent into uncontrollable rage and desire, Nerothys’s insistence on handling the executions personally, Caroline’s absence from the square where both should have met their end. “A coup,” he whispered, horror dawning on his pale face, his sword lowering slightly as the truth sank in, his heart racing not with drugged frenzy but with the clarity of betrayal.

The priests sensed the shift, their chants faltering abruptly. One grabbed the arm of a nearby guard, his voice a sharp command that cut through the dawn like a blade. “Kill him!” he ordered. “The king is bewitched by the traitor’s words!”

The square erupted in chaos, the guards drawing their swords with a collective rasp of metal on leather, priests surging forward with daggers glinting from hidden folds in their black robes. Silva spun on his heel, his sword clashing with the first guard’s blade, the impact sending vibrations up his arm, metal ringing like a bell that pealed across the plaza. The guard pressed the attack with a grunt, but Silva parried, his erratic energy now channeled into desperate precision, his lean frame moving with the grace of a predator cornered but not defeated. He thrust forward, his blade slicing through the guard's arm, blood spraying in an arc that stained the cracked stone pavement.

Lysanther, swung at the nearest guard with a crack of bone that echoed like a thunderclap, the man staggering back with a yelp, clutching his jaw as blood trickled from his mouth. As the guard fell, Lysanther wrenched his sword free from the man's scabbard and he swung it in a wide arc, cutting down another priest who lunged with a dagger, the blade sinking into the priest's chest with a wet thud. The air filled with the clash of steel, the grunts of exertion, the gurgles of the dying, the scent of blood mingling with incense and the crisp dawn air, creating a sickening perfume that filled Silva's nostrils. 

Silva lost the braid-whip in the melee, it skittering across the pavement amid the chaos, kicked away by struggling feet, disappearing under the trampling boots. They were outnumbered, the priests’ fanaticism a relentless wave of black robes and flashing steel, daggers stabbing with precision, swords swinging in arcs that whistled through the air. A blade grazed Silva’s arm, drawing a line of fire across his skin, blood welling up in a warm trickle, the pain sharp, clearing the last vestiges of the drug's fog. Lysanther took a shallow cut to his side, the blade slicing through his shirt, blood blooming like a flower on the fabric, but he gritted his teeth, his green-gold eyes fierce, parrying another strike with a clang that vibrated through the air. “We can’t hold them!” Lysanther shouted, his voice hoarse, dodging a dagger thrust that nicked his shoulder, blood trickling down his arm.

Silva, his bloodshot eyes wild but focused, nodded, his sword a blur as he felled another guard, the man's vivid eyes widening in surprise as he collapsed. They broke free in a desperate push, Silva's blade clearing a path, Lysanther covering his back, dashing into the city’s labyrinthine streets, weaving through narrow alleys choked with silvery vines that snagged at their clothes. The sounds of pursuit—shouts, boots pounding, swords clanging—echoed behind them like a hunting pack. They hid in an abandoned house just outside the city center, the air inside musty with the scent of decay.

Silva leaned against a wall, panting heavily, his sword dripping blood onto the floor, the reality crashing over him like a tidal wave—the betrayal by his own priests, the manipulation that had turned him into a puppet, the coup unfolding under his nose while he had been lost in drugged madness.

Lysanther watched him warily, sword in hand. He stalked toward Silva, his green-gold eyes blazing with a fury that burned brighter than the dawn light filtering through the broken windows. Without warning, he swung his fist, striking Silva’s jaw with a crack that echoed off the crumbling walls, blood spurting from the king’s split lip. Another punch followed, slamming into Silva’s cheek, then his stomach, driving the air from his lungs as he staggered against the wall, his sword clattering to the floor. “You fucking bastard,” Lysanther roared, “You’ll make everything up to her, or I'll fucking ring your neck!”

Chapter Text

The dungeon’s oppressive chill had seeped deep into Caroline’s bones, leaving her naked body shivering uncontrollably. Her thighs and legs were still wet from the wetness Silva had forced out of her with his growls. But the warmth had faded, leaving her skin wet and cold, her pale skin prickled with goosebumps. Her thighs were tinged with pink. Blood, she realized. Her delicate flesh had torn when Silva’s knot had ripped out of her. The pain was a dull throb that synced with her racing heartbeat.

The memory replayed in her mind with merciless, vivid clarity—Silva’s wild, bloodshot gray eyes, dilated and manic, the spade-like tip of his alien shaft, flushed a jarring reddish-purple, leaking that shimmering pearlescent fluid onto her legs as he lined up to her and thrust brutally. Her body betraying her, her unruly organ sucking him in before he ripped himself free in a panic. She curled tighter into herself, her knees drawn to her chest, her thin arms wrapped around them, trying to shield her vulnerability from the cold and the weight of her shame.

Across the narrow passage, Lysanther sat slumped against the rusted bars of his cell, face pressed into the gap of the bars, as close as he could be to her. The dungeon’s damp air made him shiver. His shirt was still damp and his teeth chattered faintly, but his eyes burned with a stoic fire, the gold around his vivid green iris burning. Those beautiful eyes were watery, glistening with tears that welled and spilled down his bruised cheeks, a silent testament to his anguish. He couldn't speak, with the metal gag over his lips, but he was purring loudly, a deep, resonant vibration that filled the room. It was a desperate attempt to soothe her, to reach across the impassable divide of their cells. 

Their eyes locked, a silent exchange that carried the weight of their shared torment—her gaze wide and haunted, filled with shame; his filled with a fierce, helpless devotion, the tears carving clean paths through the grime on his face. She saw the depth of his care in that look, a vow to shield her despite his powerlessness, and it broke her heart as much as it strengthened her.

Her voice, hoarse and raw from disuse, broke the silence, a faint, gravelly whisper that startled them both. “It’s not your fault, Lysanther,” she rasped, her throat aching with the effort, each word a jagged struggle against the atrophy of her vocal cords. “You couldn’t stop him. I… We'll survive this.” The lie tasted bitter, her body still aching from Silva’s violation, but she forced the words out, needing to ease the torment in his eyes, to give him a shred of hope to cling to.

Lysanther’s gaze softened, a fresh tear spilling down his cheek, his purr intensifying, a wordless plea for her to hold on. The gag silenced him, but his eyes spoke volumes—guilt for bringing her to this dying world, rage at Silva’s cruelty, and a desperate promise to find a way out, even as doubt gnawed at him. “I'm not mad at you. For bringing me here.” She wasn't sure her words were entirely true, but she spoke them anyway. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

The heavy tread of boots echoed down the passage, a jarring intrusion that made Caroline flinch, her heart leaping into her throat. The iron door at the end of the corridor creaked open, and Nerothys, the head priest, entered, his presence a dark tide that filled the dungeon with menace. His ornate robes, embroidered with silver spirals shimmered like liquid moonlight in the torchlight. His long black hair, streaked with gray, was bound in a high knot, accentuating the sharp, weathered planes of his face. His vivid blue eyes reflected no mercy. Behind him came a retinue of guards and lesser priests, their black robes whispering against the stone. The guards’ black uniforms were taut over muscular frames, swords sheathed at their hips, the hilts glinting ominously.

Nerothys’s voice sliced through the dungeon, sharp and commanding, a blade that cut through the heavy air. “The witch and her keeper are to be executed for treason,” he declared, his tone devoid of emotion, a death sentence delivered with the finality of a tomb sealing shut. “Their blood will purify the Hive, restoring the sacred path to extinction.”

The guards moved with mechanical precision, unlocking the cells with a clatter of keys, the iron doors groaning open like the jaws of a beast. Caroline shrank back, her naked body trembling, her bare feet pressing against the cold stone, but the guards seized her, their hands bruising her thin arms as they dragged her out.

Lysanther roared against his gag. He slammed his body against the bars with a deafening clang, the rusted metal groaning under the force of his muscular frame. As the guards unlocked his cell with a clatter of keys, he lunged forward, his hands swinging with desperate strength, his fist connecting with the jaw of the nearest guard in a sharp crack that sent the man staggering back, his eyes rolling as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. The other guards surged forward, their vivid eyes flashing with anger as they seized him. Lysanther struggled fiercely, his muscles straining against their hold, his body twisting and kicking. Nerothys, standing at the cell’s threshold, raised a hand, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Enough! Knock him out.” A guard, eyes glinting with malice, drew his sword and swung the handle with brutal precision, striking Lysanther’s temple with a dull thud. Lysanther’s eyes fluttered, his body sagging as darkness claimed him, legs dragging as the guards hauled his unconscious form from the cell.

They were taken through the dungeon’s labyrinthine halls. Caroline weeped silently, the image of Lysanther’s body being dragged ahead of her, breaking her emotions further. The spiral staircase was narrow and the torchlight cast jagged shadows that danced like specters on the curving walls. Caroline’s heart pounded, her torn flesh stinging with every step, the tinge of pink moisture on her thighs a humiliating reminder of her violation, her nakedness exposed to the leering eyes of the guards.

The staircase was claustrophobic, the air growing warmer but no less oppressive. Caroline’s legs trembled, her body weak from pain and cold, but the guards’ hands forced her forward, their fingers digging into her arms.

Suddenly, Nerothys paused on the staircase, his tall frame a barrier in the narrow passage, blocking Caroline’s path. The guards guiding Lysanther dragged him onward, and his limp form disappeared around the spiral’s curve and the noise of their boots faded. Caroline was alone with the two guards that held her, Nerothys and a small group of the lesser priests. 

Her breath hitched, fear spiking like a blade in her chest as Nerothys turned to her, his ice-blue eyes cold and calculating. Without warning, he drew a dagger from the folds of his robes, its blade glinting with a razor-sharp edge in the torchlight. In a swift motion, he stabbed one of the guards holding Caroline, the blade sinking into the man’s chest with a wet crunch.

Once. Twice. Three vicious strikes.

Blood spurted from his mouth as he collapsed with a gurgle, his surprised eyes dimming, his body crumpling onto the steps in a heap. Caroline opened her mouth to scream, but Nerothys’s hand clamped over it roughly, muffling her cry, his fingers digging into her cheeks with bruising force. He shoved her against the stone wall, the jagged surface biting into her bare back, scraping her skin as she struggled. His other hand reached for her breast, roughly pinching then pulling her nipple. His touch was invasive and painful, sending a jolt through her hypersensitive skin. A bead of white liquid seeped out, glistening in the torchlight. His lips curled into a faint, cruel smile. “The first sign,” he hissed, his voice a low, venomous whisper that sent a chill down her spine. “Your body betrays you, witch. You're preparing for a brood.”

His hand moved lower, two fingers jamming into her vagina with brutal force, the pain mingling with the lingering ache from Silva’s violation. She flinched, tears streaming down her face as her body recoiled. “Your womb is open,” he declared, his tone clinical yet laced with a dark satisfaction, his fingers withdrawing with a sickening slowness. “Did Silva seed you? Did he spill inside you?” His voice was sharp, demanding, his eyes boring into hers like icy drills.

Caroline shook her head frantically, tears blurring her vision, her silence a desperate denial as she trembled against the wall. Nerothys’s smile widened, cold and mocking. “You should be grateful, woman.” His lips brushed her ear and his voice lowered, whispering, “When he spilled on the floor like an unpracticed fledgling, he saved you from the pain of me scraping his unworthy litter out of you.”

The words sent a wave of horror crashing through her, her stomach churning at the thought of such a violation. He motioned to the lesser priests, who moved with eerie coordination, one producing a gag. He sealed it to her mouth, the metal and fast on her lips. Another priest pulled a black hood over her head, plunging her into darkness, muffling her world to the sound of her own ragged breathing and the rustle of the priests’ robes.

The guards seized Caroline, their hands rough as they tried to force her to walk. She struggled, digging her heels into the stone floor. She sensed doom lying in the direction they were pulling her. Nerothys growled with impatience, and taking hold of her, flung her over his shoulder with a grunt.  He carried her through the palace’s incense-heavy corridors, Caroline's body jostling with each step.

She couldn’t see, but clues filtered through the hood—the echo of stone corridors giving way to a tighter, damper space, the air growing cooler and heavier with the scent of wet stone and earth, the faint drip of water echoing like a heartbeat, suggesting they were underground. Her heart pounded, her mind racing with questions—where was Lysanther? What did Nerothys want with her? The sounds shifted, a low murmur growing louder, the air warming slightly, and the hood was yanked off with a rough tug, blinding her with sudden torchlight that stung her eyes.

She was in a vast, underground chamber, its high ceiling supported by massive stone pillars. Shadows danced with the flickering of firelight. The air was thick with incense, a heavy, bitter scent that stung her eyes and throat. The chamber was cavernous, its walls rough-hewn, etched with ancient symbols of fertility and power. A multitude of priests filled the space, some hooded, their faces obscured, others bare, their alien eyes fixed on her with a predatory intensity that made her skin crawl. Their murmurs ceased abruptly, their gazes raking over her naked body. She tried to cover herself, her arms straining against the guards’ iron grips, but they held her firmly, their own vivid eyes darkening with hunger.

Nerothys stood before the assembly, his presence commanding the room like a dark deity. His voice rose in a powerful, commanding cadence, echoing off the pillars. “Behold, our prize!” he declared, gesturing to Caroline with a sweep of his arm. The room erupted into cheers. “Look upon her—she is ripe and open. A fertile vessel for our future. By month’s end, each of you will have her and father your own brood of sons. A new generation to serve my reign. The Hive will be reborn under my rule.”

The priests cheered, a roar that shook the chamber. “I will be your king,” Nerothys continued, his voice soaring, “ushering the Hive into a golden age, free from Silva’s rule of extinction, free from the chains of a fading past!” The cheers grew louder, a wave of fanatic fervor that reverberated off the stone.

Caroline’s heart seized, terror flooding her veins like ice, and she bolted, ripping her arms from the priests’ grasp, her bare feet slipping. But she was caught instantly, their hands bruising as they dragged her to the end of the chamber. At the far end stood an elevated, reclined chair, carved from black stone, its surface etched with runes. Two menacingly curved legs protruded from it, like octopus tentacles.

She was terrified and resisted with all her strength, kicking and twisting, her hoarse whimpers muffled by the gag, but the priests overpowered her with brutal efficiency, pinning her to the cold stone chair and strapping her down. First her arms, yanked above her head, bound with leather straps that bit into her wrists.  Then her legs pried wide open and cinched to the curved legs that jutted from the chair’s base. She was exposed, her hypersensitive flesh stinging in the cool air. Nerothys loomed over her. “Your throne, my queen,” he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery.

A priest approached with a needle that glinted like a silver fang in the torchlight. He inserted it into her arm with a sharp sting that made her flinch. Another priest approached with a coiled silver wire, or perhaps tubing, and fiddled with her arm, out of Caroline’s range of vision. A moment later, a warm, syrupy sensation spread throughout her body. Her fear was melting into a dream-like haze, her senses softening as the world blurred at the edges, colors pulsing like a heartbeat. The elixir that was being pumped into her veins took hold, dulling her panic, making her body feel weightless, as if she were floating in a warm, golden sea.

The priests began an otherworldly chant, their voices rising in a haunting, dissonant melody that vibrated through the chamber, resonating in her bones like a call from the void. They surrounded her, some stepping forward to dip brushes into pots of red pigment, the color vivid like fresh blood. They painted it onto her belly, the strokes cold against her fevered skin. First, a large circle encompassing her abdomen. Then a small circle on her navel. And finally, streaks of red emanating from the smaller circle like a radiating sun.

Another priest approached, carrying an ornate stone box carved with runes, its surface inlaid with silver that caught the torchlight in shimmering flashes. A second priest, his bare face streaked with black paint, opened it with reverence, revealing a small glass object, rounded and smooth, glowing faintly with an inner light that pulsed in time with the chant. With murmured incantations, they lowered it to the apex of her legs. With a warm and wet sucking force, it clamped onto her clitoris, suctioning gently to the enlarged bud. A tingling sensation spread that made Caroline inhale sharply. Her nerve-packed flesh was responding despite her horror as the device sent soft pulses through her core.

Nerothys approached and it took Caroline a long moment to recognize him. He was no longer in his priestly robes but clad in a long black loincloth that hung low on his hips. His bare chest glistening with sweat, the muscles lean and taut despite his age. His alien markings were faint and shimmered weakly under his skin. His black hair, streaked with silver-gray strands, was loose and hung down to his shoulder. A crown of silver branches rested on his head, their sharp points glinting like daggers. Black smudges of paint engulfed his ice-blue eyes, giving him the appearance of a dark god, his presence commanding and terrifying.

He stood before her, his voice rising in a ritualistic cadence that echoed off the pillars. “Through this vessel the void bows to me.” The priests’ chant swelled, their voices a chorus of devotion, their vivid eyes fixed on him with anticipation.

He growled, a primal, guttural sound that sent a sharp, involuntary cramp through Caroline’s womb, fluid gushing in response. It flowed down the stone chair and onto the floor in a glistening pool. The priests’ chant grew louder, a crescendo of otherworldly voices that filled the chamber, vibrating through the air like a living force. Nerothys parted his loincloth with a slow, deliberate motion, revealing his shaft—thick with a mature virility. He stroked it slowly, his fingers gliding along its length with a possessive confidence, his eyes locking onto hers with cold triumph as he lined its mushroom tip up with her entrance.

He thrust in, the intrusion sudden and deep. His movements were slow at first, deliberate, each thrust a claim, his shaft filling her completely. The device on her clitoris hummed softly, amplifying the sensation, sending electric pulses through her core, her hypersensitive flesh responding with shudders that made her body arch against the straps. His thrusts grew faster, deeper, his knot swelling at the base, pressing against her entrance with increasing pressure, the sensation both painful and intoxicating. The priests’ chant reached a fevered pitch, their voices a hypnotic drone that seemed to pull her deeper into the haze.

“Crown me, woman,” Nerothys growled, his voice a primal roar, his ice-blue eyes blazing with power as he thrust deep, the knot breaching her, filling her completely, stretching her to the edge of pain and pleasure. As Nerothys pushed himself fully inside, the device on her clitoris buzzed intensely, a sudden, powerful vibration, triggering a climax that ripped through her like a tidal wave. Her vaginal walls squeezed his knot like a fist, milking him with relentless contractions. The head of his shaft slipped into her womb through her tight, blooming entrance. The sensation was like an unseen curtain parting, both alien and overwhelming, and it made her gasp through the gag.

Her orgasm was long and intense, her intimate muscles ruthless in their fevered contractions. Nerothys’s face was contorted in a mixture of pleasure, pain and shock, his breath erratic as her channel mercilessly squeezed his knot. Her body was arching against the straps, eyes squeezed closed as the waves of pleasure sucked her under. 

An unexpected feeling made her eyes open—a sudden, warm tingling surged in her breasts, like a gentle current awakening her nerves, a subtle, aching pressure was building deep within. It felt as if her chest was swelling, a heavy fullness that pulsed, her nipples tightening slightly as beads of white milk began to form. What is… what is that? Her full consciousness asked, bubbling up from behind the haze. She knew the answer, deep in her mind but the words were too frightening to even utter within her mind. The pressure seemed to peak and her breasts swelled, now engorged to a hard, uncomfortable fullness. The beads of white expanded as the flow increased, and soon there were streams of milk dripping down her. The sensation was overwhelming, a primal rush that made her skin flush. The warm streams traced paths down her chest, each drop a strange mix of relief and vulnerability, her body responding to an ancient instinct she couldn’t control.

Her eyes drifted, and she struggled to hold her eyelids open against the waves of her climax to examine another horror before her. Her stomach was bulged outward, distended with semen that filled her womb. The dried paint of the design on her belly cracked as her skin stretched. The sensation was like liquid fire spreading inside her. Her enemy’s climax matched hers, their bodies synchronized as Caroline’s clenching muscles drew out his peak, forcing his body to submit to her, fill her, by fisting his knot with a primal brutality. The quiet incantations of the chanting priests rose over her womb, their voices a soft, reverent hum, as if blessing the act with ancient rites.

Finally, Caroline’s orgasm began to wane, her overtaxed muscles slowing and weakening their grasp. The priest’s knot softened, and he withdrew slowly, the excess semen dripping onto the stone in a glistening pool, the air thick with the scent of it, musky and sharp. Nerothys stepped back, his eyes cold with satisfaction as he caught his breath. The crown of silver branches glinted as he adjusted his loincloth with a controlled motion. His voice was cruel, cutting through the haze of her elixir-induced trance. “I expect a dozen sons.”

Chapter Text

The abandoned house stood as a relic of the Hive's forgotten underbelly, its weathered stone walls etched with the scars of long-gone inhabitants. Dust hung thick in the air, undisturbed for days until now, stirred by Lysanther’s labored breaths. He towered like a sentinel, his broad shoulders heaving from the exertion of their escape. His fist, still clenched from the blow he'd landed, ached with the echo of impact. Silva lay sprawled on the grimy floorboards, his once-regal form reduced to a heap of trembling limbs and sweat-soaked robes.

The punch had connected with a sickening thud, Silva's head snapping back as he collapsed, blood blooming from his jaw like a dark flower. "Mercy," Silva gasped, his voice a fractured whisper, hands fumbling upward in feeble defense. "Cousin, please... the priests... the drugs... I was blind." His pleas dissolved into a whimper as pain radiated through his skull, the first harbingers of withdrawal clawing at him. Outside, the Hive's labyrinthine streets were alive with the rhythmic stomp of guards and priests, as they scoured for the escaped prisoner and king.

As the minutes stretched, Silva's headache intensified, a relentless tide crashing against the shores of his mind. The adrenaline that had fueled their flight from the square now receded like a fading echo. What remained was raw torment, his temples throbbing in sync with his erratic pulse. The priests' elixirs, those honeyed poisons Nerothys had administered under the pretense of clarity and strength, had woven their hooks deep into his veins over the years. Without them, his body revolted, nerves alight with fire.

Silva curled tighter on the floor, his fingers delving into the pocket of his torn trousers, closing around the small silver locket he'd ripped from Caroline’s neck. Its smooth surface offered a fleeting comfort, a tangible link to the woman whose violation haunted him now in sober clarity. He rubbed it obsessively, the motion a silent mantra against the pain, as beads of sweat traced rivulets down his pale face. Lysanther paced the room, his boots thudding softly on the warped wood, glancing out through a shattered window where the Hive's spires loomed like jagged teeth.

The door groaned open, splintering the tense silence as a stocky figure barreled in, sword drawn and gleaming in the light. He was a wall of muscle, his wavy reddish-brown hair disheveled, his eyes sharp with surprise that quickly hardened into wariness. "Intruders!" he barked, the blade poised to strike. But recognition dawned as his gaze fell on the crumpled prince. "King Silva? Why are you here. Explain yourself quickly."

Silva could only groan, his body seizing as another wave of withdrawal hit, his vision blurring at the edges. Lysanther stepped between them, his imposing frame a barrier, voice steady despite the urgency. "Hold your blade, warrior. Silva's been ensnared by the priests' poisons—drugged, twisted for years. They've launched a coup, turning the Hive against its own.”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise and Lysanther continued, “He is my cousin, our fathers brothers. Do you know me? I am Lysanther, the seeker dispatched to the stars to retrieve a new queen. I brought her—Caroline—back to breathe life into our dying world." His sword wavered, his stocky build shifting as he assessed the pair. The air grew heavy with unspoken accusations, minutes ticking by as the distant shouts of search parties echoed closer, then faded into the night. Finally, his weapon with a grunt. "The names Julesan. I believe you but I still don’t want that traitor here. Why shouldn't I gut him here and now?"

Lysanther knelt beside Silva, whose moans had escalated into guttural cries, his body arching as the pain crested like a breaking wave. "I’ve known him since we were children," Lysanther said, his words measured, evoking memories of their shared youth. "Silva emerged last, always in the shadow of his brothers. He lacked their brutality, their unyielding drive. And then the war came—the invaders from the stars. Silva watched our mother, the queen, torn apart in the throne hall. It shattered him, left cracks that Nerothys exploited."

Silva's fingers clawed at the floor, the locket forgotten in his agony, his breaths ragged. "The drugs... they've laced his meals, his rituals, for years," Lysanther continued. "Withdrawal is devouring him now. Nerothys pulled the threads, making him a marionette in their bid for power." Julesan rubbed his chin. "And this queen? Caroline?" Lysanther's eyes flashed with desperation. "Seized by the priests. We must reclaim her before they implant a new line—her fertility is the key to power. Control her, and you control everything."

Julesan pondered, the room falling into a heavy silence broken only by Silva's whimpers. Outside, the search parties' voices grew fainter, suggesting they'd moved to another area, granting a brief reprieve. "Fine," Julesan said at last. "I am allied with a group that has been undermining the priests for moons. I'll summon my kin; we'll devise a strategy."He slipped out into the shadows, the door creaking shut. 

Alone, Lysanther tended to Silva as best he could but powerlessness gnawed at him. Time dragged, and Silva's pain peaked, his body convulsing in fits that left him gasping. When Julesan returned, five rugged men trailed him, their faces etched with suspicion, carrying bundles of clothing.

"The king?" one growled, hand on his dagger. But Silva seized violently then, foam bubbling at his lips, his eyes rolling back. He was seizing, shaking with brutal force. Lysanther cradled him, pleading, "Spare him. Once mended, he'll atone—I’ll ensure it." Julesan bent down, helping Lysanther hold Silva’s convulsing body until he stilled.

Julesan silenced the group’s murmurs with a raised hand, his authoritative gesture cutting through the tension. Lysanther stood, his gold-green eyes intense, and spoke first. "We need to find Caroline," he urged, his voice a low rumble. "Her scent is our best lead. We should fan out, track it through the city."

One of the men, a wiry figure with scars crisscrossing his neck, nodded slowly,. "That could work," he said, his tone hesitant. "But the priests know better. They might’ve masked her trail with their incense or worse—set traps to catch us off guard." Another, broader man with a shaved head, crossed his arms and added, "And if they’ve taken her deep into the temple core, the scent could be diluted by all that ritual smoke. We’d need to move fast, split into pairs to cover more ground."

"True," Lysanther conceded, "but my seeker senses are sharp. I can pick up her essence even through layers of interference. A third man piped up. "What about the market district? If they moved her through there, the crowd’s chaos could’ve preserved some trace—spilled goods, disturbed air. It’s a long shot, but worth a try."

Julesan tilted his head, weighing the options. "The market’s a good idea," he agreed, "but it’s also a risk. Too many eyes, and the priests’ spies are everywhere. You two would need to hide your faces to blend in.” He nodded in Lysanther’s direction.

The young man grew more animated, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself. "What about the safehouses? If any of our allies saw her being moved, they could give us a direction. We could send a runner to check." Julesan raised a hand to slow the flood of ideas. 

The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of their task settling in. With a final exchange of determined glances, all but Lysanther and Silva dispersed into the growing light, melting into the streets like ghosts, their footsteps echoing faintly as they vanished into the city’s depths. Lysanther changed his clothes quickly, pulling a hooded tunic over his head to mask his face and bent to speak to Silva. “Stay here. Hang on, I’ll bring you something for the pain.”

Lysanther ventured alone toward his old home. The pain tonic first, his mind decided, as quick as possible. Arriving there, he quickly moved through the halls, plucking the vials of pain tonic from the chest in the bedroom. He turned to leave and nearly ran into Kiran standing in the doorway, his gaunt form tense. “Brother, you’re alive?” he exclaimed, his voice cracking with a mix of disbelief and joy as he surged forward, pulling Kiran into a fierce embrace. He buried his face in Kiran’s shoulder, inhaling deeply, and then drew back slightly, his gold-green eyes widening. "You smell like her," he murmured, the realization hitting him like a sudden gust, the faint musk of Caroline clinging to Kiran’s skin sending a jolt through him.

Kiran nodded, his expression shadowed but steady. "I’ve been sleeping in our bed," he began, his voice low and measured, "her scent has calmed me since you were taken." He paused, glancing away for a moment as if it weighed heavily, then met Lysanther’s gaze again.

Lysanther gripped his arms. "I understand, brother. Look, Kiran,” Lysanther’s tone turned serious, “The priests have coup in motion; Caroline's captive. We have a group searching and you must join us. Hunt her trail through the city and reconvene at the abandoned house opposite the spire.”

“I will do as you say,” Kiran promised.

***

Lysanther made his way back to the abandoned house as the midday sun cast long, wavering shadows across the cracked streets. His steps were heavy with purpose, the small vial of pain tonic clutched tightly in his hand, its bitter herbal scent seeping through the cork stopper. Upon entering, the dim interior greeted him with the same oppressive stillness. Silva lay where he’d left him, curled on the floor in a fetal position, his breaths shallow and punctuated by faint whimpers.

Kneeling beside him, Lysanther gently lifted Silva’s head, cradling it against his knee. He uncorked the vial and tipped it carefully to Silva’s lips, coaxing the liquid past his cousin’s cracked lips. Silva swallowed with a shudder, his throat convulsing as the tonic hit his system, the bitter taste pulling a grimace across his face. Gradually, the tremors subsided, easing into a fitful rest as his body began to relax, though his brow remained furrowed with lingering pain.

Within the hour, Silva stirred enough to sit upright, his movements sluggish but determined. The pain tonic had dulled the worst of the withdrawal, granting him a fragile clarity that allowed him to rise with Lysanther’s steadying arm and dress in the clothes that Julesan had brought them. Together, they joined the search, stepping out into the city’s bustling veins as the sun climbed higher, its heat intensifying the odors of the market stalls they passed—spices, roasted fungi, and the faint tang of metal.

Lysanther led the way, his senses attuned to Caroline’s scent, sniffing at every corner where she might have been dragged, peering into the shadowed recesses of crumbling temples where priests might have hidden her. They dodged patrols with increasing frequency, the guards’ numbers swelling as the day wore on, their armored forms a constant threat amid the growing crowds. Exhaustion crept into Lysanther’s limbs, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as the sun’s arc began its slow dip toward evening, the light softening into a golden haze. Despite their efforts—hours spent weaving through the market’s chaos, ducking into alleyways, and skirting the edges of sacred grounds—they found no trace of Caroline, her scent lost amid the overwhelming vastness of the city.

As dusk fell, painting the sky with streaks of violet and amber, Lysanther and Silva retreated toward the house, their footsteps dragging with fatigue. The air grew cooler, carrying the distant toll of bells signaling the end of the day’s labor. They halted across the way, their hearts sinking as the scene unfolded before them: priests and armored sentinels swarmed the entrance to the abandoned house, their torches flaring against the deepening twilight like malevolent stars.

One of Julesan’s men was being hauled away in chains, his wrists bound tight with rope, his defiant shouts piercing the encroaching dark like a final, desperate warning. His voice cracked with rage and fear, the words muffled but unmistakable as he cursed the priests, his body struggling against the iron grip of his captors. Lysanther’s hand instinctively went to Silva’s shoulder, steadying him as they crouched behind a crumbling wall, the weight of their failure pressing down like a physical force.

The sight of their ally’s capture sent a chill through Lysanther, his mind racing with the implications—had the priests traced their steps, or was this a trap laid to ensnare them next? The night closed in, the shouts fading into a haunting silence, leaving only the crackle of torches and the heavy thud of their own pulses in their ears.

Chapter Text

The faintest, ethereal glow pierced the oppressive darkness of the underground chamber, seeping down from a narrow shaft high above like a hesitant whisper from the world beyond. It was the first blush of the rising sun, filtering through layers of rock and ruin to cast a dim, golden haze over the black stone throne where Caroline lay.

Her body throbbed, every nerve raw and exposed, as Nerothys pulled away from her with a satisfied growl. His footsteps echoed faintly as he strode into the encircling darkness, leaving her alone in the center of the vast cavern. The air hung heavy with the acrid tang of incense and sweat, the distant chants of priests murmuring like a low, ominous tide.

Caroline's gaze drifted downward, her mind sluggish in the drugged fog, as she took in the sight of her own body. Her belly bulged unnaturally, swollen with the hot flood of Nerothys's semen, the skin stretched taut and glistening under the faint light. A slight drip escaped her, trickling down onto the cold stone of the throne, pooling in a viscous shimmer.

She could smell it, she realized, the semen—thick and musky, laced with an alien sharpness that twisted her stomach even as it invaded her senses. It was nothing like a human's; it carried notes of metallic ozone, as if lightning had struck a primordial sea, mingling with her own body's betrayed arousal. The scent clung to her skin, marking her in a way that felt permanent, invasive.

Her eyes traveled upward to her breasts, transformed beyond recognition—large, impossibly full and hard, engorged to the point of aching pressure. Veins traced blue rivers across the pale, stretched flesh, and milk streamed from her nipples in delicate arches onto her torso. The flow was relentless, a bodily betrayal that left her nipples erect and sensitive, throbbing with each heartbeat.

Two priests emerged from the shadows, their robes whispering against the stone floor. They approached with small glass cups, translucent and delicately etched with ritual symbols, pressing them firmly over her nipples. The cool glass sealed against her skin with a soft suction, and thin tubes snaked from the cups, disappearing downwards, out of sight. One priest tapped the side of a cup with a finger, and a rhythmic hum began, the pumps activating with a gentle whir. Milk surged into the tubes, flowing in steady pulses, and Caroline heard the faint splash of liquid collecting somewhere beneath her.

The priests huddled close, their voices low and clinical, debating adjustments as if she were a machine rather than a woman. "Increase the flow rate," one hissed, his breath hot against her side, his hand testing the seal. "She is primed; we can extract more without rupture." The other shook his head, his eyes narrowing. "No, keep the steady suction, low vibration; we’ll check again in an hour." They fiddled with the cups, the pumps responding with varying intensities, pulling at her breasts in waves that sent jolts of mingled pain and relief through her. Milk flowed faster now, the splashes below growing more insistent.

Two more priests joined the scene, their attention turning to the IV in her arm above her head, just out of her direct line of sight. Tubes dangled, feeding her a cocktail of drugs and hydration, and they argued in hushed tones. "Up the dosage," one insisted, his voice edged with impatience. "Ripen her faster—swell her before the sun peaks." The other countered sharply, "Not this time. Tamper too much, and you'll unbalance her. Fluids steady, sedation minimal—let the body adapt." They twisted the valves, and Caroline felt a sudden warmth flood her veins, spreading like liquid fire from her arm outward. It coursed through her chest, pooling in her core, intensifying the haze that already clouded her mind.

The drugs deepened their grip, wrapping her thoughts in a thicker veil of detachment. Her body felt distant, as if she were floating above it, observing the violations from a remove. Senses sharpened unnaturally—sounds echoed louder, colors bloomed brighter—yet twisted into unreality. Slight hallucinations flickered at the edges of her vision: the stone walls seemed to breathe, undulating like living flesh, and the incense smoke coiled into phantom shapes, whispering secrets she couldn't quite grasp. The sunlight from the shaft grew brighter, bathing her in a warm cascade that made her skin tingle, as if the rays were fingers tracing her curves.

Around her, the rituals intensified—priests circling in rhythmic processions, their chants rising in a guttural harmony that vibrated through her bones. Incense burned in braziers, its spicy, resinous scent overwhelming, mingling with the earthy musk of the cavern and the sharp tang of her own milk.

The haze swirled deeper, pulling her under. A priest moved around her in endless circles, his robe brushing her skin like a lover's tease, his eyes gleaming with hunger. The pump's noise droned on, a mechanical heartbeat sucking at her breasts, the sight of her nipples distended and rhythmically pulsing within the glass cups both grotesque and mesmerizing. They changed out the sloshing jars of milk below, the liquid pale and creamy, laughter bubbling from their throats—low, lustful chuckles that spoke of dark appetites. Their gazes raked over her, hungry and possessive, the smell of men filling the air: sweat-soaked skin, alien pheromones thick as oil, a primal odor that made her stomach churn even in detachment.

In the corner of her eye, the IV glinted, and the hallucination gripped her fully. Suddenly, she was back in the hospital on Earth, years ago, the sterile white walls closing in, the beeping machines a cacophony of despair. The priest Nerothys morphed into Ethan, her ex-husband, his face twisted in regret as he loomed over her blood-soaked bed. "I'm sorry, Caro," he whispered, but it was Nerothys's voice, mocking. She looked down at her belly, the red ritual paint smeared across her skin, and it transformed into crimson horror—blood, her blood from the miscarriage, pooling around her, the loss crashing over her anew.

The priests adjusted the IV again, dialing back the flow, and clarity rushed in like cold water. The hallucinations shattered, leaving her gasping in full consciousness. Sunlight streamed down fully now, illuminating her in a golden shaft that danced with dust motes. Nerothys stood before her once more, his form imposing, eyes alight with triumph. "Are you ready to birth, vessel?" he purred, his voice a velvet blade. 

Confusion twisted her features—birth? But her gaze dropped to her belly, now hugely distended, the skin tight over what looked like a full-term pregnancy, the curve immense and heavy. A gush of fluid escaped her, her water breaking in a warm rush, soaking the stone. Full realization hit her. Horror and disbelief warred within her, her body no longer her own.

The priests erupted into frenzy, circling tighter. Nerothys's impatience flared. “Let's move this along," he mused, chuckling darkly. He tapped the device still suctioned to her clitoris, sending a buzz through her core. Pleasure spiked unwanted, her body betraying her with a shuddering orgasm, milk gushing from her breasts in profuse streams, sloshing loudly below. As the waves of climax waned, her giant belly contracted painlessly, hardening like stone under her skin.

Nerothys slid two fingers into her, probing deeply, his touch clinical yet invasive. "Still not there," he murmured. Another tap on the device, the vibrations intensifying as he curled his fingers against her inner walls, stroking relentlessly. Another contraction rippled through her, stronger, her body arching. "Now you're ready," he declared, withdrawing his fingers slowly.

Something shifted within her, descending into her vagina with an erotic fullness that bordered on ecstasy, stretching her from the inside in waves of pressure and pleasure. "Push," Nerothys commanded, his tone laced with amusement. She stared blankly, mind reeling—push what? He laughed. "Stupid woman. Bear down, as if expelling waste." Humiliation burned, but she obeyed, muscles clenching, feeling the foreign, almost painful stretch at her entrance, widening impossibly slowly, then—relief, a slick slide as something emerged.

Nerothys held it—the egg—aloft, declaring triumphantly, "The first of a new generation!" It was soft and wet like a giant fish egg, encased in a thick, translucent membrane that shimmered gold in the sunlight, pulsing faintly with inner life. That had been inside her, and it was the size of a man's fist. The priests cheered, a roar of exultation echoing off the walls. One approached with an ornate container, etched in swirling patterns, and Nerothys placed the egg inside with reverence.

Another contraction gripped her, pressure building anew, and she pushed instinctively, birthing another golden orb. Again and again it happened, each emergence a blend of strain and surreal pleasure, the eggs sliding free in wet pops. Nerothys counted aloud: "Ten." He mocked her, pressing a hand to her deflating belly. "Is that all?" He pushed down. "One more." A final tap on the clitoris device sent her spiraling into orgasm, her belly contracting fiercely, and the last egg emerged.

"Eleven," he sneered. "Short of a dozen." He placed it in the container with the others, sealing it shut. His gaze turned predatory as he scanned the assembled priests.

"Who's next?”

Chapter Text

“Who’s next?”

Nerothys’s voice sliced through the oppressive atmosphere like a shard of obsidian, his words dripping with a chilling menace. The cavernous chamber thrummed with a sinister, almost palpable energy, the air thick with the lingering echoes of ritual chants and the acrid bite of smoldering incense.

The words crashed over Caroline with icy force, the full horror of her predicament slamming into her consciousness. They all intended to breed her—dozens of them, perhaps a hundred, their alien forms lurking in the shadows like a pack of ravenous beasts poised to devour her heart.

The realization ignited a primal terror, a scream tearing from her throat only to be choked by the gag clamped to her lips, muffling her cries into a desperate, guttural wail. She thrashed against the restraints with wild abandon, the cold, jagged edges of the black stone throne scraping her skin raw. The leather straps creaked and groaned under her frenzied struggle, her body twisting and bucking as if she could break free through sheer will, her muffled screams reverberating off the damp, glistening walls of the cavern, swallowed by its vast, unyielding depths.

From the periphery of her vision, a new figure emerged, his presence menacing as he stepped into the fading sunlight streaming through the high ceiling shaft. He was bald, his scalp a polished dome that reflected the golden rays, his muscular chest bulging and shimmering with those alien markings under his skin. Like Nerothys, he wore a ceremonial loincloth. Black paint streaked his face in haphazard strips, accentuating the predatory glint in his deep-set eyes, which gleamed with a lustful hunger.

A potent, masculine scent wafted from him, rolling over her like a tidal wave—earthy and primal, a blend of leather cured in sweat and musk. There was an underlying note of something feral, like the breath of a predator fresh from a kill. Caroline's mind reeled, how can I smell him so clearly?

He laughed, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through her chest and sent a shiver down her spine, his gaze raking over her struggling form with a twisted delight. “I like your fight, little thing” he growled, his voice thick with anticipation, his hands flexing as he closed the distance. “Such feistiness will sire me strong sons.”

His voice deepened, transforming into a resonant rumble. The growl—a sound that triggered an involuntary betrayal. Her body responded, wetness pooling between her thighs, a humiliating reflex she couldn’t suppress. He smirked, stepping closer, his massive hands gripping her hips with bruising force as he positioned himself between her legs, his intent unmistakable.

He thrust into her with a savage, unrelenting force, his alien anatomy thick and unyielding, as it stretched her painfully at first. The pain gave way to a rhythm that blended agony with an unwanted, searing heat. The friction was relentless, each thrust a deep, deliberate invasion, the slap of his skin against the stone throne echoing in the cavern, punctuated by the wet squelch of her body’s unwilling compliance. 

The clitoris device buzzed to life with a sudden, electric hum, amplifying her sensitivity to an unbearable peak. He forced his swollen knot inside—its girth unyielding and locking them together—it triggered an orgasm that ripped through her despite her resistance. Her vision blurred with the intensity, stars exploding behind her eyelids as her muscles clenched around him, milking the intrusion. With a final nudge, he breached her cervix with a guttural grunt, his ejaculation flooding her womb in pulsing waves, her belly bulging anew as the warm rush distended her skin. Her contractions intensified, drawing out his release, her body traitorously milking his knot in rhythmic pulses until he finally withdrew with a wet slide. He laughed cruelly at her dazed, tear-streaked expression, his seed dripping onto the throne in a slow, viscous trickle, the sound a mocking punctuation to her humiliation.

The IV surged with a higher dose, the drugs flooding her system with a rush that pulled her into a calm, detached haze, as if she were drifting above her own body on a sea of cotton. The cavern’s sights softened at the edges—incense smoke curled like living tendrils, weaving intricate patterns that danced with the golden shaft of sunlight now fracturing into prismatic shards across the stone floor, and the priests’ robes melded into a blur of black, their movements a hypnotic blur.

Smells assaulted her heightened senses with vivid intensity: the acrid bite of burning resins, sharp and biting like scorched wood; the alien fluids coating her skin; and the faint, cloying sweetness of her milk still flowing into the pumps.

Two priests guarded her constantly, their silhouettes looming like silent sentinels, their low murmurs a constant drone. Another group approached the IV, their voices hushed as they adjusted the flow with meticulous precision. “Stronger,” one insisted, his voice sharp and impatient, his eyes glinting with ambition. “Push her cycle—faster births. I can't wait twelve more." The other shook his head, his tone cautious. “Not that much.” They twisted the valves, and the warmth intensified, a drugged lull spreading through her limbs, dulling the edges of her terror into a numb acceptance.

The sunlight coming through the ceiling channel waning to a soft amber glow. Hours bled into one another, marked only by the rhythmic hum of the pumps and the occasional shuffle of priestly feet. Her water broke again, a sudden gush that snapped her briefly from the haze as the drugs tapered off, the cold flood soaking the throne and jolting her into awareness.

The bald priest returned, his laughter echoing off the walls as he bent between her legs, his hands probing her. “Push, little fighter,” he teased, his fingers pressing slightly against her abdomen as she bore down, the stretch agonizing yet familiar, birthing an egg with a slick, wet release. He held it up, taunting her with the sight of it— unlike the previous clutch, it was a deep black-blue, almost metallic in its reflectiveness.

Another and another, she bore them until ten eggs filled an ornate container at her feet. And before she had a chance to catch her breath, another priest stepped forward, his loincloth discarded with a quick rustle, and entered her with a swift, brutal thrust. Again, her belly bulged with seed.

The drug haze resumed, thicker and more enveloping, her mind adrift in a sea of surreal detachment. Priests gathered her milk, their jars sloshing with each step as they carried it across the room to the ornate containers holding the golden eggs. She watched, her vision swimming, as they poured the creamy liquid into the vessels, the eggs pulsing faintly within their membranes.

A group of hooded priests approached, their faces obscured, their voices hushed as they slipped a bribe with a clatter of coins to the guards. “Turn off the elixir,” one muttered. The haze lifted slowly as they circled Caroline with predatory intent, their cloaks rustling like dry leaves in the damp cavern air.

One stepped close, his voice low and teasing as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Let’s see how she squirms,” he murmured, his growl erupting in a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through the stone throne and sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. Her body betrayed her again, wetness pooling between her thighs, a humiliating response that drew a chorus of laughter from the trio, their cruel amusement echoing off the walls like a mocking refrain.

The second priest stepped forward, his hood tilting as he joined the game, his growl a richer, more guttural sound that rolled over her like thunder, intensifying the heat in her core. “Look at her—can’t help herself, can she?” he chuckled.

The first priest grinned, adding his growl again, this time with a playful edge, “All together—make her flood!” His rumble deepened, a bass note that seemed to resonate in her bones, and the third priest, eager to join, let out a high, snarling growl that blended with the others, creating a discordant symphony of dominance. A deep cramp ensued and a flood of the slick liquid gushed, splattering in the floor.

“She’s gushing for us now,” he taunted, his laughter sharp and cutting as they took turns, each growl building on the last, turning it into a twisted game. Caroline’s breath hitched, her body responding despite her horror, the wetness flowing anew with each resonant vibration, their amusement growing as they noted her plight. “Round two?” the first suggested.

Satisfied with their first game, the first priest shed his cloak with a flourish, revealing a lean, sinewy frame as he positioned himself between her legs. “My turn,” he sneered, thrusting into her with a forceful rhythm, his shaft stretching her painfully before settling into a relentless pace.

“Don’t fucking knot her,” the second priest snarled, “We said no knots. Especially your freakish one.” He warned, looking towards the tall priest, standing behind them. Soon, the priest assaulting her quickened his rhythm, spilling inside her. The clitoris device buzzed to life, its vibrations forcing an orgasm that left her gasping, her body shuddering under the assault. 

The first priest stepped aside as the second priest took his place. His bulkier form pressed against her as he entered with a grunt, his thrusts deeper and more deliberate, the device buzzing again to wrench another climax from her trembling frame. “She’s tighter than I expected,” he laughed, pulling out to let the third approach.

The third priest, shorter but wiry, slammed in, his movements quick and erratic, the device intensifying her sensitivity until she convulsed with yet another orgasm, her cries muffled by the gag. “You’re up,” the first called, nodding toward the lanky figure lurking at her feet. He wrenched his cloak up to reveal his shaft rooted with a deformed knot—huge, freakish, like two fists gripping the base of his shaft—drawing laughter from the group. “She's not going to like that thing when your name’s called up.”

No, she wouldn't, she thought, because that thing would surely rip her to shreds if he tried to put it inside her. Her fear spiked, a sharp, acidic scent filling the air, her heart pounding as the tall one stepped forward and lined himself up with her entrance. He began purring, trying to calm her, his stilting, grating purr a discordant hum that set her nerves on edge.

The guard, sensing the shift, intervened with a stern growl, his voice cutting through the laughter. “Enough—her fear reeks. Back off, all of you!” The tall one’s purr faded into an uneasy silence, the tension hanging palpable as the priests retreated, leaving Caroline trembling in the aftermath, her body and mind a battlefield of violation and dread.

The drugs resumed, cocooning her once more in their numbing embrace. In the haze, Nerothys appeared, his towering form cutting through the dim light as he inspected his golden eggs with a possessive, almost reverent gaze, their membranes shimmering with an inner fire. Her water broke again, the drugs ceased with a sudden clarity, and she birthed another clutch under his watchful eye, the effort draining what little strength remained.

A hooded priest approached next, his presence making Caroline’s eyes well with tears at the anticipation of another round. She was exhausted, mind, body and soul. Her limbs were trembling as tears streaked her face, when his whisper cut through the haze: “I told you I’d always find you, kitten.”

That voice.

Her heart leapt into her throat as he yanked off the hood, revealing his familiar green-gold eyes, dancing with mischief and affection. Those perfect lips were curled into a sweet smile. Then in one swift, fluid motion his sword, and sliced through the guard’s throat in a spray of dark, arterial blood that splattered across the stone.

“I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner, Caroline,” he said as he unstrapped her with frantic efficiency, his hands shaking as he worked. He removed the milk cups and the clitoris device with careful speed. Another priest approached and after hastily throwing off his hood joined Lysanther in unbinding her. He was a broad man with wavy reddish brown hair and he smiled gently at her as he worked on the IV and arm restraints. The room buzzing with priests shifted immediately, the clatter of their approach—dozens strong—echoed closer, their swords glinting in the light. Nerothys was present, his own blade drawn, and face contorted with rage in a promise of retribution as he closed the distance.

From across the chamber, a voice boomed with unexpected authority: “Drop your weapons!” Silva stood near the brooding containers, his frail form leaning over the golden eggs, a vial of dark poison held high over Nerothys’s brood. His hands trembled, but his voice carried a resolute edge: “This will kill your eggs—your legacy, Nerothys! Let them go, or your line dies with them!”

The cavern fell silent, the priests’ advance halting as they turned toward him, their eyes wide with shock. Nerothys’s command rang out—“Stop!”—his voice a snarl of frustration, and the priests hesitated, lowering their blades with reluctant obedience, the tension hanging like a taut wire.

What happened next was lost to Caroline as Lysanther took no pause. Finally unbound, he scooped Caroline into his arms, her body limp and feverish against his broad chest, her skin clammy with sweat and tears. He moved with purpose, carrying her through the winding tunnels that spiraled away from the chamber, the air cool and damp against her exposed flesh.

After a moment, they stopped, and Caroline pried open her eyes to see the man with the reddish brown hair with them. Lysanther took a moment to stand Caroline up. “Help hold her,” he motioned to the other man, who steadied her with a strong arm around her waist. Lysanther peeled off his tunic, and with as much gentleness as urgency would allow, pulled it over Caroline's naked body. The gag came off her next and Caroline breathed deep.

Back in his arms, the trio continued their escape. The tunnels twisted and turned, their walls slick with condensation, the distant drip of water a haunting refrain as they fled. Silva was not behind them, his figure lost in the chaos they’d left behind, and Caroline’s confusion clouded her mind, her voice a weak croak as she murmured his name. Lysanther’s pace didn’t falter, his arms tightening around her as he navigated the labyrinth.

“He’s atoning.”

Chapter Text

The trio emerged from the twisting labyrinth of tunnels into the cool embrace of night, the city sprawling before them like a living beast under the starless sky. The air was light and tinged with the scent of alien flora, a stark contrast to the suffocating cavern they’d escaped. Lysanther stepped into the open first first, his eyes scanning the shadows and his broad frame tense with vigilance. Caroline followed, supported by his arm, her legs trembling beneath her as the last echoes of the tunnels faded behind them. Julesan brought up the rear, his solid silhouette a reassuring presence, reddish-brown hair catching the occasional flicker of torchlight from the city’s edge.

They paused at the tunnel’s mouth, the silence broken only by the distant hum of the city and the soft rustle of wind through the cracked stone walls. Caroline wavered, her body sagging with exhaustion. Julesan stepped forward, his voice gruff but concerned. “Let me carry her, Lysanther.” Lysanther shook his head, his purr rumbling low in his chest as he met Julesan’s gaze. “No, not yet. I’m not ready to give her up.” Lysanther gathered Caroline’s form closer. “We need to reach the meeting point outside the city.” Julesan nodded, his expression hardening. “Then we move fast. They won’t be far behind.”

With a fluid motion, Lysanther lifted Caroline again, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he adjusted her position, her face pressed against the crook of his neck in an intimate hold. She held tightly to him, her arms clinging to his shoulders, her breath warm against his skin as they set off through the city’s winding streets. The night enveloped them, the faint glow of lanterns casting eerie patterns on the cracked pavement. Their hurried footsteps were muffled by the thick layer of dust and debris.

As they moved, Caroline inhaled deeply, the scent of Lysanther flooding her senses with a startling clarity. It was complex—rich and earthy like the deep forest floor after rain, laced with a warm, spicy undertone reminiscent of cinnamon and amber, and a subtle musk that spoke of his alien vitality. It was ecstasy, she realized, that scent that was pouring into her. His purr grew louder, a deep, resonant vibration that thrummed through his chest and into her body, its rhythm steady and soothing like a heartbeat magnified. The sound wrapped around her frayed nerves, calming the storm of fear and pain, easing the tension in her muscles until she felt a tentative peace settle over her, her body relaxing against him as they navigated the shadowed alleys.

They reached the city’s edge just as the night was breaking into dawn, the western gate a looming silhouette against the horizon, its rusted hinges groaning faintly in the breeze. A group waited, their figures barely discernible in the dim light—about a dozen strong, mounted on horse-like beasts with sleek, scaled hides that shimmered faintly under the moonless sky. The creatures snorted, their breath visible in the cool air, their clawed hooves pawing the ground with restless energy. Caroline’s vision was blurred by fatigue and the lingering effects of the drugs, and she caught only fleeting glimpses of the group—flashes of leather armor, the glint of weapons, and the low murmur of their voices—before Lysanther turned away, carrying her toward a slow-moving river that wound nearby.

He paused at the water’s edge, setting her down gently on a moss-covered rock, her legs unsteady beneath her. With a determined look, Lysanther shed his clothes, the fabric rustling as it fell to the ground, revealing his beautiful physique—muscles rippling under a skin that shimmered with his alien markings and gleamed faintly with sweat in the dim light. He stood naked before her, unashamed, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that spoke of both protection and possession. Then, with a swift motion, he lifted her again, wading into the river. He lay her down in the shallow water, the shock of the cold making her gasp, her arms tightening around his neck as he reached for her tattered shirt, peeling it away with careful hands to expose her bruised and violated skin to the night air.

Julesan, still at the bank, called out, his voice edged with urgency. “What are you doing? We need to leave—now!” Lysanther’s head snapped toward him, his purr faltering into a sharp growl. “Bring me soap, Julesan! That’s an order!” Julesan bristled, stepping forward with a scowl. “We don’t have time for this—every second we delay puts us at risk!” Lysanther’s voice rose, a rare crack in his composure. “Then do it quickly, you idiot!” The command brooked no argument, and Julesan muttered a curse under his breath before turning back to the assembled group.

As the water swirled around them, Lysanther’s expression softened, his eyes glistening with a tumult of emotion as he turned back to Caroline. He cradled her against him, his voice low and raw. “I can smell what they did to you,” he confessed, his purr resuming with a trembling edge. “Their filth—Nerothys, the others—it clings to you, and it’s driving me mad. I need to wash it away, to erase their mark before I lose myself to rage. You’re mine to protect, and I can’t bear it.” His words were a plea, his hands trembling slightly as he held her, the water lapping gently against their bodies, a stark contrast to the violence they’d endured.

Julesan returned, his boots crunching on the riverbank as he tossed a small, rough bar of soap toward Lysanther, the projectile arcing through the air before landing with a soft splash in the water. Lysanther caught it deftly, his fingers closing around the gritty block, and began to wash her with a tenderness that belied his earlier fury. He started at her shoulders, the soap lathering into a creamy foam under his hands, the scent of lye—rising to mingle with the river’s earthy aroma. His palms moved in slow, deliberate circles, massaging the suds into her skin, working down her arms with a gentle pressure that eased the tension in her muscles. He washed her chest next, his touch careful around her tender and full breasts, the soap gliding over her skin to cleanse away the sticky residue of milk, the water rinsing it away in swirling eddies. His hands traveled lower, cleaning her abdomen with a reverence that made her breath catch, scrubbing away the bulging memory of her violations, the foam dissolving the alien scents into the current.

He knelt in the shallow water, the riverbed’s smooth stones shifting under his knees, and lifted each leg with a careful grip, and placed her foot on his bent leg, as he washed her thighs and calves. His fingers traced the lines of her body with meticulous care, following the contours of her muscles, the soap lathering into a thick foam that cleansed the grime and blood from her skin. First one leg, then the other, from the crevices of her toes to calf to thighs, he washed away her sadness.

Then, with green-gold eyes fixed on hers, he turned his attention to the apex of her legs, his touch shifting to a reverent gentleness. He cupped the soap in his hand, working it into a rich lather, and began to wash her with a slow, thorough precision. His fingers moved delicately, parting her folds to cleanse the sensitive area, the suds dissolving the lingering residue of the priests’ violations—their semen, the forced wetness, the lingering scent of their lust. The water swirled around his hands, rinsing away the filth, and he used his thumb to gently massage the soap deeper, ensuring every crevice was purified, his touch firm yet tender to avoid causing pain. He repeated the process, rinsing with clean water scooped from the river, his fingers lingering to confirm the area was free of their mark, the act a silent promise to reclaim her body as his own.

When he finished, Lysanther tossed the remaining soap onto the bank, the bar landing amid the pebbles with a muted thud. His eyes met hers, brimming with a fierce tenderness that seemed to pierce through the lingering shadows of her ordeal. He leaned forward, his breath warm against her damp skin, and began tracing his tongue along her collarbone in a slow, deliberate lick. The heat of his tongue sent a shiver racing down her spine, the sensation both foreign and intimate, a warm, tingling trail that awakened her nerve endings as his earthy, spicy scent—rich like the forest floor after rain, laced with cinnamon and amber, and underscored by a musky vitality—flooded her senses. Caroline gasped softly, her body tensing at first, then relaxing into the unexpected comfort, a flush creeping up her neck as the warmth of his touch began to soothe her frayed nerves.

His tongue glided upward, sweeping across the hollow of her throat with a gentle caress, then down to the curve of her sternum, leaving a trail of his essence that made her heart stutter. The sensation was electric, a mix of vulnerability and safety that left her breathless, her skin prickling with goosebumps. “It’s alright, Caroline,” Lysanther murmured, his voice a low, reassuring rumble laced with a teasing lilt. “Remember, this isn't the first time I've done this. I’ll make it feel good—trust me.” He paused, then pressed his lips to her collarbone, followed with a tender bite. His teeth grazed the delicate flesh without breaking the skin, the gentle pressure sending a jolt of electricity through her. Her skin reddening with a possessive mark that felt like a brand of protection rather than pain. She whimpered softly, the sound mingling with a sigh as the bite morphed into a soothing heat, her body yielding to his claim.

He trailed further, his lips brushing the tender skin just below her ribs, then sucking gently to leave a rosy imprint. The suction pulled at her skin, a tender tug that made her arch slightly, a mix of surprise and pleasure rippling through her as the mark formed. “See? I’ll be gentle with you,” he teased, his purr vibrating against her, amplifying the sensation. His mouth returned to her neck, where he bit down tenderly, his teeth nipping with care before sucking softly, drawing the blood to the surface to leave a subtle mark. The pressure was firm yet gentle, a delicious ache that spread warmth through her chest, and Caroline felt a tear slip free, not from pain but from the overwhelming relief of being cared for. “You’re safe with me, my darling,” he whispered reassuringly, his tongue flicking briefly over the mark, “and I’ll keep marking you until every trace of them is gone.”

The act was possessive yet protective, a ritual of marking her as his, his purr growing louder and more resonant as he infused her with his essence. The vibration thrummed through her, anchoring her to him in the river’s embrace, washing away the past with each tender bite and suck. To Caroline, it felt like a rebirth, her body and soul claimed anew under the watchful night, the teasing reassurance in his voice blending with the physical comfort to forge a bond that tethered her to the present with hope.

Lysanther’s purr softened into a gentle hum as he held her close, the river’s cool waters lapping gently around them, his tender marks still tingling on her skin. His voice dropped to a deep whisper, carrying a mix of authority and care. “Close your eyes, Caroline,” he instructed, his tone firm yet warm. “Don’t open them until I say so.” Her heart fluttered with anticipation, and she obeyed, her eyelids fluttering shut, plunging her into a world of darkness and heightened sensation. The air shifted subtly around her, a faint rustle of movement as she felt him adjust his position.

His voice broke the silence, steady and reassuring, cutting through the gentle splash of the river. “You’re safe now, Caroline,” he murmured, his words a balm to her fractured spirit. “We’re going to care for you—your every need.” His tone carried a promise, a vow that steadied her breathing. “You will give to us and we will give to you, and…” a faint tremor entered his voice, his words fading to uneven breaths, and she felt a sudden warmth splatter across her belly and breasts. The heat of his semen surprised her, as the copious cream coated her skin, his essence carrying that same earthy, spicy musk she’d come to associate with him. Her breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping her lips, but she kept her eyes closed as instructed, her trust in him anchoring her through the unexpected moment.

Lysanther’s hands returned to her, his fingers spreading the warm fluid across her skin, rubbing it into her belly in slow, circular motions, then upward to her breasts, massaging it into the tender flesh. The sensation was intimate and possessive, the warmth seeping into her pores, marking her with his scent in a way that felt both primal and protective. “Open your eyes now, my girl,” he said, his voice regaining its strength, a hint of a smile in his tone. Her lids lifted, revealing his gold-green eyes gazing down at her with a mix of tenderness and satisfaction.

Lysanther’s voice cut through the silence, firm and authoritative as he turned toward Julesan, still standing on the bank with a scowl etched across his rugged face. “Give me your shirt, Julesan,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for debate. Julesan hesitated, his hands hovering over the hem of his tunic, but with a reluctant grunt, he peeled it off, revealing a scarred chest, and tossed it to Lysanther who caught it mid-air, and carefully draped it over Caroline’s shoulders.  The fabric was still warm from Julesan’s body. The coarse material scratched against her sensitive skin, but it offered a semblance of modesty as he buttoned it up, his large fingers moving with surprising gentleness. Lifting her once more, he cradled her against his chest, her legs dangling as he waded back to the shore, the water dripping from their bodies in silvery trails under the glow of dawn.

After Lysanther dressed, they rejoined the gathering clustered near the city’s edge where the horse-like beasts snorted and pawed the ground, their scaled hides glinting like polished obsidian in the moonlight. The men turned as Lysanther approached, their eyes lingering on Caroline with a mixture of longing and curiosity, her damp form wrapped in Julesan’s oversized shirt a stark contrast to their rugged attire.

The men busied themselves, adjusting saddles and checking the beasts’ harnesses, their movements efficient yet tinged with tension. Lysanther set Caroline down briefly, his hand steadying her as Julesan addressed the group. “We’re heading to the stronghold in the nearby city—Kalthar,” he announced, his voice carrying over the rustle of leather and the beasts’ low grunts. “There, we will meet with a bastion of resistance fighters who can keep Caroline hidden. We’ll be safe there, at least for now.”

One of the men, a tall, lean figure with a scarred cheek, interjected. “Kalthar is a full lunar cycle’s ride on beast-back. Isn’t there a better option?” Julesan shook his head. “No. The stronghold of resistance has been consolidating there for years. That's where we’ll go.”

Lysanther spoke in a low tone to Caroline, as he carried her toward one of the beasts, “I’m sorry, my dear, but this is going to be a long journey. When I left our planet, a transport could have taken us in an hour. Now it will take us days.” They approached the sleek creature and with a gentle lift, he helped her mount, her legs straddling the beast’s broad back, and then swung up behind her, his strong arms encircling her waist as he took the reins.

The company mounted up, the beasts’ hooves clattering against the stone as they set off into the dawn, their pace swift yet steady. But a figure emerged from the shadows ahead, staggering toward them. The fighters tensed, swords flashing from their scabbards with a metallic ring. But as the figure drew closer, Lysanther’s purr faltered, recognition dawning. “Silva!” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of relief and concern. Silva approached, his steps uneven, one hand clutching his upper arm where blood soaked through his torn tunic, the crimson stain spreading across the fabric. His face was pale, his breathing labored, and the severity of the cut became evident as he stumbled.

“What happened?” Julesan demanded, his sword still half-drawn, his eyes narrowing. Silva sank to his knees, wincing as he pressed harder against the wound. “I… I got away,” he rasped, his voice weak but steady. “The tunnels were chaos—Nerothys’s priests turned on each other after your escape. But the eggs… they’re undamaged. He’s still in power, and he’ll come for us.”

Lysanther dismounted swiftly, kneeling beside Silva to inspect the injury. The gash was deep, a jagged tear across his upper arm, muscle exposed and blood welling steadily. With a torn strip of fabric handed to him from a man on beast-back, Lysanther bound the wound tightly, his movements precise despite the urgency. “Hold still,” he murmured, tying the makeshift bandage. The fighters exchanged uneasy glances, one muttering, “We could leave him...” Lysanther’s head snapped up, his growl low and firm. “No. He’s tried to atone—held off Nerothys so we could escape. He comes with us.” Reluctantly, they assisted Silva onto another beast, pairing him with a burly fighter who steadied him as they prepared to move.

The journey resumed, the morning air warming against Caroline’s skin as Lysanther pulled her closer to his bare chest, his arms wrapping around her in a protective cocoon. “Lean back, Caroline,” he whispered, his purr resuming, a deep vibration that steadied her racing heart. “Try to sleep—I’ll hold you steady.” Exhausted beyond measure, her body surrendering to the comfort of his warmth, she nestled against him, her head resting against his chest, and drifted into a dreamless slumber, lulled by the rhythmic sway of the beast and his soothing purr.

…

When she awoke, the sky was bright, and the sun high in the sky. They were still on the move, the horse-like beast’s gait a steady rocking motion beneath her. The scent of Lysanther enveloped her again, and she was overcome by its wondrous complexity—earthy like rich soil after a storm, spiced with a warm cinnamon undertone, and laced with a musky vitality that seemed to pulse with his life force.

His body at her back was enchanting, a solid wall of heat and strength that grounded her. But her own body ached—her muscles, strained from hours of tension and the ordeal in the cavern, throbbed with a deep, bone-weary soreness, each jolt of the beast’s movement sending sharp twinges through her thighs and lower back. Her breasts, still heavy and engorged, felt like leaden weights, aching with every sway, the sensitive skin chafing against Julesan’s rough shirt, a dull pain radiating from her nipples with each bounce.

Lysanther noticed her stirring, his head tilting to catch her gaze. “You’re awake,” he murmured, his purr softening. “How are you feeling?” She shifted slightly, wincing as she replied, “Quite sore… everywhere.” His hands moved to her shoulders, his fingers kneading the taut muscles with a firm, circular motion, the pressure easing the knots of pain. “Let me help,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble.

The massage deepened, his thumbs working along her spine, tracing the curve of her back, and it grew more intimate, his touch sliding to her sides, brushing the undersides of her breasts. “You’ve been through so much,” he whispered, his fingers dipping lower to knead her hips, the motion sending a shiver of unexpected pleasure through her. “Does this feel better?” he asked, his hands gliding back to her shoulders, then down her arms, the erotic edge intensifying as he pressed against her inner thighs. She nodded, a soft moan escaping her lips, the sensation a stark contrast to her earlier torment.

As he continued, Lysanther’s voice took on a thoughtful tone. “Everything will be different now, you must know that” he explained, his hands pausing on her upper thighs, massaging in slow, deliberate circles. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice hoarse but curious, her body relaxing under his touch. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Your heat will come eventually—it’s the way of our kind. Your body will choose which man is worthy of siring sons.” His fingers traced her belly, a possessive edge to his touch. “I know it will choose me first. It won’t be like the cavern, Caroline. We’ll all take care of you, protect you, honor you.” The promise hung between them, his hands resuming their erotic dance, kneading her thighs as she processed his words, a mix of fear and hope stirring within her.

The company reached a forest grove, the trees towering with gnarled branches draped in moss. They decided to stop and rest, the fighters dismounting to tend to the beasts, their hooves crunching on the leaf-strewn ground. Lysanther helped Caroline dismount, her legs wobbling as he steadied her. “Let’s go find a place for you to relieve yourself,” he said, guiding her a short distance away, the air filled with the scent of pungent alien flora.

He stopped behind a thick trunk, gesturing for her to proceed. “Go ahead,” he instructed, his tone gentle but firm. She hesitated, her cheeks flushing. “Can I have some privacy?” she asked, her voice small. Lysanther’s expression softened but remained resolute. “Never again, Caroline. You’re never out of my sight again.” Embarrassed, she complied, turning her back to him and  squatting awkwardly as he watched. When she finished, he teased lightly, “You’re learning to listen to me—good girl,” a smile tugging at his lips.

One of the fighters handed out rations—dried meat and a coarse bread— and Caroline ate hungrily, the food a meager comfort. Silva sat against a tree, his bound arm cradled against his chest, his stoic gaze fixed on her as Lysanther approached. Kneeling beside him, Lysanther inspected the wound, peeling back the bandage to reveal the deep gash, now crusted with dried blood but still seeping. He cleaned it with water from a canteen, Silva’s silence heavy as he stared at Caroline, his eyes unreadable.

…

The group resumed their journey, the rhythmic clatter of the horse-like beasts’ hooves echoing through the desolate landscape as the first tendrils of dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. Lysanther’s presence behind Caroline was a constant anchor, his hands never straying away—resting warmly on her thigh, tracing gentle circles over her stomach, holding her hands and arms with a reassuring firmness that steadied her tired limbs. His touch was a lifeline, a silent promise of safety amid the tension that hung thick in the air. The other men stole furtive glances at her, their eyes lingering with a potent mix of desire and respect. The night’s events—the escape, the violence, the lingering threat of pursuit—wove a taut thread through the group, their hushed murmurs and the creak of leather saddles amplifying the weight of their mission as they rode on.

As the journey continued, Caroline’s body began to respond in ways that both startled and shamed her. The intoxicating scent of Lysanther—earthy and rich like damp forest soil after a rain, spiced with a warm cinnamon undertone, and laced with a musky vitality that pulsed with his alien life force—filled her lungs with every breath, igniting a slow, undeniable arousal deep within her. His hands, firm yet tender on her skin, sent electric tingles racing along her nerves, her breasts aching with a heavy, throbbing sensitivity that intensified with each jolt of the beast’s gait. The pressure of her thighs against the creature’s scaled back pressed her core against the rough fabric of Julesan’s shirt, the movement of the ride rendering it exquisitely sensitive, a pulsing heat building with every step.

A slight wetness developed where she straddled the beast, seeping into the cloth, and shame flooded her cheeks with a burning flush. Fear twisted in her gut—how could her body betray her so soon after such violation?—and she clenched her fists, her breath quickening as she fought to suppress the reaction.

Lysanther’s keen senses caught the shift, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the sharp scent of her fear mingled with her arousal. He leaned closer, his purr rumbling deeply in his chest, a soothing vibration that wrapped around her like a cocoon. “Shh, Caroline,” he murmured, his voice a low, comforting growl against her ear. “This is normal—your body’s awakening, responding to me, to safety. It’s a good sign, a sign of healing. Don’t be ashamed, darling.” His words eased the knot of panic in her chest, though the heat between her thighs persisted, a confusing blend of desire and vulnerability that left her trembling against him.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange and purple, the group approached another grove of ancient trees. The men decided to make camp, dismounting with weary sighs as they began to set up. A small fire crackled to life, its flames dancing in the gathering dusk, while a handful of men ventured out to hunt, their silhouettes vanishing into the undergrowth with the soft clink of weapons.

Lysanther guided Caroline to a sheltered spot beneath a sprawling tree, arranging a bedroll of thick furs and blankets for her to rest on. He then turned to Silva, who sat slumped against a trunk, his bound arm cradled against his chest. Kneeling beside him, Lysanther carefully peeled back the blood-crusted bandage, cleaning the deep gash with water from a canteen, the wound’s raw edges glistening in the firelight as he reapplied a fresh strip of cloth.

Nearby, a few of the men gathered around the fire, their voices rising in a haunting ballad about an ancient queen ensnared in a love triangle—her heart torn between two warriors, her legacy etched in blood and song. The melody was mournful yet beautiful, the lyrics weaving a tale of sacrifice and passion that hung heavy in the air. Julesan joined the singers, his deep voice adding a resonant layer, and as he sang, his gaze drifted to Caroline, his reddish-brown hair catching the firelight. She met his eyes, struck by the sudden realization of his beauty—his rugged features softened by the glow, his muscular frame exuding a quiet strength that stirred something within her, a flicker of appreciation amid her turmoil.

The hunters returned, their footsteps crunching through the leaves as they carried a brace of small, scaled creatures, their flesh glistening with fresh blood. The men set to work, roasting the meat over the fire, the aroma of sizzling fat and herbs filling the grove. Caroline accepted a portion, the tender meat melting on her tongue with a savory richness that warmed her from within, a hearty comfort after days of deprivation.

As the night deepened, the men brought out an alcoholic drink— a dark, potent brew in clay flasks—and a cigar-like rolled herb, its tip glowing red as they passed it around, the sweet, woody smoke curling into the air. Caroline took a small sip of the drink, the liquid burning her throat before settling into a warm, calming comfort that loosened the knots of tension in her chest, allowing her to laugh softly at the men’s crude jokes about lost battles and stubborn beasts.

Lysanther joined her, taking a swig from the flask, his purr mingling with the laughter as he leaned close. “It’s time to lie down, Caroline,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. She protested, a smile tugging at her lips. “But I’m having a wonderful time—please, just a little longer?” He chuckled, shaking his head, and before she could argue further, he scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bedroll a few feet away.

Laying her down on the soft furs, he settled behind her, and she realized with a start that he was suddenly naked, the heat of his skin pressing against her back through the thin shirt. Arousal flared within her, her breath catching as she felt his erection, firm and insistent, pressing against her buttocks, the contact sending a thrill of heat through her core.

He whispered against her ear, his voice low and raw. “I can still smell them on you, Caroline. It’s coming from inside—their smell lingers in you, and it’s driving me mad. I need to drown it out, replace it, or I’ll never sleep again.”

Confusion clouded her mind, her body tensing as she processed his words. He ground against her, the movement deliberate, and she realized with a jolt what he meant—he intended to overwrite the enemy scent with his own. “I’m going to do it,” he said, his tone a mix of resolve and tenderness. “Relax and trust me, my sweet girl. It’ll be just like the other night—I won’t enter you, darling.”

True to his word, he slipped his shaft against her vulva, the slick heat of her arousal easing his movement as he slid back and forth, the friction igniting a wave of pleasure that made her gasp, her shame forgotten in the rising tide of sensation. Back and forth, he rocked, and Caroline squeezed her eyes shut, overcome with the intensity of the feeling.

“I need to see your face,” he murmured, shifting his position to move atop her, his weight a comforting pressure as he lay between her legs. He thrust against her core, the tip of his erection gliding along her sensitive folds without penetrating, the motion sending sparks of arousal through her. His breathing grew ragged, his eyes darkening with desire. “I can’t hold back,” he confessed, his voice strained. “I’ll just slip the tip inside, just a little—enough to mark you from within.”

Before she could protest, he lined himself up, the blunt head of his shaft notched to her entrance, and with a gentle push, he slipped the tip inside. The sensation was overwhelming, a stretch that bordered on pain but melted into pleasure, and she arched beneath him, aroused beyond reason. He moved shallowly, thrusting with restraint, moaning her name—“Caroline”—the sound a prayer and a plea as he fought to maintain control.

His thrusts were stilted, like a bow string held at maximum tension. Slowly, so slowly, he moved, his cock head fully exiting then entering her again. After a while, his resolve faltered. Caroline pried her eyelids open to see him shaking, eyes aflame. “I’m sorry, Caroline,” he gasped, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t hold back anymore.” With a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered her fully, his length filling her in a way that erased the memory of her violations, the connection deep and intimate. His movements rhythmic and controlled, each thrust a reclaiming as he angled himself to maximize her pleasure, his hands gripping her hips to guide her. The friction built a fire within her, her inner walls clenching around him, the wet heat of their union audible in the quiet grove. “I won’t knot you,” he promised, his voice a strained whisper, his pace quickening as he fought the instinct, his shaft pulsing with restraint.

The pleasure overwhelmed her, a crescendo that built with every thrust. Caroline’s orgasm hit first, a wave of ecstasy that radiated from her core, her body shuddering as her muscles contracted strongly, a cry escaping her lips. Lysanther groaned, unable to resist, and with eyes intensely locked with hers, pushed his knot inside her, the stretch of it an exquisite surprise. It locked them together as he succumbed to his own release. The sensation was intense—his knot stretching her further, a fullness that bordered on pain, followed by the hot rush of his semen flooding her, marking her with his scent from within. They throbbed together, their bodies trembling in unison, the pleasure a shared explosion that left them breathless. Her inner walls milked his knot as waves of bliss pulsed through them, his purr a triumphant rumble as they clung to each other in the afterglow.

All was perfect until a booming voice cut through the serenity, “What the fuck!”

Chapter Text

The quiet of the afterglow shattered abruptly as Julesan’s voice erupted in a furious bellow, cutting through the stillness like a blade. “What the fuck!” he roared, his tone thick with outrage, the words reverberating off the ancient trees. Caroline tensed instantly, her body rigid with dread as Lysanther lifted his head from where he lay atop her, his gold-green eyes widening in surprise. 

The rustle of movement followed as Julesan stormed toward them, flanked by several of the other men, their faces etched with anger. Rough hands seized Lysanther, prying him off Caroline with a jarring force, his partially softened knot popping out of her with an uncomfortable, wet tug that made her wince.

She scrambled to hide her face, her hands flying to cover her flushed cheeks as she instinctively drew her knees up, attempting to shield her naked, exposed legs and core with Julesan’s shirt and the discarded blanket.

Peering through the gaps between her fingers, Caroline caught a glimpse of the chaos unfolding. Julesan’s fist swung forward, connecting with Lysanther’s jaw in a resounding crack, his head snapping to the side as he staggered under the blow. Her fear spiked, a cold sweat breaking out across her skin, her heart pounding as she watched Lysanther, still naked, his erection glistening with their shared fluids, standing vulnerable before the enraged men.

Julesan loomed over him, his voice a growl of accusation. “What the hell were you doing, Lysanther? How dare you force yourself on her so soon after she was violated?” The other fighters forced Lysanther to his knees, their hands gripping his shoulders with bruising strength, one of them—a broad-shouldered bald man with a scarred face—leaning in close, his voice harsh. “Did you impregnate her? Forcing her to breed again, you bastard?” Lysanther struggled to speak, his breath ragged, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “No… I didn’t force her,” he gasped, his voice strained but firm. “She’s not in heat—her cycle isn’t fertile yet.” Another man, his eyes narrowing, sniffed the air and scowled. “She smells afraid—terrified, even.” Lysanther countered sharply, his purr faltering, “Because of you, you idiots—stop this!”

Summoning a surge of courage, Caroline’s voice trembled as she spoke, her words cutting through the tension. “It’s ok,” she muttered, her face burning with shame and embarrassment, her eyes darting to the ground as the weight of her confession hung heavy. 

Julesan looked to her. “What's that? Everyone shut up, Caroline is trying to speak” The men froze, their grips loosening on Lysanther, the air brimming with uncertainty. I can't believe this is happening, she thought. All eyes were on her and an invasive thought of danger entered her mind—more than a dozen alien men, their anger palpable, it was suddenly terrifying.

“I wanted it,” she forced through stiff vocal chords, her cheeks burning and her eyes welling against her will. Julesan’s face contorted with realization and promptly let go of Lysanther who stumbled back to her. Wrapping her body up in a tight embrace, purr at full force, Lysanther addressed the group. “You bastards don't get it. You will eventually but until you do, you need to lay off and let me take care of her.”

The atmosphere remained charged with tension, the crackling fire the only sound as the men dispersed to their own tasks. Julesan, his face still flushed with emotion, retrieved his bedroll from a nearby pack and spread it out next to where Lysanther and Caroline lay, the furs rustling against the earth. Lysanther’s brow furrowed as he watched. “What are you doing?” he asked, his tone wary. Julesan met his gaze, his voice low and resolute. “I trust you Lysanther, but I need to be close. She seems very upset.” Lysanther nodded stiffly, accepting the uneasy truce, and turned his attention to Caroline. He began petting her hair, his fingers threading through the tangled strands with a soothing touch, his purr resuming in a deep, calming vibration that eased her racing pulse. He held her tightly from behind, draping a coarse blanket over them, the fabric scratchy but warm against her skin. “You’re safe now, darling,” he whispered, his breath warm against her neck. “Try to sleep.”

She glanced at Julesan, lying just out of arm’s reach, his concerned eyes locked on hers. Then, to her surprise, he began to purr as well, a resonant, melodic sound that blended with Lysanther’s, the dual vibrations washing over her like a thick blanket. The combined effect was wonderful and calming, her eyelids growing heavy as she drifted into a deep, exhausted sleep.

…

She awoke in the very early morning, the sky just slightly brightening in anticipation of sunrise. Everyone else remained asleep, their breathing even in the stillness. Turning her head, she saw Julesan with his eyes closed, his face softened in sleep, revealing a boyish charm beneath his rugged exterior, his reddish-brown hair tousled across his forehead. Lysanther breathed deeply behind her, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. But her own body demanded her attention—her breasts ached with a fierce intensity, engorged to an unbearable degree. Cautiously, she pressed a hand against her chest, feeling through the damp fabric of her shirt-dress the scorching heat and super-hard fullness of her breasts. The front of the garment was wet, milk seeping through in dark patches, the discomfort a throbbing weight that made her shift uneasily.

Glancing back at Julesan, she froze—his eyes were open, watching her, having caught the moment of her vulnerability. A flush of embarrassment heated her cheeks, intensifying as she became aware of Lysanther’s erection pressing against her buttocks, the firm heat a stark reminder of their earlier intimacy. Before she could process the shame, Lysanther stirred, his arm wrapping around her to pull her close, his hand inadvertently cupping one of her engorged breasts. The pressure sent a sharp, excruciating pain through her, and she let out a quiet yelp, her body tensing against him.

Lysanther rose on his elbow, rolling her gently onto her back, his concerned gaze searching her face. “What’s wrong, Caroline?” he asked, his voice soft but insistent. She blushed deeper, unable to find the words, her tongue stumbling over her embarrassment. After a tense moment, Julesan spoke from his bedroll, his tone matter-of-fact. “She’s engorged—uncomfortably so. You can see it.” Lysanther’s expression softened, and he leaned down to kiss her forehead, a tender gesture that made her heart skip. “Oh, my stubborn girl,” he teased gently, “no need to be embarrassed with me. I’ll help you—let me take care of this.”

She started to protest, her voice a shaky whisper, mortified by what she assumed he intended. “No, I—I can’t…” He cut her off with a reassuring smile. “Stop arguing—it’ll only take a minute. Trust me.” She glanced at Julesan, her protest faltering, and Lysanther added firmly, “Don't mind him, Caroline. He's not a danger to you either.”

With slow, deliberate care, Lysanther unbuttoned her shirt-dress, the fabric parting to reveal her comically large, swollen breasts, the skin stretched tight and glistening with a sheen of milk that dripped from her nipples in slow, steady streams, soaking her torso. He eased the garment open, first exposing one breast, then the other, the weight of them pulling at her chest as the milk continued to flow. “Oh, you poor thing,” he murmured, his voice laced with sympathy.

Leaning down, he sucked the closest nipple into his mouth, his lips sealing around it as he drew gently, the suction sending a sharp, initial sting through her that quickly melted into a profound relief. The sensation was intense—warmth spreading from her breast as the pressure eased, a tingling release that made her sigh, her body relaxing into the act despite her initial shame. She glanced at Julesan, catching a dark twinkle in his eyes, his gaze fixed on her chest with a hungry intensity, his lips parted slightly as he watched.

Lysanther paused, lifting his head to meet her eyes. “How does that feel?” he asked, his tone gentle. “Better,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the admission. He nodded and resumed, sucking again, drinking her milk with a steady rhythm. She felt the let-down, a sudden rush of release as the milk flowed freely, a warm, soothing cascade that alleviated the aching fullness, the sensation like a dam breaking within her, sending waves of relief through her chest and down her spine. Her eyes fluttered closed, savoring the feeling, but her other breast grew even more uncomfortable, the pressure building until milk began streaming from it in a gentle arc, soaking the furs beneath her.

Suddenly, she felt another warm mouth on her—Julesan had moved closer, his presence solid beside her, and he began sucking on her other nipple. She opened her eyes, looking down to see his reddish-brown hair messy and wild, his eyes closed in concentration as he drew on her breast. The dual sensation was overwhelming—Lysanther’s gentle suckling on one side, Julesan’s firmer pull on the other—easing the pain but igniting a flicker of arousal. She could feel Julesan’s erection pressing against her leg through his trousers, the hardness a stark contrast to the softness of his mouth, and a wetness began to build between her thighs, her body responding despite her embarrassment. They continued for several exquisitely long minutes, the rhythmic sucking a strange harmony that lulled her into a dazed comfort.

The faint rustling from the rest of the camp signaled the others waking, the sound of shifting bodies and low murmurs breaking the spell. Embarrassment surged anew, and Lysanther stopped, pulling back to kiss her on the mouth, the taste of her own milk sweet and warm on his lips. “I’ll always take care of you,” he said, his voice firm but affectionate, “but you need to stop being so stubborn, dear girl.” Julesan released her nipple, a smirk playing on his lips as he met her gaze, his expression a mix of satisfaction and amusement, leaving her caught between relief and the lingering heat of their attention.

…

As the first light of morning stretched across the grove, the men rose from their bedrolls, their movements stiff but purposeful as they began preparing something to eat. The crackle of a newly stoked fire filled the air, the scent of roasting roots and meat wafting through the camp as they worked in a quiet rhythm. Lysanther, kneeling beside Caroline, glanced around and singled out a muscular bald man tending the fire, his skin gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat. “You,” Lysanther called, his voice carrying a commanding edge. “Give me your shirt.” The man turned, his broad shoulders tensing briefly before he nodded, peeling off the white tunic to reveal a firm chest crisscrossed with old scars. “Name’s Uric,” he said gruffly, handing the garment to Lysanther, who accepted it with a nod of thanks. Lysanther then turned to Caroline, gently unbuttoning the damp, milk-soaked shirt-dress she wore, replacing it with Uric’s shirt. The fabric was slightly worn but clean, carrying a rugged scent that intrigued her— a blend of smoked wood, the faint musk of leather, and a hint of Uric’s own earthy sweat, which she found oddly comforting as it settled against her skin.

The camp bustled with activity as they packed up, the men rolling bedrolls and securing gear onto the horse-like beasts with practiced efficiency. Caroline’s gaze drifted to Silva, who sat propped against a tree, his pale face a stark contrast to the vibrant moss behind him. His skin was ashen, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead despite the cool morning air, and his bound arm hung limply at his side, a silent testament to his deteriorating condition. The men moved around him with a careful distance, their expressions fixed with disdain.

The group mounted their beasts, the scaled creatures snorting as they adjusted to the weight, and they continued their journey, the landscape unfolding into rolling hills under a midmorning sun that cast long shadows across the path. 

…

The ride was steady until, about midmorning, a sudden commotion broke the rhythm—Caroline’s eyes widened as she saw Silva slump forward, slipping from his mount with a dull thud, the man riding with him losing his grip as Silva passed out. Lysanther urged their beast forward, pulling alongside the fallen prince, and helped Caroline dismount, her legs shaky as she landed on the uneven ground. “Julesan, sit with her,” Lysanther ordered, his tone urgent as he knelt beside Silva. Julesan complied, guiding Caroline to a nearby rock, his presence a steadying force as they watched Lysanther work.

Lysanther carefully lifted Silva’s arm, peeling back the bandage to reveal a wound that had turned a sickly yellow, pus oozing from the jagged edges, the surrounding skin inflamed and hot to the touch. Silva’s forehead burned with fever, his silver-blond hair wet and his breaths shallow and labored. “It’s infected,” Lysanther announced, his voice tight with concern. He looked up at the gathered men. “Who has any medicine or herbs? Anything to fight this?” The silence that followed was deafening, the fighters exchanging uneasy glances but offering no response. Lysanther’s jaw clenched. “Nothing? Who will ride with him, then?” Again, no one volunteered, the air growing heavy with reluctance. One man, a lean figure with a scarred lip, spat on the ground. “We should leave him. He’s a liability.” The sentiment rippled through the group, their hatred for Silva palpable in their averted gazes.

Lysanther’s eyes narrowed, his purr a low growl of defiance. “I’ll do it, then.” He turned to Julesan. “Ride with Caroline. Keep her safe.” With a nod, Julesan helped Caroline mount up, settling behind her on the beast, while Lysanther lifted Silva’s limp form onto his own mount, cradling him with a grim determination. The group rode on, the tension unbroken as the landscape shifted around them.

Caroline found herself hyper-aware of Julesan’s close presence, his frame pressed against her back, his arms guiding the reins with a careful restraint. His scent enveloped her—a rich, masculine aroma of smoked leather, the faint spice of forest herbs, and a subtle undertone of sweat from the day’s exertion, a heady mix that stirred a warmth within her. He seemed a little uncomfortable, his body angled slightly to avoid pressing too close, his movements deliberate as he maintained a respectful distance despite the necessity of their shared mount. 

“You know,” he muttered, his voice gruff but sincere. “I’d never seen a female before you.” She nodded, her mind drifting back through the events of the past few days, trying to pinpoint when he’d first seen her. The memory clicked—she had been strapped naked in the cavern, legs spread wide under the priests’ gaze—and embarrassment flooded her, her cheeks burning. “That’s… embarrassing,” she admitted, her voice barely audible over the beast’s gait.

Julesan shifted, his discomfort evident in the tightening of his grip on the reins. “No,” he countered softly, his tone carrying a hint of affection. “You were beautiful—strong, even then.” His words hung between them, his face flushing slightly as he avoided her eyes. After a pause, he cleared his throat. “How are you feeling… physically?” The question was gentle, but she caught the implication—her breasts, still tender from the morning’s relief—and she ducked her head, sheepish. “I’m… fine,” she murmured, the lie weak but sufficient to shift the focus, her embarrassment mingling with a flicker of gratitude for his concern.

…

As the afternoon wore on, the landscape transformed into a rugged mountainous area, the trail winding upward through steep, rocky inclines that tested the endurance of both riders and beasts. The air grew cooler, tinged with the crisp scent of rugged alien flora, as the group navigated the treacherous paths. Caroline’s body, weary from the journey, drifted back toward Julesan with each upward climb, her back pressing against his broad chest, her thighs brushing his as the beast’s footing shifted beneath them. She became hyper-aware of his presence—the solid warmth of his torso, the subtle rise and fall of his breath against her neck, the faint roughness of his skin where his arm brushed hers—each contact sending a quiet thrill through her despite her exhaustion.

As they descended the steep trails, the momentum shifted Julesan’s body toward her, his chest molding against her spine, his hands steadying the reins while his thighs framed hers. The beast’s jerky movements drew them closer still, the rhythm of its gait pressing their bodies together in an intimate dance, the friction both comforting and unsettling. Oh no, she fretted internally, as she realized his groin was right up against her, the jerky movements of the beast beneath them forcing it to grind against her. 

Glancing to her side, Caroline caught Lysanther’s eye, his mount a few paces ahead with Silva slumped against him. Lysanther winked at her, a playful glint in his gold-green eyes that eased some of the tension knotting her stomach, though his focus quickly returned to Silva, whose pale face glistened with sweat, his eyes closed as if clinging to consciousness. The sight of him, pulled at something in her chest.

By midday, the group halted at a narrow plateau, the mountains looming like silent sentinels around them. The bald man, Uric, approached Caroline with a small bundle of dried meat and a handful of wild berries, his scarred face softening as he handed it to her. “Eat, Caroline,” he said gruffly, his voice carrying a trace of kindness. She nodded her thanks, the food a welcome distraction as she nibbled on the salty meat and tart berries. Nearby, Lysanther dismounted, carefully laying Silva on a flat rock to change his bandage. He peeled back the cloth, revealing the wound’s worsening state—pustulant and red, the infection spreading with alarming speed. “It’s much worse,” Lysanther muttered, his brow furrowing as he cleaned it with water, the stench of decay faint but unmistakable. He reapplied a fresh strip, his movements precise but his expression grim, the lack of medicine weighing heavily on him.

The journey resumed, the beasts laboring up and down the trails, and the constant motion lulled Caroline into a drowsy haze. Her head drooped, the rhythmic sway of the horse pulling her toward sleep, only to startle awake as her chin jerked downward. Julesan, his voice a low rumble behind her, spoke with a gentle firmness. “Lay against me, Caroline. I’ll make sure you don’t fall off.” Too tired to fight him, she leaned back, her head resting against his chest, the solid warmth of his body enveloping her in bliss. The scent of him—smoked leather, forest herbs, and a hint of sweat—wrapped around her, soothing her frayed nerves as she surrendered to sleep, her body relaxing into his frame.

In the expanse of her dreams, a soft, otherworldly tide of sensations began to ebb and flow through her mind, as though she were drifting weightlessly through a boundless, mist-shrouded realm where reality blurred into fantasy. Gentle mouths, caressed her nipples with a delicate, almost reverent touch, their lips parting to draw forth a slow, soothing pull. The suction was heavenly, easing the heavy, aching burden of her breasts with each rhythmic tug, a cascade of relief that rippled outward like ripples on a tranquil pond, spreading warmth and a fleeting sense of peace through her floating form. The sensation lingered, a soft dance of comfort that seemed to stretch time itself, each gentle draw deepening the dreamy haze that enveloped her.

Then, as if summoned by the rhythm of her own heartbeat, a warm, insistent mouth materialized against her clitoris, its presence a glowing ember of heat that pulsed with a life of its own. The pressure began as a faint, teasing warmth, building gradually into an exquisite, dreamlike intensity that wove through her core like golden threads of light, threading through her nerves with a slow, deliberate artistry. The sensation grew, coiling tighter with each passing moment, a spiral of pleasure that wound deeper into her being, drawing her further into the dream’s embrace. The tension mounted, a crescendo of sensation that seemed to suspend her in midair, until it finally burst into a silent, shuddering release—a vivid and overwhelming wave that crashed over her

She woke with a start, her breath catching as she realized what had just happened. Her heart was racing and a wet heat was pooling between her thighs. Julesan held her tight, one arm wrapped around her chest, his hand gripping her shoulder with a protective strength, the other resting firmly on her upper thigh, his fingers splayed just below the hem of Uric’s shirt. His mouth was close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin as he murmured, “Are you okay? You were shaking and moaning in your sleep—scared me for a moment.” Embarrassment flooded her, her cheeks burning as she stammered, “I… it was just a dream, nothing to worry about,” her voice shaky as she tried to dismiss the intensity of her reaction.

Julesan loosened his grip, his hands retreating slightly as she shifted to readjust herself, the movement awkward and uncomfortable. A rush of blood seemed to flood her core, leaving her thighs tingling and her lower body heavy with arousal. Her breasts, once relieved, felt heavy again, the engorgement returning with a dull ache that pulsed with each breath.

As the sun neared the horizon, its final rays painting the sky in deep violets and fading golds, the group guided their mounts into a dense forest, the towering trees forming a natural canopy that muted the last light of day. They dismounted, the decision to make camp unspoken but urgent.

Lysanther’s tension was palpable, his broad shoulders rigid as he dismounted and immediately turned his attention to Silva, who slumped lifelessly against the beast that had carried him. His pallor had deepened, skin now a sickly gray, his chest rising and falling in shallow, irregular breaths—he was unconscious, teetering on the edge of death.

The men set to work with practiced efficiency, unpacking gear and gathering wood, the crackle of a newly built fire soon filling the clearing with a warm, flickering glow. Uric approached Caroline, his bald head gleaming in the firelight, and handed her a portion of roasted meat, a handful of berries wrapped in a leaf, and a hot ceramic cup of a spiced drink. Julesan encouraged her to eat, “You need to regain your strength, Caroline.” She obeyed, eating the meal with vigor.

After she finished, her eyes drifted to Lysanther who was kneeling beside Silva, peeling back the bandage with a grim expression, the wound now a festering mass of yellow pus and inflamed flesh, the stench sharp and nauseating. He straightened, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the camp. “The infection’s worse—much worse. I need to amputate his arm, or he won’t survive the night.” The words hung heavy, a weight settled as the men paused their tasks.

Caroline’s fear spiked, her heart hammering against her ribs, a cold sweat breaking out across her skin as the image of what must happen flashed through her mind. Her stomach tensed, threatening to send up the meal she had just eaten. The thought of the crude surgery, the pain, the blood—it overwhelmed her, her breath quickening as panic clawed at her throat.

Noticing her distress, Lysanther’s gaze softened but remained resolute. “Julesan, Uric—take her out of the camp. Don't take your eyes off her.” His tone brooked no argument, and the two men moved swiftly, guiding her deeper into the forest.

Julesan’s hand rested lightly on her elbow, his grip firm yet gentle, while Uric led the way, his broad frame cutting a path through the underbrush. The forest closed around them, the sounds of the camp fading into a distant hum, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the occasional hoot of a nocturnal creature. The air grew warmer, the scent of moss and damp earth enveloping her, but it did little to calm the dread coiling in her chest.

As they paused near a small clearing, a piercing scream shattered the night. Silva’s voice, raw and agonized, cut through Caroline like a knife.

Chapter Text

The piercing scream tore through the forest, Silva’s raw, agonized wail slicing into Caroline’s chest like a jagged blade. Her breath hitched, her heart slamming against her ribs as her mind conjured the scene—Lysanther’s hands, slick with blood, wielding a crude blade, sawing through muscle and bone, Silva’s arm dangling uselessly as the infection consumed him. The image was too vivid, too real, and it dragged her back through her own scars. The hospital, the sterile stench, the blood-soaked sheets, the searing pain of her miscarriage ripping through her womb, the doctors’ voices droning, “Code red!” Her baby, gone. Ethan, gone. Her vision blurred, the forest spinning, the trees closing in like the walls of that hospital room.

Her breaths came in shallow, frantic gasps, each one shallower than the last, her chest tightening as if crushed by an invisible weight. She clutched at Uric’s shirt, her fingers digging into the coarse fabric, her body trembling uncontrollably. The panic surged, a tidal wave drowning her, her thoughts fracturing into shards of fear and memory—Nerothys’s priests, their hands on her. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the ground, the damp earth cold against her palms.

Julesan dropped to his knees beside her, his reddish-brown hair catching the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. “Caroline, breathe,” he urged, his voice steady but laced with urgency. He began to purr, a deep, resonant vibration meant to soothe, but it barely reached her through the storm in her mind. Her hyperventilation worsened, her gasps ragged, her vision spotting with black. Uric, his bald head gleaming faintly, crouched on her other side, his scarred face tight with concern. “She’s not calming,” he muttered, his gruff voice betraying worry.

Julesan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching. “Uric, get over here—closer. Hold her. Purr, loud as you can.” His tone was commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. Uric hesitated only a moment before shifting, his broad frame pressing against Caroline’s back, his thick arms wrapping around her shoulders. Julesan moved in, his chest molding against her front, his arms encircling her waist, pulling her tightly against his body. Their combined heat enveloped her, a cocoon of warmth against the forest’s chill. Both men began to purr loudly, their vibrations deep and powerful, Julesan’s melodic and steady, Uric’s rougher, almost guttural, the sounds blending into a thrumming wave that pulsed through her bones.

The sensation was overwhelming, a visceral hum that seemed to sink into her core, vibrating through her chest, her spine, her trembling limbs. It was as if their purrs were stitching her back together, grounding her in their solid presence. Julesan’s scent—smoked leather, forest herbs, and sweat—mingled with Uric’s earthier musk, smoked wood and leather, wrapping around her like a blanket. The tightness in her chest began to loosen, her gasps slowing as the vibrations anchored her, pulling her from the edge of the abyss. Relief washed over her, a warm tide that softened the jagged edges of her panic, her body sagging slightly between them, their arms holding her upright.

But the relief cracked open something deeper, and a sob tore from her throat, raw and unbidden. Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and relentless, her body shaking with the force of her emotional release. The trauma replayed in vivid flashes—Ethan’s silhouette fading down the hospital hallway, the priests’ leering faces, Lysanther’s promises of protection. Her mind reeled, irrational, untethered. Where was he? Why wasn’t Lysanther here, holding her, purring for her, shielding her from this pain? He’d promised to keep her safe, to care for her, but he was out there, cutting off Silva’s arm, leaving her to drown in her fear. Had he abandoned her, just like Ethan? The thought was a knife, twisting in her gut, irrational but searing.

Her breasts throbbed, engorged and heavy, milk seeping through her shirt, the damp fabric clinging to her skin, the ache radiating through her chest. Another sob broke free, her voice cracking as she gasped, “Lysanther… he’s not here. He’s not taking care of me.” Her words were a jumble, her mind spiraling. “I’m tired… so tired. My breasts hurt… I need to pee… he’s supposed to be here.”

Julesan’s arms tightened around her, his purr unwavering, his voice low and steady as he tried to reason with her. “Caroline, he’s helping Silva—he has to. He hasn’t abandoned you. We’re here, we’re taking care of you.” But her sobs only grew louder, her rationality slipping further. “No, he’s gone, he left me… like before… I can’t do this alone.” Her voice was frantic, her hands clutching at Julesan’s tunic, her tears soaking into the fabric.

Julesan exchanged a glance with Uric, his expression resolute. “Alright, Caroline,” he said, his tone firm but gentle, his purr deepening as he held her close. “We’re going to take care of your problems. All of them.”

Releasing her, Julesan and Uric gently guided Caroline a few paces away from the clearing, their hands steady on her arms as they navigated the uneven forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of moss and damp earth, the distant echo of Silva’s scream still lingering in Caroline’s ears, her chest tight with residual panic. Julesan stopped near a cluster of gnarled roots, his eyes full of tenderness, turned towards her. “Go ahead, Caroline,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Relieve yourself here.”

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, the weight of their gazes prickling her skin. “Can you at least give me some privacy?” she snapped, her voice sharp with irritation, her nerves frayed from the night’s chaos.

Julesan’s expression remained steady, his eyes unwavering. “No, Caroline. Lysanther told us not to take our eyes off you.” Uric nodded, his scarred face impassive, his broad frame looming beside her.

Her anger flared, irrational and hot, fueled by exhaustion and the ache in her breasts. “This is ridiculous! I’m not a child who needs babysitting!” she spat, her words biting as she turned her back to them, squatting awkwardly. The act was humiliating, the trickle of urine splashing against the leaves as their presence burned into her. She stood quickly, pulling Uric’s oversized shirt down to cover herself, her face burning with shame and defiance.

Julesan’s voice softened, though it carried a resolute edge. “Time to fix the next problem. Let's find a comfortable place to so that.” He gestured toward the deeper forest, his tone coaxing.

Caroline’s frustration boiled over, her hands clenching into fists. “I’m not wandering all over this damn forest just because you say so! I’m tired, and I’m done with being ordered around!” Her voice cracked, her emotions a tangled mess of anger, exhaustion, and lingering trauma.

Uric’s patience snapped, his gruff voice cutting through her outburst. “Enough, Caroline.” Without warning, he stepped forward, his strong arms scooping her up effortlessly, her legs dangling as he cradled her against his chest. His scent—smoked wood, leather, and earthy sweat—filled her senses, both grounding and infuriating her.

“Put me down!” she protested, squirming in his grip as he carried her through the forest, his strides long and purposeful. “You are a fucking ogre! I don’t need to be carried like some child!” Her complaints echoed off the trees, her voice growing hoarse as she thrashed, the milk-soaked shirt chafing her sensitive skin.

Uric ignored her, his jaw set as he navigated the underbrush, Julesan trailing close behind. They stopped in a small clearing where soft, vibrant moss carpeted the ground, a cushion of green under the towering trees. Uric set her down on her feet, his hands lingering briefly to steady her. Her legs wobbled, but her anger surged anew.

Julesan knelt beside her, his voice gentle but firm. “Caroline, lie down. It’ll help.”

Her eyes blazed, her temper flaring at their constant commands. “I’m sick of you two ordering me around like I’m some damn pet!” she snapped, crossing her arms, the damp shirt clinging uncomfortably to her swollen breasts, the ache intensifying with every breath.

Uric’s patience frayed further, his voice low and commanding. “Lie down, Caroline. It’s for your own good.”

“No!” she shouted, her defiance irrational, her mind a storm of exhaustion and fear. She didn’t know why she was fighting them, why every word felt like a chain tightening around her. Her thoughts spiraled inward—she had no idea why she was acting this way, why her emotions were a wildfire she couldn’t control. The trauma, the violations, Lysanther’s absence—it all churned inside her, a chaotic mess she couldn’t untangle.

Uric stepped forward, his calloused hand closing gently around hers, trying to guide her to the mossy ground. She yanked her hand away, her heart pounding, and bolted, her bare feet slipping on the moss as she ran blindly into the forest. Her breasts bounced painfully but she didn’t care—she just needed to escape, to be free of their control.

Julesan and Uric reacted instantly, their footsteps pounding behind her. Within moments, they caught her, Uric’s strong arms wrapping around her waist, lifting her off the ground as she screamed and flailed, her fists pounding uselessly against his chest. “Let me go!” she cried, her voice raw, her body twisting in his grip.

They carried her back to the clearing, her screams echoing through the trees. Julesan’s voice was sharp with authority. “Uric, hold her.” Uric complied, lowering himself against a sturdy tree, pulling Caroline onto his lap so her back pressed against his broad torso. His large hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her screams, the rough warmth of his palm pressing against her lips. His other arm pinned her arms behind her back, his grip firm but not painful, while his muscular legs wrapped around hers, locking them in place to stop her kicking. His scent enveloped her, the smoked wood and leather grounding her despite her fury.

Julesan knelt in front of her, his mussed hair falling into his eyes, his expression a mix of concern and frustration. “Caroline, I don’t know why you’re acting this way,” he said, his voice steady but pleading, his purr resuming, a deep vibration meant to soothe. “But we’re going to help you—take care of you.”

Julesan knelt before Caroline, his knee slipping between her legs as he steadied himself on the mossy ground. His hands moved with deliberate care, fingers deftly unbuttoning the milk-soaked shirt clinging to her skin. The fabric parted, revealing her engorged breasts, impossibly large and hard, the skin taut and glistening with streams of milk that dripped steadily onto the moss below. The sight was stark, almost surreal, and Caroline’s breath hitched, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as a wave of shame and vulnerability crashed over her. She sobbed softly, her body trembling in Uric’s unyielding grip, his arms and legs still pinning her against his torso, his earthy scent of smoked wood and leather grounding her even as her emotions spiraled.

Julesan’s gaze softened, his blue eyes meeting hers with a quiet intensity. Without a word, he leaned forward, his lips closing around one swollen nipple, the warmth of his mouth a stark contrast to the cool night air. He sucked gently at first, then with a steady rhythm, drawing the milk forth in a soothing cascade. The sensation was electric, far more intense than the morning’s relief—a heady mix of relief and eroticism that sent a jolt through her core. The pressure in her breast eased, but a tingling warmth spread through her chest, radiating downward, and she felt a rush of wetness between her thighs, her body responding with an intensity that made her gasp.

Julesan paused, his lips lingering briefly before he switched to her other nipple, his tongue flicking lightly before he began to suck again. The sensation deepened, a delicious pull that melted the ache into a wave of pleasure so intense she moaned, her voice low and involuntary, her body squirming against Uric’s hold. Her hips shifted, seeking friction, the sensitivity of her altered nerves amplifying every touch. Uric’s deep chuckle rumbled against her back, his erection pressing firmly against her through his trousers, a hard, insistent heat that made her flush deepen. “Look at you, squirming like that,” he teased, his gruff voice laced with amusement. “Can’t sit still, can you?”

Julesan lifted his head briefly, a playful smirk curling his lips as he met her gaze. “She’s enjoying this a bit too much, isn’t she?” he teased, his voice low and warm, before resuming his suckling, his lips sealing around her nipple with a firmer pull. The rhythmic suction sent shivers through her, her body writhing more insistently, her thighs pressing together around Julesan’s knee, which had shifted closer, brushing the apex of her legs. The contact was a spark, igniting a fire in her core, and her eyes shot wide, a soft gasp escaping as she instinctively ground against his knee, the rough fabric of Julesan's trousers rubbing against her sensitive folds.

The friction was exquisite, each movement amplifying the pleasure radiating from her breasts and core. She ground harder, her hips moving in a desperate rhythm, chasing the building tension. Uric’s teasing voice rumbled again, his breath warm against her ear. “Keep that up, Caroline, and you’ll make a mess of us all.” His erection twitched against her, adding to the overwhelming sensations flooding her senses.

Julesan’s knee pressed more firmly against her, the pressure deliberate, and she moaned louder, her body trembling as the pleasure crested. Her orgasm hit like a wave, a shuddering release that arched her back, her inner walls clenching around nothing as she gasped, her vision spotting with stars. Julesan paused, his smirk widening as he looked up at her flushed face. “Well, that was quick,” he teased, his voice dripping with playful satisfaction, before resuming his suckling, his lips drawing more milk with a steady rhythm.

He pushed his knee harder against her, the pressure unrelenting, and the sensation reignited, building rapidly despite her exhaustion. Her body responded traitorously, her hips grinding again, the friction against her swollen clitoris pushing her toward another peak. The second orgasm crashed over her, more intense than the first, her body convulsing in Uric’s arms, a soft cry escaping her lips as waves of pleasure pulsed through her. Her limbs felt heavy, her energy sapped, the dual sensations of relief and ecstasy draining her completely. Her eyelids fluttered, her body slumping against Uric’s chest, his purr vibrating softly against her back as she surrendered to exhaustion, her consciousness fading into a deep sleep.

…

Caroline stirred, her consciousness surfacing sluggishly as she felt herself being gently lowered onto a soft bedroll, the familiar scent of Lysanther’s earthy musk—rich soil, cinnamon, and musky vitality—enveloping her. Her eyelids fluttered, half-open, her body heavy with exhaustion as the voices of Julesan and Uric filtered through her haze. They must have carried her back to the camp, and now they stood nearby, their low murmurs blending with the crackle of the fire and the rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

“She was completely out of control,” Julesan said, his voice low but tinged with concern. “Panicking, running off, fighting us every step. And then… well, she got worked up when we helped with her... just…it was intense.” His tone carried a hint of discomfort, as if unsure how to frame the events.

Uric’s gruff voice chimed in, his bald head gleaming faintly. “She was irrational, Lysanther. Screaming, thrashing, like she didn’t know what she was doing. But when we… took care of her, she calmed down. Passed out after.” His words were blunt, his scarred face unreadable, though his eyes flicked toward Caroline with a mix of worry and protectiveness.

Lysanther knelt beside her, his gold-green eyes narrowing as he studied her half-awake form, her milk-soaked shirt clinging to her skin, her hair tangled from her earlier struggles. “Her heat must be approaching,” he said, his voice steady but laced with understanding. “It’s making her emotional, irrational. Her body’s changing, preparing for what’s to come. It’s normal, but it might be hitting her hard.” He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his touch gentle but firm.

Caroline’s eyes fully opened at his words, a fresh wave of tears welling up as her emotions surged, raw and unfiltered. “You abandoned me,” she choked out, her voice trembling with anger and hurt, her chest tightening. “I didn’t know where you were! You left me alone, Lysanther!” Her sobs broke free, her hands clutching at the blanket.

Lysanther’s expression softened, his purr starting low and deep, a soothing vibration that thrummed through the air. He lay down beside her, pulling her tightly against his chest, his arms a warm, protective cage. “I’m here, Caroline,” he murmured, his voice a steady anchor. “I didn’t abandon you. I had to help Silva—he would’ve died. I’m here now.” His purr intensified, resonating through her, but her anger lingered, her body tense against his.

He glanced up, his tone sharp with authority. “Julesan, come help me.” Julesan hesitated only a moment before moving to Caroline’s other side, his frame pressing against her back, his scent of smoked leather and forest herbs mingling with Lysanther’s. Lysanther shifted her gently, guiding her head to rest on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, while Julesan molded himself against her back, his arms draping over her waist. Both men purred loudly, their vibrations blending into a powerful, harmonic wave that enveloped her, sinking into her bones, soothing the jagged edges of her emotions. The combined warmth of their bodies, the rhythmic thrumming, and the exhaustion weighing her down pulled her under, her tears slowing as she drifted to sleep.

…

When Caroline woke, the morning sun filtered through the towering trees, casting dappled light across the camp. Her body felt lighter, the storm of emotions dulled, though a faint ache lingered in her breasts and a lingering sense of vulnerability clung to her thoughts. The camp bustled with quiet activity—men stoking the fire, roasting strips of meat, and packing gear onto the horse-like beasts, their scaled hides glinting in the sunlight. The air carried the savory aroma of breakfast and the crisp scent of dew-soaked moss.

Her gaze drifted to Lysanther, who knelt a few paces away, tending to Silva. He sat propped against a tree, his silver-blond hair damp with sweat, his face pale but less ashen than before. His right arm was gone, the stump at his shoulder wrapped in a fresh bandage, the fabric stained faintly with blood. He was conscious, his eyes clearer, a flicker of strength returning despite the pain etched into his features. As Lysanther adjusted the bandage, his movements precise and careful, Silva’s gaze shifted to Caroline. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, locked onto hers, stirring a mix of unease and guilt. She quickly looked away, her cheeks flushing as she pulled Uric’s shirt tighter around her.

The morning sun climbed higher, casting golden streaks through the forest canopy as the group prepared to move out. Lysanther stood, brushing dirt from his trousers, his gold-green eyes softening as he approached Caroline, who sat on his bedroll. The camp buzzed with activity—men securing packs, the horse-like beasts snorting as their scaled hides caught the light. Lysanther extended a hand to her, his voice gentle but firm. “Caroline, who do you want to ride with today?”

She hesitated, her gaze flickering to Julesan and Uric, who were tightening saddles nearby, their faces unreadable. The memory of their closeness last night—Julesan’s teasing, Uric’s firm grip—stirred a mix of comfort and unease. But Lysanther’s presence, his earthy scent of rich soil and cinnamon, felt like an anchor. “You,” she said quietly, her voice steadier than before, though her cheeks flushed. “I want to ride with you.”

He nodded, a faint smile curving his lips, and helped her to her feet, his hand warm and steady. They approached one of the beasts, its obsidian scales glinting as Lysanther lifted her effortlessly onto its broad back, her legs straddling the smooth hide. He swung up behind her, his chest pressing against her back, his arms encircling her waist as he took the reins. The group set off, the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the stone path filling the air as they wound through the forest toward the distant city of Kalthar.

Caroline’s body swayed with the beast’s gait, the ache in her breasts dulled but ever present. Her mind churned with Lysanther’s earlier words about her heat, the implications heavy and unsettling. She tilted her head slightly, her voice tentative. “Lysanther, what did you mean about my heat approaching? You said it’s making me emotional.”

His purr rumbled softly against her back, a soothing vibration that steadied her nerves. “Your cycle’s adjusting, Caroline,” he explained, his tone calm but matter-of-fact. “It’ll be unpredictable for a while—your body’s adapting. When you fully enter your heat, you’ll be fertile, ready to conceive.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “That’s when you’ll give me sons.” His voice carried a quiet confidence, as if the outcome were inevitable.

She stiffened, her heart lurching. “I don’t think I want to do that,” she said, her voice sharp with defiance, though it wavered with uncertainty. The idea of birthing again—after what has happened in the cavern—felt like a violation.

Lysanther chuckled, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Oh, you will, my darling. Your body’s already singing for it.” His hand tightened briefly on her waist, a playful gesture that sent a shiver through her despite her resistance. “It will be different, my dear. Nothing like what they did to you.”

Her mind snagged on his earlier words, a flicker of curiosity cutting through her unease. “You said I’d choose who to give sons to. Why are you so sure it’ll be you?” she asked, her tone challenging, though her cheeks burned at the intimacy of the question.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear, his purr deepening. “Because, kitten, your body already loves me. During the years we spent together in the stars, we became very close. Your mind just needs to catch up. You’ll see.” His voice was teasing, but there was a possessive edge beneath it, a certainty that made her pulse quicken. “But we need to reach Kalthar before your heat fully takes hold. You won’t be able to nest while we’re traveling. It’s too dangerous to stop long enough for you to build one.”

Caroline frowned, confusion knitting her brow. “Nest? What do you mean, nest?” The word felt foreign, heavy with implications she couldn’t grasp, stirring a vague dread in her chest.

Lysanther’s tone softened, as if explaining to a child. “It’s instinct, Caroline. When your heat peaks, you’ll feel the urge to create a safe space—a nest—to prepare for mating. It’s how our kind ensures safety, comfort. But out here, in the wilds, it’s not safe to linger. We need the stronghold’s protection.”

Her mind reeled, the concept alien and overwhelming, her body’s changes a constant reminder of how far she was from her old life. Her gaze drifted ahead, catching sight of Julesan and Silva riding a few paces in front. Silva, slumped against the fighter sharing his mount, looked frail but awake, his silver-blond hair stark against his pale skin, the bandage over his amputated shoulder a grim reminder of the night’s violence. Her stomach twisted as she watched him, his betrayal in the cavern clashing with the vulnerability she now saw. “Why do you care so much about him?” she asked Lysanther, her voice low, tinged with accusation. “After what he did to us?”

Lysanther’s purr faltered briefly, his grip on the reins tightening. “Silva wasn’t always like this,” he said, his voice heavy with memory. “We grew up together. We are cousins—our fathers came from the same brood. We were close, like brothers. A century ago, before I left to search for a queen, he was… troubled, but not broken. He always was troubled, Caroline. Our planet was invaded when we were adolescents. Silva saw our mother slaughtered in her nest, her body torn apart while she slept. It shattered him. He was never the same.”

Caroline’s breath caught, her heart aching at the image, her own memories of loss echoing faintly. Lysanther continued, his voice quieter now. “Years later there was political unrest. Our future queen was murdered—stabbed during her gestation. She was nearly fully mature. Silva was the one who found her, lifeless, her body still warm. He loved her, Caroline, even if it was unspoken, even if she was still forming. He said her beauty haunted him, that he’d loved her even in death. Losing her broke all over again. Without a queen, our planet was doomed, our people sterile with no way to reproduce. When I left to find you, Silva was holding on, but I guess he spiraled. Nerothys and his priests preyed on his grief, drugged him, manipulated him into their schemes. He had a psychotic break, became their pawn. But I see the boy I knew in him still. He’s trying to atone.”

Caroline’s chest tightened, her gaze fixed on Silva’s slumped form. The weight of his story pressed against her. As she processed Lysanther’s words, Silva turned his head, his pale eyes meeting hers across the distance. The contact was fleeting but piercing, his expression unreadable, a mix of regret and something deeper, something that stirred unease in her gut. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

Chapter Text

Midday cast a harsh sunlight across the sprawling expanse, the alien sun blazing over rolling hills where silvery grasses swayed in the breeze. The group had halted, the horse-like beasts snorting, their scaled hides glinting as the men unpacked rations with swift efficiency. The air carried the savory aroma of roasted meat and coarse, nutty bread. Caroline sat on a flat rock beside Lysanther, her knees drawn up, Uric’s oversized shirt just covering her thighs.

She watched Lysanther tear into a piece of crusty bread, his graceful mouth moving with a sensual grace that made her chest tighten. His full lips, with those long bow peaks, closed around the bread, his jaw working in slow, deliberate bites, each motion stirring an irrational irritation. She clutched her strip of dried meat, her stomach growling, but it was more than hunger—his ease, his control, felt like a taunt. “I can’t sit here next to you,” she muttered, her voice sharp as she pushed to her feet.

Lysanther’s gold-green eyes flicked to her, his brow furrowing. “Caroline, what’s wrong?” he asked, his tone low, bread paused halfway to his mouth.

She ignored him, stalking to the edge of the camp, her bare feet sinking into the cool, alien soil. The horizon stretched endlessly—violet sky, jagged peaks—a beautiful, oppressive void. Her mind churned with relentless memories: her home back on Earth, the abduction, her imprisonment and all the violations that had been imposed on her. Her body didn’t feel right. Each step was a constant reminder of her loss of control. She walked farther, aimless, driven by anger, needing to assert some shred of power.

“Caroline!” Lysanther’s voice cut through the air, sharp with concern. “You’re too far—come back!”

She kept walking, tears pricking her eyes, her jaw tight. “Leave me alone!” she snapped, her voice cracking as she pushed through the grasses, each step a defiance against his commands.

“Caroline, stop!” he called again, urgency edging his tone. “It’s not safe out there!”

Her vision blurred with tears, sobs breaking free as the weight of it all crashed over her. “I don’t care!” she shouted, her voice raw, trembling with rage and despair.

Footsteps crunched behind her, swift and sure. Lysanther’s hand closed around her wrist, firm but gentle. “Caroline, enough,” he said, his voice steady, trying to reason. “You can’t wander off like this.”

She spun, her free hand swinging in a clumsy punch, tears streaming down her face. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, but he dodged effortlessly, his reflexes sharp. Before she could react, he bent down, flinging her over his shoulder, her stomach pressing against his hard frame. She wailed, fists pounding his back, legs kicking wildly. “Put me down!”

A sharp sting bloomed across her buttocks as he delivered a firm spank, the sound cutting through her cries. “Caroline, listen to me,” he said, his voice calm but exasperated. “Your heat’s approaching—it’s clouding your mind, making you irrational. You need to stay with us, where it’s safe.”

“I hate you!” she sobbed, thrashing against his strength. “You kidnapped me! You violated me, turned me into some… science experiment! This stupid planet, this stupid life—I didn’t ask for any of it!”

Another spank landed, the sting sudden. “I know you’re angry,” he said, his purr rumbling low, trying to soothe her. “But running won’t fix it. You’re not thinking clearly.”

She kept wailing, her tears soaking his shirt as he carried her back to the camp, the men’s eyes turning to her in concern. Lysanther set her down on the rock, her sobs shaking her frame, her hands covering her face.

He knelt in front of her, his vivid eyes locking onto hers, his expression deadly serious. “Caroline, look at me,” he said, his voice firm, cutting through her sobs. “Do you want to go back to Earth? To scrubbing floors, to that grungy apartment, drowning yourself in liquor every night to dull the pain?”

Her sobs caught, his words slicing through her rage. The image of her old life—her failed marriage, the medical bills and the exhaustion that seeped deep into her soul—hit her like a blow. “That’s not fair,” she choked out, her voice trembling, tears streaming faster.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear, his voice dropping to a piercing whisper. “Do you want your death wish back, Caroline? The one you were always writing about? It wasn’t a wish. You were dead there—no life, just a slow spiral to nothing.” He kissed her ear, gently. “This is your home. Here, you will create a generation that will conquer the stars. You’re not nothing here—you’re everything."

Her sobs quieted, her chest shuddering as the emotional weight began to lift, his words sinking in like a tide receding. The pain, the violation, the loss—it didn’t vanish, but it softened, replaced by a fragile sense of purpose. She wiped her eyes, her voice small. “I didn’t want this… any of this.”

Lysanther’s expression softened, a teasing smile breaking through. “I know, my stubborn girl,” he said, his purr rumbling lightly. “Now, if something’s wrong, you need to tell me, not run off like a wild thing.” He tilted his head, his tone playful. “Do you understand?”

She nodded weakly, her cheeks burning as she glanced around, realizing every eye was on her—Julesan’s worried gaze, Uric’s stern watchfulness, Silva’s haunting stare and the other men who looked on cautiously. Embarrassment flooded her, her outburst a raw wound laid bare. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

Lysanther stood, brushing dirt from his indigo trousers, his presence commanding. “Pack up, everyone!” he announced, his voice carrying over the camp. “We move now. Caroline’s heat is approaching, and we need to reach Kalthar as fast as possible—no delays.” The men sprang into action, securing gear and readying the beasts, the urgency of her impending cycle driving their haste.

Lysanther stood over Caroline, his eyes steady as he extended a hand to help her up from the rock. The men bustled, packing gear with swift efficiency, the scaled beasts snorting as they were readied. “Caroline, who do you want to ride with?” he asked, his voice calm but firm, his purr a faint hum beneath his words.

She glared up at him, her chest tight with lingering anger and embarrassment, her milk-soaked shirt clinging uncomfortably to her skin. The thought of being pressed against him—or anyone—felt suffocating, a reminder of her lack of control. “I want to ride alone,” she begged, her voice sharp, almost desperate. “Please, Lysanther, just let me.”

His brow furrowed, his expression unyielding. “No, Caroline. You’re acting unpredictably—your heat’s making you reckless. You need someone with you.” His tone brooked no argument, his hand still extended, waiting.

Her irritation flared, a spiteful spark igniting. She crossed her arms, her gaze flicking to the group, landing on Uric’s broad, scarred frame as he secured a saddlebag. “Fine. Uric,” she snapped, her voice dripping with defiance, knowing it would sting Lysanther to hear her choose another.

Lysanther’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Uric it is.” He gestured to the bald fighter, who approached with a gruff nod, his stern face unreadable. Caroline stood, brushing her legs, her cheeks flushing as Uric’s presence loomed closer, his scent of smoked wood, leather, and earthy sweat already enveloping her.

…

The afternoon dragged on, the group moving swiftly across the rolling hills, the alien sun dipping toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the silvery grasses. Uric rode behind Caroline, his broad chest pressed against her back, his thick arms encircling her as he gripped the reins of their beast. His presence was overwhelming, a solid wall of heat and muscle, his breath steady against her neck. Her cheeks burned, her irritation mounting with every sway of the beast, the friction of Uric’s thighs against hers amplifying her discomfort. Her breasts ached and her nerves felt raw, every jolt of the ride grating against her frayed emotions. She clenched her fists, trying to focus on the horizon, but Uric’s closeness—his scent, his warmth—only deepened her agitation.

They rode until twilight, the sky streaking with deep purples and golds, the air cooling as they stopped to make camp beside a river, its gentle rush mingling with the evening breeze. The men dismounted, setting to work with practiced efficiency—building a fire, unpacking bedrolls, and tending to the beasts. Uric helped Caroline dismount, her legs shaky, her mood teetering on the edge of explosion. She felt uncomfortable, annoyed, her skin prickling with every sound, every glance.

Her eyes caught a tall man with piercing blue eyes and long black hair tied back, his lean frame moving gracefully as he pulled a ceramic canister of the potent liquor from a pack. Without thinking, she strode toward him, her bare feet silent on the soft earth. “Give me that,” she said sharply, snatching the canister from his hands. She tilted it back, taking a big swig, the liquid burning her throat before settling into a warm, numbing glow in her chest.

The man smirked, a low laugh escaping him, his bright eyes glinting with amusement. “Easy there, little one,” he teased, his voice smooth and playful. “Don’t drink too much—you’ll be stumbling before the fire’s even lit.” His grin widened, but she ignored him, the liquor dulling the sharp edges of her irritation, if only slightly.

As she lowered the canister, her gaze swept the camp and landed on Silva, slumped against a tree, his silver-blond hair stark against his pale face, his bandaged shoulder a grim reminder of his amputation. His eyes were fixed on her, sharp and unreadable, a piercing stare that sent a fresh wave of irritation coursing through her. Her jaw tightened, her fingers gripping the canister as she fought the urge to snap at him, his presence a gnawing reminder of his betrayal in the cavern.

She turned away, stalking toward the fire where strips of meat sizzled, the smoky aroma mixing with the river’s earthy scent. A glint of metal caught her eye—a knife, left carelessly on a roll of leather by the fire, its blade gleaming in the flickering light. Without hesitation, she grabbed it, the handle cool against her palm. She took another swig of the liquor, the burn fueling her restless energy, her irritation boiling over into something deeper. Her eyes flicked back to Silva, still staring, his gaze unwavering as she approached him, the knife clutched tightly in her hand, her heart pounding with a mix of anger and purpose.

Caroline stalked toward Silva, the knife’s handle slick in her grip as the river’s gentle rush mingled with the crackle of the campfire. Silva’s pale eyes stayed pinned on her, unblinking, sharp as shards of glass, tracking her every step across the twilight-lit camp. Somewhere in the background, Lysanther’s voice rang out, urgent and commanding. “Caroline, stop!” She ignored him, her pulse pounding in her ears, her irritation and liquor-fueled recklessness driving her forward, the blade gleaming in her hand.

She stopped directly in front of Silva, her breath ragged, and pressed the tip of the knife to his neck, just below his jaw, the metal kissing his pale skin. His eyes never wavered, locked on hers, silent and unreadable. She tilted the ceramic canister back, taking one last swig of the burning liquor before dropping it to the ground, the heat searing her throat as it fueled her rage. Lysanther’s footsteps crunched closer, his voice sharp with alarm. “Caroline, put the knife down.”

She didn’t even turn her head, her eyes blazing steadily, the knife steady at Silva’s throat. “Stop right there, Lysanther, or I’ll kill him.” she spoke, her voice raw, trembling with a mix of fury and tears.

Lysanther froze, eyes wide, his hands raised in a calming gesture. “Alright, Caroline,” he said, his tone low and steady, though tension laced every word. “I won’t come closer.”

She turned back to Silva, her chest heaving, the knife pressing a fraction harder, a small point of red blooming where the blade tip met his skin. His gaze remained fixed, unnervingly calm, as she spoke, her voice low and venomous, each word dripping with pain. “I should kill you for what you did to me,” she said, her tears spilling over. “I should scalp you for cutting off my hair, for taking away something that was mine. I should cut you for stealing my locket, the one thing I had left from my old life. I should gut you for abusing me… for raping me.”

He just stared, his silver-blond hair catching the firelight, his expression unchanging, a wall of silence that infuriated her further. Her emotions shattered, and she screamed, the knife trembling in her grip. “Why did you do it?” Her voice broke, raw and desperate, tears streaming down her cheeks as the weight of the past few days crashed over her.

Silva’s eyes flickered, a shadow of something crossing his face. Slowly, he began to rise, the knife still pressed to his neck, the blade scraping lightly as he moved. Caroline’s breath hitched, her hand shaking, but she held her ground, her tears blurring her vision. He stood fully, towering over her, his lean frame looming. His gaze never left hers, intense and unyielding, as the camp fell silent around them.

Silva’s pale eyes bore into Caroline’s and his voice broke the silence, calm, laced with an authoritative weight that sent a chill through her. “I was drugged,” he said, his tone steady, resonant, each word deliberate.

An unacceptable excuse, Caroline raged internally, ready to press the blade into his throat as a moment passed. 

“You drugged me, woman,” Silva confessed, “The moment I saw you, you ruined me, shattered me, pushed me over the edge.” His eyes narrowed and a trace of anger laced his voice. “Your smell, your face, your eyes—they consumed me. My mind broke under it. You enslaved me.”

Caroline held her breath, shock rooting her to the spot. Her mouth opened, but no words came, her mind reeling as his confession hung between them, raw and overwhelming. The knife shook in her grip, her tears blurring her vision, his words twisting her anger into confusion, a storm of emotions she couldn’t untangle.

Silva’s gaze never wavered, his expression a mix of anger and stoic resolve. Slowly, deliberately, his hand closed over hers, his fingers firm, enveloping the hand clutching the knife. He guided it downward, away from his throat, to his chest, where his unbuttoned shirt parted to reveal his pale chest. His grasp tightened, steady and unyielding, as he pressed the blade against his chest, just over his heart. With a slow motion, he forced her hand to move, the knife slicing a long slash across his skin. Blood welled, dark and glistening, dripping down his chest in a crimson line, catching the firelight.

Caroline gasped, her hand trembling under his, but she couldn’t pull away, his strength anchoring her. The camp remained silent, Lysanther and the others watching, frozen, as the moment stretched taut. Silva’s voice came again, softer now but with no less authority. “You own me, woman,” he said, his eyes burning into hers. “So do what you will. And before your heat chooses me—and it will someday—you’ll have to decide. Kill me, or take me.”

She stood speechless, the knife still pressed to his chest, his blood dripping down the blade onto her fingers, his words echoing in her mind.

Silva’s grip loosened, his fingers slowly peeling away from Caroline’s trembling hand, the knife still clutched tightly in her grasp. Her breath came in rapid, shallow bursts, her eyes transfixed on the blood dripping down his chest, the shallow slash over his heart glistening crimson in the firelight, stark against his pale, scarred skin. His words—you own me—echoed in her mind, a haunting, disorienting refrain that left her frozen, her heart hammering as shock, anger, and confusion churned within her. The camp was deathly still, the river’s gentle rush and the fire’s soft crackle the only sounds piercing the twilight air. Silva’s pale eyes, sharp and unyielding, held hers, a silent challenge that made her stomach twist.

She didn’t hear Lysanther approach, his footsteps silent on the soft soil, but his warmth enveloped her from behind. His hand closed gently over hers, his fingers warm and firm as he carefully pried the knife from her grip, the blade slipping away with a faint metallic glint. “Come on, Caroline,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, laced with a quiet authority. “Come with me, my sweet girl.” His tone was gentle but insistent, a lifeline pulling her from the edge of her recklessness.

She turned her head slightly, her tear-streaked face catching his gold-green eyes, which shimmered with concern and resolve in the dim light. Silent tears spilled down her cheeks, her chest tight as she let him guide her, his hand enveloping hers, warm and grounding. He led her across the camp, past the men’s watchful gazes. Julesan’s brow was furrowed. Uric glanced in stern silence. Her bare feet stumbled slightly on the uneven ground, the damp fabric of her shirt clinging uncomfortably to her skin. Her sobs were quiet but relentless, a soft hiccupping rhythm as Lysanther steered her toward the riverbank, the camp’s firelight fading behind them.

The twilight sky cast a soft, violet-gold glow over the river, its surface shimmering as it wound through the landscape, the gentle rush of water a soothing melody. Lysanther stopped at the bank, turning to face her, his broad frame silhouetted against the fading light. “You’re carrying too much, Caroline,” he said, his voice rich and resonant, his purr starting low, a deep vibration that seemed to hum through the air and into her bones. “Let me take it from you, just for a little while.” His hands moved to the hem of her shirt, his fingers deft but gentle as he lifted it over her head, the damp fabric peeling away to reveal her overfilled, leaking breasts. She shivered, vulnerable under his gaze, but his eyes held only tenderness.

He stripped off his own tunic and trousers, the fabric falling to the ground, revealing his muscular frame, the alien markings beneath his skin pulsing faintly in blues and silvers, catching the twilight glow. “You’re beautiful, Caroline,” he said, his voice soft but fervent, his purr deepening as he stepped closer. He bent down, his arms sliding under her, lifting her effortlessly, cradling her against his chest like something precious. Her body pressed against his warmth, his earthy scent—rich soil, cinnamon, and musky vitality—enveloping her, grounding her as her tears continued to fall.

He waded into the river, the cool water lapping around his thighs, then hers, as he waded farther, still holding her securely against him. “I’ve got you, my darling girl,” he murmured, his voice a steady cadence, his purr a constant hum that vibrated through her, soothing the jagged edges of her emotions. He brought her deeper until the cool water covered her chest, soothing the ache. He cupped water in his hands, letting it cascade over her shoulders, the coolness washing away the tension and the faint smear of Silva’s blood on her fingers. “My strong girl. My sweet girl. You’re so beautiful, so perfect,” he said, his hands moving with reverent care, rinsing her arms, her collarbone, and her neck. “I love you, Caroline. Since the moment I found you, in that broken place.”

Her tears fell harder, a mix of relief and overwhelm, his words piercing the armor of her pain. His hands moved to her chest, careful to touch her tender breasts gently, the water swirling away the milk that had soaked into her skin. “On our voyage, in the ship,” he continued, his voice low and intimate, “I held you every night, your body curled against mine as you slept. I whispered to you, told you stories of our world, of the stars, of the life we’d build. I wanted you to know my voice, to love it, to feel safe with me, even before you woke.” His fingers traced her skin, gentle but deliberate, washing away the grime, the weight of what had just taken place in the camp.

He paused, his eyes locking onto hers, fierce with devotion. “I don’t want you to speak, my sweet girl,” he said, his tone firm but warm, his purr wrapping around her like a blanket. “You don’t need to say anything. You don’t need to carry this. I’ll take care of you—every fear, every pain, every need. You have nothing to worry about, not while I’m here.” His words were a vow, steadying her racing heart, the water’s cool embrace and his warmth anchoring her to the moment.

He continued washing her, his hands gliding over her legs, her calves, his touch meticulous yet tender, ensuring every trace of the day’s chaos was rinsed away. “You’re stronger than you know,” he murmured, his voice a soft rumble, his purr unwavering. “You’ve faced so much and you’re still here, still fighting. I’m so proud of you, Caroline.” His words sank into her, easing the knot in her chest, her tears slowing as the river carried away her anguish.

When he finished, he cradled her against his chest, water dripping from their bodies in silvery trails as he waded back to the shore. The twilight had deepened, the camp’s fire a distant glow. He carried her to his bedroll, the furs soft and warm beneath her as he set her down gently, his scent clinging to the fabric, a familiar comfort. Her body felt heavy, cleansed but exhausted, her tears drying as she curled into the furs, Lysanther’s protective presence a silent shield as the camp’s sounds faded into the night.

The night air was cool against Caroline’s damp skin as she lay on Lysanther’s bedroll, the furs soft beneath her, his earthy scent—rich soil, cinnamon, and musky vitality—clinging to the fabric, grounding her. The camp’s firelight flickered, casting long shadows as the men’s low murmurs mingled with the river’s gentle rush. Lysanther knelt beside her, his gold-green eyes glinting in the twilight, his bare chest shimmering with his faint, pulsing markings. His purr rumbled softly, a soothing vibration that eased the tension in her chest. He reached out, brushing a stray tear from her cheek, his touch tender but firm. “I’m going to let you talk now, darling,” he said, his voice low and warm. “I need to know who you want to come help you through the night.”

“W…what?” she stuttered, glancing around the camp at the group looking on. 

“Don’t be shy, Caroline,” he purred, smirking at her coyness, “you need to be cared for. Tell me who you want.”

Chapter Text

“Tell me who you want.”

She swallowed, her throat tight, as she realized what he was referring to. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she met his gaze. Her voice was barely a whisper, sheepish and hesitant. “You.”

Lysanther’s lips curved into a faint smile, but his eyes held a knowing glint. “Who else, my shy girl?” he asked, his tone coaxing, patient but insistent.

She blinked, surprised, her flush deepening. “What?” she stammered, her heart racing at the implication.

He leaned closer, his purr deepening, his voice a playful murmur. “Who else, Caroline? Tell me.”

Her cheeks burned, her eyes darting away as she bit her lip, embarrassment knotting her stomach. “Julesan,” she said finally, her voice soft, almost inaudible. She paused, her breath catching, then added, “And… Uric.” Her gaze flickered to the ground, her face aflame.

Lysanther’s smirk widened, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he tilted his head, waiting. “Anyone else?” he teased, his tone light but expectant.

She hesitated, her fingers twisting in the furs, then mumbled, “The one I stole the liquor from….” Her voice was barely a breath, her embarrassment overwhelming as she named the tall man with the long black hair.

Lysanther chuckled, a low, warm sound, and stood, his naked form rising to towering over her. “Julesan, Uric, Woan!” he called, his voice carrying across the camp with authority. “Come here.” The men’s footsteps came closer, their silhouettes emerging from the firelight—Julesan’s reddish-brown hair catching the glow, Uric’s stern face breaking with a smirk, Woan’s vivid blue eyes glinting with curiosity.

Caroline’s stomach twisted, her embarrassment surging as she realized what she’d done. She yanked the blanket over her face, curling into the furs, her heart pounding as she tried to hide from their gazes. The men’s voices filtered through the fabric, low and serious, as they gathered around her.

“She’s on edge,” Lysanther said, his tone matter-of-fact but laced with urgency. “Her heat’s approaching fast—too fast. We need to take the edge off, calm her down, buy us time to reach Kalthar. You three, you’ll help me. Agreed?”

Julesan’s voice came first, steady and resolute. “Agreed.”

Uric’s gruff tone followed. “Yeah, I’m in.”

Woan’s smooth voice carried a hint of amusement. “If she wants me, I’m here.”

Caroline’s cheeks burned beneath the blanket, her breath hitching as their agreement sank in. She felt Lysanther’s hands on the blanket, tugging gently. “Come on out, Caroline,” he teased, his voice playful. “No hiding now.” She gripped the fabric tighter, her embarrassment a knot in her chest, but he laughed softly, giving a firm yank that ripped the blanket away, leaving her exposed.

She lay naked on the bedroll, her body bare under the twilight sky, her engorged breasts leaking faint streams of milk that glistened on her skin. Four men surrounded her—Lysanther at her feet, Julesan and Uric on either side, Woan standing slightly back, his eyes fixed on her. Her stomach churned, a mix of shame and nervous anticipation, her breath quickening as their presence overwhelmed her.

Lysanther bent down, his hands caressing her ankles, his touch warm and deliberate as he climbed up over her, his naked body gliding against hers, his erection brushing her thigh, sending a shiver through her. He leaned close, his breath warm against her ear, his purr rumbling deeply. “Don’t be afraid, my sweet girl,” he whispered, his voice velvet. “We’re here to take care of you, to make you feel good.” His lips found her neck, sucking gently, then biting with a tender pressure that made her gasp, her body softening beneath him.

He continued, his mouth trailing along her collarbone, sucking and nipping, each touch igniting her sensitive skin, melting the knot of embarrassment in her stomach. His purr vibrated through her, blending with the warmth of his lips, and she felt herself relax, her body yielding to the sensation, her tension easing as he worked. “My stubborn girl,” he murmured against her skin, his bites gentle but possessive, leaving faint, rosy marks that tingled with warmth. “Let us help you, Caroline. Let us make this easier.” Her muscles softened, her breath steadying as she melted under his touch, the world narrowing to the rhythm of his purr and the heat of his mouth.

Lysanther’s lips paused against Caroline’s neck, the warmth of his breath lingering as he lifted his head, his lovely eyes glinting with a mix of tenderness and command. His purr rumbled steadily, a soothing vibration that kept her grounded as he called out, his voice firm but warm. “Woan, Uric, come closer. Relieve her breasts—she’s in pain. Draw deeply. And she likes little bites, broad licks. Be gentle, but make her feel it.”

Woan and Uric moved forward, their silhouettes looming in the firelight as they knelt on either side of her, their presence overwhelming yet strangely comforting. Caroline’s heart raced, her naked body exposed on the bedroll, milk trickling from her engorged breasts, her skin prickling under their gazes. Uric, his scarred face softened by the glow, smirked, his gruff voice teasing. “Look at you, all worked up already. Let’s see if I can help you.” He leaned down, his lips closing around one nipple, the warmth of his mouth enveloping her. The sensation was immediate and intense—a sharp, initial sting as he sucked gently, drawing the milk forth in a steady stream. The pressure in her breast eased, replaced by a tingling warmth that radiated through her chest, a delicious blend of relief and pleasure. His tongue flicked lightly, then flattened into a broad lick, the rough texture sending a shiver down her spine, her nerves sparking with heightened sensitivity from her altered body. When he grazed her nipple with a tender bite, the jolt was electric, a pulse of pleasure-pain that made her gasp, her back arching slightly into his touch.

“Yes, just like that, Uric,” Lysanther muttered. “See how she arches. That’s what she needs.”

On her other side, Woan’s blue eyes gleamed with curiosity, his long black hair falling forward as he leaned in. His fingers closed around her breast, squeezing gently, the pressure coaxing a stream of milk. “So full,” he remarked, his voice smooth and teasing, as he pinched her nipple lightly, a spray of milk escaping. The sensation was different—sharper, more focused, a pinch that sent a hot spark straight to her core, her thighs pressing together instinctively as a flush of wetness bloomed between them. Then Woan leaned in, his lips sealing around the nipple, his suckling firmer than Uric’s, a steady, rhythmic pull that felt like a dam breaking inside her. The milk flowed freely, the relief profound, but the erotic edge was undeniable—his tongue swirled, broad and deliberate, lapping at the sensitive skin, each movement amplifying the tingling heat that spread through her chest and down her spine. His occasional nibble, gentle but deliberate, sent shudders through her, her body trembling as the dual sensations overwhelmed her senses.

Caroline’s breath hitched, her body writhing slightly under their ministrations. Lysanther’s voice cut through the haze, authoritative yet warm. “Julesan, come here. Pay attention.” Her eyes fluttered open, her cheeks burning as she saw Lysanther and Julesan kneeling at her feet, their gazes fixed on her. Lysanther’s hands moved to her legs, his touch firm but careful as he adjusted her, spreading her thighs wide open, the cool night air brushing against her exposed skin. He propped her hips up with the bundled blanket, angling her body to give them a clearer view. Her embarrassment surged, her face aflame as she realized the apex of her legs was fully exposed, her full anatomy on display. She glanced past them, her heart lurching as she noticed the other men at the periphery, their silhouettes hovering, eyes glinting with curiosity in the firelight.

Lysanther’s voice took on a clinical tone, calm and precise, as he gestured to her vulva. “Look closely, Julesan,” he said, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin with deliberate care. “She is very sensitive here,” his fingers ran through her folds, spreading her wetness deliciously. “Her entrance is here,” he said, dipping a finger shallowly inside her, “and look, this bud of flesh.” Lysanther gently prodded, exposing her enlarged clitoris from its hood with two pinched fingers. Caroline’s breathing stopped, the sensation exquisitely electric. “This is the most sensitive part, the clitoris. She likes it gently sucked and licked. Keep up a steady rhythm with a wet finger or tongue for about three minutes and she’ll climax.” He demonstrated, rubbing the engorged nub in a circular motion, bringing out a moan and new heat to her core. “See how she’s responding? The arching and vocalizations? That’s what you’re looking for.”

Then abruptly, he stopped. Caroline whimpered in frustration and pried open her eyes. Julesan’s gaze met hers, his eyes dark with palpable hunger. Just behind him, the other men had inched closer, looking in on the anatomy lesson. Caroline’s cheeks burned hotter, her embarrassment a knot in her stomach as she lay exposed, Uric and Woan still suckling at her breasts, the sensations mingling with the weight of Lysanther’s explanation and the onlookers’ gazes. Her body trembled, caught between shame, relief, and the inescapable arousal sparked by their touches and the intensity of the moment.

He nodded to Julesan, who knelt closer, his reddish-brown hair falling into his eyes, his expression a mix of concern and desire. “Julesan, start slow,” Lysanther instructed, his voice calm but commanding. “Touch her, feel her readiness.” Julesan hesitated, his hand hovering before gently tracing the curve of her inner thigh, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed her sensitive folds. The contact was electric, a spark that made her gasp, her hips twitching involuntarily as a rush of wetness bloomed. Julesan’s touch grew bolder, his fingers gliding along her clitoris, circling lightly, the sensation overwhelming, a tingling heat that spread through her core.

Uric lifted his head from her breast, his scarred face flushed, a teasing grin curling his lips. “She’s soaked already. I can smell it,” he said, his gruff voice laced with amusement, before resuming, his tongue lapping broadly, his teeth grazing her nipple with a gentle bite that sent a shudder through her. Woan, on her other side, squeezed her breast as he sucked harder, his dark eyes glinting. “So responsive,” he murmured against her skin, his voice smooth, a pinch of his fingers sending a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain that made her moan softly.

“Keep going, Julesan,” Lysanther motioned, “lick her.” A flood of wetness dripped in anticipation, as Julesan moved into position. Caroline’s eyes locked with Lysanther’s just as Julesan’s broad tongue traced slow and firm from her soaked entrance to the peak of her pubic bone.

Fuck. Her eyes rolled back as a lurid moan escaped her lips. Lysanther laughed, “She liked that.” So he did it again, slowly. And again, torturously, until she was bucking her hips in search of relief. “Please,” she begged.

Lysanther laughed, “Julesan, give her what she wants.” Julesan’s lips locked onto her swollen clitoris, suctioning gently. “Ah!” she screamed and his tongue went to work, swirling. Not a moment later, she came, moaning loudly, hands fisting Woan’s hair and clawing at Uric’s broad shoulders. 

Before she could catch her breath, Julesan’s fingers continued their exploration, slipping inside her with a gentle thrust, her inner walls clenching around him, the stretch exquisite and overwhelming. “She feels amazing” he said, his voice husky, his eyes meeting Lysanther’s for guidance. Lysanther nodded, his hand guiding Julesan’s, encouraging a slow, rhythmic motion. “Like this,” he said, his tone instructive. “Now curve your fingers slightly. Right at that spot” Caroline’s breath hitched, her hips rocking instinctively, the pleasure building with each careful thrust.

The friction was maddening, a slow, deliberate slide that made her moan louder, her body arching toward him. “That’s it, my darling,” Lysanther murmured, his voice a low growl. “Let it build.” He glanced at Uric and Woan. “Keep going—don’t stop.” Their mouths returned to her breasts, Uric’s broad licks and bites contrasting with Woan’s firmer suction, the dual sensations pushing her closer to the edge, her body trembling with need. “Faster now, Julesan,” he urged, “This one is going to be different, just don’t stop, no matter what.”

Caroline’s body tensed, the pleasure coiling tighter, a crescendo she couldn’t hold back. Lysanther sensed it, his purr deepening as he whispered, “Let go, Caroline.” Julesan’s fingers thrust faster, and Uric and Woan’s mouths intensified, their bites and licks relentless. Her orgasm crashed over her, a shuddering staccato of pleasure and pain that arched her back, her inner walls clenching around Julesan’s fingers, a cry escaping her lips as pleasure radiated through her, her body trembling in their hold. On and on, with each thrust of his fingers, the plateau dragged on. Eyes shut tight, her world collapsed into just the pleasure in her core and sound of her own voice ringing out in the camp.

“Ok, Julesan,” Lysanther spoke, after the plateau became more pain than pleasure, “Slow down. Be gentle now.” Caroline, finally able to pry her eyes open, glanced at Lysanther and Julesan who were both smirking at her. “Is she ok?” Julesan asked, “That was intense. Are you sure I did it right?”

“I don’t know,” Lysanther teased, “let’s ask Caroline.” 

Caroline couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a single word in neither her mind nor mouth, so she just smiled. “You wore her out,” Lysanther teased, sitting up on his knees. Caroline’s eyes went straight to his shaft which pointed straight up, and looked painfully hard, weeping its own slick lubricant onto the ground. She wanted it, and the word formed in her mind.

“Knot,” she begged, breathlessly.

Lysanther grinned wide. “Oh darling, I want to give you what you want,” he mused, “I want it too. But we can’t do that with your heat so near. You’d be in pain if we had to travel while you were carrying my seed.”

Her eyes began to well with tears. How could he be so cruel to deny her?

Uric and Woan stopped their ministrations, lifting their heads to see what was wrong. “What can we do, Lysanther?” Woan asked, “I hate to see her upset.”

Lysanther looked to Caroline, eyes burning, “Do you want my seed in your belly, sweet girl?” Oh, yes. She did want that. Caroline nodded enthusiastically. “Do you want their seed on your skin?” Oh, yes.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Julesan, lie down,” Lysanther ordered. Julesan obeyed, quickly moving his body to the ground. “Caroline, get up.” Caroline tried, but her muscles were weak. “Uric, Woan, help her.” Instantly, the men were at her side, lifting her up onto shaky legs. Lysanther looked her up and down. “Are you going to do what I say?”

“Yes,” she promised. Anything.

“Good. Kneel down over Julesan’s mouth.” Caroline moved, and with Uric and Woan’s help, lowered herself over Julesan who immediately latched onto her sensitive clitoris.

 “Oh!” she cried.

Lysanther approached, his gracefully curved and dripping shaft right in front of her face. It looked delicious and smelled intoxicating. She leaned forward, her lips brushing the tip of his erection, tentative at first, the musky scent of him filling her senses. Lysanther groaned softly, his purr deepening, encouraging her. “Yes, like that,” he murmured, his hand resting lightly on her head, pushing her head forward. She took him into her mouth, her tongue swirling slowly, exploring the flared tip, the taste of him so alien and addicting. It was overwhelming, her lips stretching around his thickness as she moved, guided by his soft groans and the firm grip of his hands in her hair. Each motion sent a thrill through her, her arousal building as she felt his pleasure, her body responding to the rhythm of Julesan’s tongue on her clitoris. 

Lysanther’s hand tightened slightly in her hair, his voice a low growl. “Good girl, Caroline. Deeper, darling.” Her movements grew bolder, her tongue lapping broadly, then focusing on the sensitive underside, his hips twitching as he fought to maintain control. She raised her hands to grasp around his swelling knot. She sucked harder, her lips sliding along his length, the heat and weight of him filling her mouth. Julesan’s tongue moved faster, and the pleasure began to spike. Her movements faltered, as her climax neared.

Lysanther’s groans grew ragged, his purr a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through her, pushing her own arousal higher. “Yes,” he gasped. His hands, fisted in her hair, guided her rhythm, his erection pulsing against her tongue. Suddenly, his control faltered, his hips jerking slightly as he groaned her name, “Caroline.” His knot throbbed violently against her fists as his release flooded her mouth. Hot, earthy, spiced like cinnamon, just like his scent, the taste overwhelming but not unpleasant, a primal connection that made her heart race. She swallowed instinctively, her body trembling with the intensity, as her own climax began.

The pleasure overtook her and in the haze of her peak, she just barely recognized the feeling of Uric and Woan’s jets of semen landing on her back and shoulders, painting her body in even more erotic smells.

Lysanther pulled back gently, his eyes dark with satisfaction, his purr a triumphant rumble. “Good girl, Caroline.”

Chapter Text

The early morning air was cool, the sky just beginning to lighten with streaks of pale violet and gold, casting a soft glow over the camp by the river. Caroline stirred, her body nestled between Lysanther and Julesan on the bedroll, the furs warm beneath her. Uric and Woan lay nearby, their breathing steady in sleep. She and Lysanther were naked, their skin glistening faintly in the dawn light, their combined scents—a heady mix of Lysanther’s earthy cinnamon musk, Julesan’s smoked leather and herbs, Uric’s smoked wood and sweat, and Woan’s sharp, citrus tang—overwhelming her senses. Her body felt hot, her skin flushed, a pulsing need thrumming through her core, her frayed nerves amplifying every sensation. She had never felt this way before, the intensity of her arousal almost painful, a desperate ache that made her thighs clench and her breath quicken.

She sat up, her heart racing, her eyes drawn to Lysanther beside her, his muscular chest rising and falling, some of his brown hair loosen from his messy top knot, his alien markings pulsing faintly beneath his skin. The sight of him ignited a primal urge, an overwhelming need to touch him, kiss him, taste him. Her teeth ached with the urge to bite him. She leaned over, her lips brushing his shoulder, then pressing harder, kissing the warm skin with a hungry edge. Her teeth grazed him, a gentle bite that made her pulse spike, her arousal surging as she nipped again, harder, along his collarbone.

Lysanther stirred, his gold-green eyes fluttering open, a sleepy smile curving his long bow lips as he caught her gaze. “Good morning, darling,” he murmured, his voice soft and teasing, his purr starting low, a soothing vibration that only fueled her need. “So eager this morning, aren’t you? Kissing me awake like a little kitten.” His hand reached up, brushing her cheek, his touch sending a shiver through her.

Caroline’s desire overwhelmed her restraint, her hands pushing against his chest, urging him onto his back. She tugged the blanket away, revealing his beautiful shaft, hard and prominent, the flared tip glistening in the dawn light. Her breath caught, a desperate want consuming her, her body aching to feel him inside her. She climbed over him, straddling his hips, her hands fumbling as she tried to guide him to her entrance, her wet folds brushing against him, the contact sending a jolt of pleasure through her.

Lysanther’s hands shot to her hips, gripping firmly to still her. “No, Caroline,” he said, his voice sharp with concern, though still laced with a teasing edge. “It’s not safe. You’re likely going into heat right now—your body’s fertile. We can’t risk it out here.” His purr deepened, trying to soothe her, but his words only frustrated her further.

She fought against his hold, her hips rocking, trying to press him inside despite his resistance. “Please,” she gasped, her voice desperate, her nails digging into his chest. “I need you, Lysanther.” Her body trembled, her arousal a relentless tide, every touch electric.

Lysanther’s eyes darkened, his grip tightening as he pushed her off him, rolling her onto her back with a swift, controlled motion. She landed on the furs, her breath knocked out, her body still thrumming with need. He loomed over her, his smirk playful but firm, his purr a steady hum. “Oh, my stubborn girl,” he teased, his voice low and warm. “You think you can just take what you want? Not yet, not like this. We’ll take care of you, give you your medicine, but not that way.” His hand trailed down her side, a teasing caress that made her squirm, her frustration mingling with desire.

A rustle of movement broke the moment as Julesan, Uric, and Woan stirred, their eyes blinking open, confusion etched on their faces. Julesan sat up, his reddish-brown hair tousled, his gaze darting between Caroline’s flushed, writhing form and Lysanther’s restraining hold. “What’s happening?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep, his brow furrowing.

Uric propped himself on an elbow, his scarred face puzzled, his eyes narrowing as he took in Caroline’s desperate expression. “She’s out of control again,” he muttered, his tone amused.

Woan, his long black hair loose around his shoulders, sat up, his dark eyes glinting. “Is it her heat?” he asked, his voice smooth but wary, his gaze flicking to Lysanther for answers.

Caroline’s frustration boiled over, her body trembling with a mix of anger and desperate arousal, the heat coursing through her like a wildfire. She thrashed beneath Lysanther, her nails clawing at his chest, her hips bucking against his restraining hands. “Let me go!” she shouted, her voice raw, her face flushed as she fought his grip, her prickling nerves amplifying every sensation, making her need unbearable. Lysanther’s hands tightened on her wrists, pinning them to the furs with a strength she couldn’t overcome, his eyes narrowing as he loomed over her, his purr deepening.

“Caroline, calm down,” he said, his voice firm but strained, his muscles tensing as he held her still. Her anger surged, irrational and consuming, and she let out a high-pitched whine, a piercing, desperate sound that tore through the morning air, raw and instinctive, born from her frustration and the overwhelming heat pulsing through her.

Lysanther’s eyes dilated instantly, his pupils blowing wide, a feral intensity overtaking his gaze. “Stop,” he said, his voice deadly serious, a warning edge cutting through his usual warmth. “Don’t do that, Caroline.” The other men tensed immediately, their bodies going rigid, their faces contorting with discomfort. Julesan’s hand gripped the furs, his breath hitching, while Uric shifted, his face flushed, and Woan’s dark eyes widened, his jaw clenching.

Woan’s voice broke the tense silence, rough with confusion. “What the hell was that? What did she just do?” His hand adjusted his trousers, his erection evident, straining uncomfortably against the fabric.

Lysanther’s gaze didn’t leave Caroline, his hands still pinning her wrists, his body taut with restraint. “Her whine…” he explained, his voice tight, “designed to force our hand, a powerful biological signal tied to her heat. It hits the man she’s chosen hardest—drives us to act, to claim her. It’s instinct, meant to ensure mating.” His eyes bored into hers, a mix of warning and desire. “Don’t do it again, Caroline. I mean it.”

But her anger and frustration overwhelmed her, the heat a relentless tide that drowned her reason. She glared at him, her chest heaving, and let out another high-pitched whine, sharper and more desperate than before, the sound slicing through the camp like a blade. Lysanther’s body shuddered, his eyes fully dilating, the gold-green swallowed by black as his control frayed. “Caroline, stop!” he yelled, his voice raw, his hands tightening on her wrists until they bruised. “You’ll make me lose control, and you’ll regret it!”

She didn’t care, her fury and need too consuming. She whined again, the sound piercing, instinctive, her body arching toward him, begging for release. Lysanther’s resolve snapped, a low growl tearing from his throat as he climbed on top of her, his knees roughly spreading her legs wide, the motion forceful and unyielding. Before the others could react, their voices rising in a chorus of protest—“Lysanther, wait!”—he thrust into her, his shaft filling her in one swift, deep motion, knot and all.

The sensation was overwhelming, a searing stretch that bordered on pain but melted into intense pleasure, her body responding with a flood of heat. Her inner walls clenched around him, the fullness exquisite, every nerve alight with electric intensity. The thrust was rough, primal, his knot fully swollen already and pulsing with a pressure that amplified the sensation, making her gasp, her body arching instinctively to meet him. The pleasure was sharp, almost too much, mingling with the lingering sting of his force, her heat-driven need drowning out her anger. 

Her body arched instinctively, her breath ragged, the raw connection drowning her anger in a tide of primal need. But before he could continue, Woan, Julesan, and Uric surged forward, their faces etched with alarm. “Lysanther, stop!” Julesan shouted, his voice sharp as he grabbed Lysanther’s shoulders, while Uric and Woan seized his arms, their combined strength prying him off her with a forceful tug.

Caroline’s body shuddered at the sudden absence, her frustration and anger erupting like a storm. “No!” she cried, her voice raw, her thighs trembling with unfulfilled need, her heat-driven arousal making her skin feel too tight, her core aching. Lysanther was feral, his eyes black, a low growl tearing from his throat as he thrashed against the men’s hold, his muscles straining, his erection glistening with her slickness. “Let me go!” he roared, his voice a primal snarl, his body lunging toward her.

Other men from the camp—drawn by the commotion—came running, their boots crunching on the earth, their faces tense as they joined the struggle. Two more grabbed Lysanther’s arms, a third wrapping an arm around his chest, their combined effort barely restraining him. Caroline’s anger surged, her heat clouding her reason, and she let out another high-pitched whine, the sound piercing the morning air, instinctive and desperate, her body begging for release.

Lysanther’s reaction was immediate, his body shuddering violently, his eyes wild with need. “Caroline!” he bellowed, his voice breaking as he broke free, his strength overwhelming the men holding him. He rushed to her, his hands gripping her hips as he thrust back into her, the motion rough and deep, filling her completely. Pleasure crashed through her, intense and overwhelming, her clitoris throbbing as his pelvis ground against it, each hurried, frantic thrust sending sparks through her core. Her body responded, arching into him, the heat consuming her, making her forget her anger, her shame, everything but the primal connection binding them.

Caroline’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, her legs hooking around his waist, pulling him closer as she clung to him, her body trembling with need. “Lysanther,” she gasped, her voice a mix of desperation and ecstasy. His reaction was visceral, his purr a deep, feral growl, his face contorted with a mix of desire and strain, his hands gripping her hips bruisingly tight. “You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice raw.

The men surged forward again, their voices a chaotic mix of shouts. “Get him off!” Uric bellowed, his face flushed as he grabbed Lysanther’s arm. Julesan and Woan joined, their hands pulling at him, while the other men grappled to restrain him. After a fierce struggle, their combined strength pried Lysanther away, his knot slipping free with a wet pop and sudden stretch that made Caroline whimper, her body trembling with frustration, her heat screaming for release. Julesan and Woan held her back, their arms firm around her shoulders and waist, while Uric and the others dragged Lysanther a few paces away, his body thrashing, his growl a desperate roar.

Caroline’s anger flared, her body aching, her heat making her irrational. She whined again, her eyes locked on Lysanther. His reaction was immediate—his body convulsed, his face pained, his erection pulsing dramatically as he ejaculated, thick spurts landing on his abdomen and the ground. He moaned a tortured sound as his seed shot high into the open air, wasted. The sight made her angrier, her frustration boiling over, her body trembling with unfulfilled need.

Another feral whine escaped her. The other men were visibly affected, their faces flushed, their trousers bulging with uncomfortable erections, their breaths ragged as her whine hit them like a wave. Woan’s dark eyes widened, his jaw clenching, while Julesan’s grip on her tightened, his breath hitching. Uric’s scarred face contorted, his voice a growl. “She’s doing it again!” A man at the periphery screamed, his voice frantic. “Someone gag her! Now!”

Julesan yanked off his tunic, the fabric still warm with his scent of smoked leather and forest herbs, and stuffed it into her mouth, the coarse material muffling her cries. Her jaw ached as he wrapped it tightly around her head, tying it with a rough knot, the taste of him overwhelming her senses. Her heat-driven arousal pulsed relentlessly, her core throbbing, her nerves screaming for release, but the gag silenced her whines, trapping her desperation inside. Her hands clawed at the air, her body straining against Julesan and Woan’s firm grips, her muffled sobs shaking her frame. The absence of Lysanther’s touch, the unfulfilled connection, was a torment that made her skin feel too tight, her anger and need a tangled storm she couldn’t escape.

Julesan’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “Bind her! Bind Lysanther! Pack up the camp—now! We need to get to Kalthar as fast as possible!” His eyes scanned the group, landing on a shorter man with cropped brown hair, his face tense but resolute. “You, ride ahead! Warn the leaders in Kalthar we’re coming—tell them to prepare a place for Caroline to nest!” The man nodded, his movements swift as he ran to his beast, adjusting the harness with practiced efficiency, the scaled creature snorting as he mounted and rode off into the dawn.

The camp erupted into action, men scrambling to roll up bedrolls, douse the fire, and secure packs to the beasts. Uric and Julesan worked quickly, their hands steady despite the tension. Julesan grabbed a spare tunic—Woan’s, dark and slightly worn—and pulled it over Caroline’s head, the fabric rough against her sensitive skin. Uric bound her hands together in front of her with a length of rope, the knots firm, his scarred face set with determination. “Stay still,” he muttered, his gruff voice low, his eyes avoiding hers as he worked.

Across the camp, other men wrestled Lysanther into a tunic and trousers, his body still thrashing, his eyes wild with feral need. “Caroline,” he growled, his voice thick with desire, dirty and raw as he strained against the men binding his hands. “I can still smell you, your heat, your need. I'm going to bury myself in you, make you scream my name, knot you until you’re mine.” His words sent a fresh wave of frustration through her, her body trembling, her core clenching at the promise, the gag muffling her desperate whimper. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her eyes locked on him, his distraught expression mirroring her own torment, his erection still evident despite the restraints.

She stared at him, her heart aching with a desperate need to be united, to feel his heat inside her, to ease the unbearable pressure of her heat. Her muffled sobs grew louder, her bound hands twitching, her body straining toward him despite the men holding her back. Lysanther’s gaze burned into hers, his purr a tortured rumble, his words a low, filthy murmur. “You’re mine, Caroline. I’m going to fill you, mark you, make you whole.”

The men finished packing, the camp stripped bare in record time, the beasts snorting as they were readied. Woan approached Caroline, his long black hair tied back, his dark eyes wary but resolute. He lifted her onto his beast, her legs straddling the scaled hide, her bound hands resting awkwardly in front of her. The contact with Woan’s body—his clean, sharp scent, his firm grip—only heightened her frustration, her heat screaming for Lysanther. Across the camp, Uric and two others forced Lysanther onto Uric’s beast, his struggles fierce but futile. They tied his feet with thick rope, wrapping it around the beast’s front to prevent him from dismounting, his growls echoing as he fought the restraints.

Caroline’s eyes never left Lysanther, her tears falling faster, her muffled cries trapped by the gag, her body aching with a need that felt like it would tear her apart. The group mounted up, the beasts’ hooves clattering against the stone path as they rode out, the dawn light casting long shadows across the alien landscape, the urgency of reaching Kalthar driving their pace.

The journey was pure torture, each jolt of the beast beneath Caroline amplifying the unbearable heat pulsing through her core. The scaled hide pressed against her, the rhythmic bouncing grinding her sensitive core against the rough fabric of Woan’s tunic, sending sharp sparks of arousal through her, but offering no relief. She tried to shift, to grind herself against the beast’s back, desperate for any release, but it only intensified her frustration, her altered nerves screaming, her body trembling with unfulfilled need. Her bound hands clenched uselessly, the rope biting into her wrists, the gag in her mouth muffling her whimpers as tears streamed down her cheeks.

Ahead, Lysanther’s figure swayed on Uric’s beast, his wild brown hair catching the morning light, his earthy scent—rich soil, cinnamon, and musky vitality—drifting back to her on the breeze. It was intoxicating, entrancing, pulling at her like a magnet, making her heart ache with longing. She strained toward him, her body leaning forward, her core throbbing with every whiff of his scent, but Woan’s firm grip behind her kept her in place. His scent—clean, sharp, with a hint of citrus—was all wrong, not Lysanther’s, not the one her heat craved. Her mind reeled, a chaotic swirl of desire, anger, and despair, the gag stifling her cries as her body fought against itself.

Silva rode up beside her, his silver-blond hair glinting, his pale eyes sharp with a knowing smirk as he took in her obvious pain—her flushed face, her trembling frame, the dampness seeping through the tunic. He directed his beast closer, his voice low and taunting. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” The words cut through her haze, fueling her frustration, but she could only glare, her muffled whimper swallowed by the gag.

Woan’s purr started behind her, a smooth, resonant vibration meant to soothe, but it wasn’t right—it wasn’t Lysanther’s deep, grounding hum. It grated against her senses, amplifying her distress, and she thrashed against him, her bound hands flailing, her muffled cries growing desperate. Woan’s hands tightened on her waist, his voice soft but strained. “Easy, Caroline, I’m trying to help,” he murmured, his black hair brushing her shoulder as he leaned closer. But her thrashing intensified, her whimpers high and frantic, and he stopped purring, his grip loosening slightly as he muttered, “Alright, I’ll stop.”

The group rode hard for hours, the beasts’ hooves pounding the stone path, the alien landscape blurring past—silvery grasses, jagged hills, a violet sky streaking with clouds. Caroline’s body slumped against Woan, her energy sapped, her mind a fog of heat-driven desperation. Her breasts ached, leaking faintly, the tunic clinging to her skin, her core a pulsing torment. After what felt like an eternity, the group halted at a wide river, the water sparkling under the midday sun. The beasts snorted, lowering their heads to drink, their scales glinting as the men dismounted, stretching their limbs.

Caroline was out of her mind, slumped over the beast’s neck, her bound hands resting limply, her tears soaking the gag. She heard Julesan’s voice, sharp and urgent, as he spoke to Woan. “Keep her away from him,” he said, his reddish-brown hair catching the light as he glanced at her, his face etched with concern. “Keep her downwind. Her scent will set him off again.” The mention of Lysanther’s name sent a pang through her heart, a desperate ache that made her lift her head, her eyes searching for him.

There, farther upstream, Lysanther sat on Uric’s beast, his hands bound, his feet tied to the harness, his broad frame tense, his eyes wild as they met hers across the distance. His expression was pained, mirroring her own torment, his body straining against the ropes. Her tears fell faster, a hopeless sob muffled by the gag, her heart breaking at the sight of him so close yet unreachable. It all seemed futile—the heat, the journey, the separation—her body and mind trapped in a cycle she couldn’t escape, her longing for Lysanther a torment that consumed her.

The group pressed on, the beasts’ hooves pounding the ground, the alien landscape blurring past. Caroline’s exhaustion was bone-deep, her body slumped against Woan’s chest, his clean, sharp scent a faint distraction from the relentless heat pulsing through her core. Sleep eluded her, the bouncing of the beast a constant torment that made her whimper into the gag, Julesan’s tunic still tied tightly around her head, the taste of sweat bitter on her tongue. Her breasts were aching, the damp fabric of Woan’s tunic clinging to her skin, milk seeping faintly with each jolt.

Her eyes fluttered open briefly, catching glimpses of civilization—farmland stretching across the horizon, dotted with squat, dome-like houses, their white stone walls glinting in the late afternoon light. The sight stirred a flicker of hope, cutting through her haze. Woan noticed her stirring, his arms tightening slightly around her waist, his voice low against her ear. “We’re nearing Kalthar, Caroline,” he said, his tone smooth but cautious. “Almost there.”

Her heart leaped, a surge of adrenaline snapping her wide awake, her eyes scanning the horizon desperately for Lysanther. She twisted in Woan’s grip, searching, but he must have been behind them, hidden by the other riders. Her chest tightened, panic creeping in as his absence gnawed at her.

The city gates loomed ahead, towering arches of white stone carved with intricate, vine-like glyphs that shimmered in the fading light. Caroline’s breath hitched, relief warring with her growing distress—finally, they were here, but where was Lysanther? The group thundered through the gates, greeted by a band of resistance fighters, their rugged attire and drawn swords a stark contrast to the city’s ornate architecture. The men dismounted swiftly, their movements tense but coordinated, shouting quick greetings to the fighters. Woan slid off the beast, his hands careful as he helped Caroline down, her bound hands and weak legs making her stumble. Her body felt like lead, her knees buckling as panic surged—she couldn’t see Lysanther, his absence a gaping void that made her heart race, her muffled sobs shaking her frame.

Julesan appeared and he scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. His purr started, a melodic vibration meant to soothe, his scent of smoked leather and herbs wrapping around her. “You’re safe, Caroline,” he murmured, his voice gentle but strained. “We’re here.” But his purr wasn’t Lysanther’s, his scent wasn’t right, and her frustration flared, her body trembling with distress. She wanted Lysanther, needed him, and Julesan’s touch only deepened her longing.

He carried her into a stone building, its walls cool and smooth, the air heavy with the scent of polished wood. He climbed a winding staircase, his boots echoing on the steps, her bound hands pressed awkwardly against his chest. They entered a large room. A bedroom, she realized. Like a shadowed sanctuary, its domed ceiling arching high above, studded with star-shaped skylights that let in faint glimmers of violet-gold light, casting ethereal patterns across the dark stone walls. Heavy, shimmering curtains draped down from the ceiling, their silvery folds swaying gently, creating a cocoon-like intimacy that both soothed and confined her. The room’s centerpiece was a massive platform bed adorned with many pillows.

But Lysanther wasn’t there. Julesan set her down on the edge of the bed, her legs trembling, her tears soaking the gag. He bolted the door with a heavy thud, then knelt before her, his hands deftly untying the binds then the gag, pulling the damp tunic from her mouth.

The moment it was free, Caroline’s voice erupted, raw and desperate. “Where’s Lysanther?” she yelled, her tears streaming faster, her chest heaving. “Where is he? You said he’d be here!” Her voice cracked, her body shaking with rage and longing, her heat making her irrational, her need for him a physical ache.

Julesan’s face softened, but his eyes were firm. “He’s coming, Caroline,” he said, his voice steady. “He’s with Uric, just behind us. He’ll be here soon.” He reached for her, trying to calm her, but she jerked away, her sobs turning to a shout.

“No! I need him now!” she raged, her frustration boiling over. “Why isn’t he here? You’re lying!”

Julesan’s jaw tightened, his patience fraying. Without a word, he scooped her up again, his arms strong but gentle, and threw her down onto the bed, the soft mattress catching her with a faint bounce. “Stay here,” he said, his voice sharp with urgency, before turning and striding to the door. He slipped out, a bolt clicking loudly as he locked it behind him, leaving her alone, her sobs echoing in the ornate room, her body trembling with the unbearable weight of her heat and her longing for Lysanther.

The moments dragged on, each second an eternity as Caroline sobbed into the pillow, her tears soaking the soft silver fabric of the massive bed. The beautiful bedroom felt like a cage, the filtered sunlight casting faint shadows that danced across the walls, amplifying her isolation. Her body trembled, the heat pulsing through her core, her altered nerves screaming for release, her unbound hands clutching the sheets, her breasts aching as milk seeped into the borrowed tunic.

Suddenly, commotion erupted downstairs—shouts, the sharp clang of metal, the thud of boots on stone. Her heart leaped, her breath catching as she sat up, her eyes wide, fixed on the door. The sounds grew louder, chaotic, a man’s voice barking orders, another yelling in protest. Then the door slammed open with a force that rattled the frame, and Lysanther was there. He looked like a wild, rutting beast. His brown hair had come undone from its top knot, spilling down in a tangled mess, his eyes fully dilated, black and feral, his chest heaving with rapid, ragged breaths. A large wet spot stained his indigo trousers, evidence of his own desperate arousal. He slammed the door shut, the bolt sliding into place with a heavy thud, his gaze locked on her, burning with primal intensity.

His movements were predatory, each step controlled but vibrating with barely restrained energy, like a beast stalking its prey. He ripped off his tunic, tossing it aside, his muscular chest glistening, the alien markings beneath his skin shimmering wildly in swirling patterns of blues, purples, and silvers, pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat. His hands moved to his trousers, yanking them down, revealing his massive erection, so engorged it was an angry red, the flared tip dripping with clear fluid. The sight of it was painful. Caroline breathed deep, her core clenching, a rush of wetness soaking the bed as her heat responded to his raw need.

He stalked to the bed, his eyes never leaving hers, his purr a deep, guttural vibration that permeated the air, resonating in her bones. He loomed over her, his voice low and rough, thick with desire. “Caroline,” he rasped, his gaze searing, “are you ready for me?”

Her heart pounded, her body trembling with need, the heat overwhelming her reason. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice shaky but certain, her hands reaching for him, desperate to feel his warmth, his strength.

Lysanther climbed onto the bed, his body covering hers. He let loose a deep growl, the vibrations of it hitting her like a shockwave, going straight to her clitoris, making her gasp as a fresh gush of wetness flooded her core. He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear, his voice a raw murmur. “I’m going to fill you, darling,” he said, his words dripping with possession. “and you’ll finally give me sons. Right, Caroline?” His hands gripped her hips, lifting the tunic to expose her, his fingers brushing her sensitive folds, sending a jolt through her. “Yes,” she sobbed. He lined up the head of his shaft, the engorged, red tip pressing against her entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered her. The stretch was intense and overwhelming, her inner walls yielding to his thickness, clenching tightly around him.

The sensation was electric, a searing fullness that pushed the boundaries of pleasure and pain, her altered anatomy amplifying every inch as he filled her. Her breath hitched, a soft moan escaping as her hips rocked instinctively, her body craving more despite the intensity. Lysanther’s purr blended with his growl, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through her core, grounding her in the moment. “Yes, my girl,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble as he thrust deeper, his shaft stretching her further, the pressure exquisite. “You were made for this, for me.” His hands slid to her thighs, spreading them wider, angling her hips to take him more fully, his eyes locked on hers, wild but reverent.

As he moved, slow and controlled, his knot began to push at her entrance and the sensation made her gasp, her inner walls clenching tighter. “Take me, Caroline,” he said, his voice strained with desire, his thrusts growing deeper, more deliberate. “Feel how you take me. How you’re mine.” Her body responded, her core gushing with wetness, easing his movements as he pushed his knot into her, the stretch of it exquisite. Then suddenly, the tip of his shaft was pressing against the entrance to her cervix. The sensation was intense, a sharp, stretching pressure that bordered on discomfort but melted into a strange, overwhelming pleasure, her body opening to accommodate him. Her breathing stopped, hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his shimmering skin.

His thrusts slowed, each one deliberate, pushing deeper, the tip of his shaft finally breaching her cervix with a careful, controlled pressure that sent a shockwave through her. The sensation was unlike anything she’d felt—a deep, intimate fullness that radiated through her core, her nerves alight with a mix of pleasure and intensity, her body trembling as her heat consumed her. Her belly bulged noticeably, the shape of him evident, a primal connection that overwhelmed her senses. “Look at you,” Lysanther growled, his eyes flicking to her belly, his voice thick with awe and possession, “taking all of me.”

It was perfect, just what her body had been crying out for all day. “Caroline,” he rasped, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs brushing her tear-streaked cheeks. “I love you, my darling girl.” His voice was a mix of tenderness and feral need, his purr vibrating through her, soothing the intensity as he moved, his knot stretching her, his control evident despite his wild eyes. She wanted to respond, but she couldn’t form words so she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. Her body arched to meet each deep thrust, her moans growing louder, the pleasure building relentlessly.

The pressure in her core tightened, a crescendo fueled by his deep thrusts and the grind of his pelvis against her clitoris. “Give it to me,” he whispered, his lips brushing her neck, sucking and biting gently, leaving rosy marks that tingled with warmth. “Give me all of it, my love.” His words pushed her over the edge, her orgasm crashing through her like a tidal wave, her inner walls clenching around him, her cervix pulsing as pleasure radiated through her. She cried out, her body convulsing, her nails raking his back.

Lysanther groaned, his thrusts faltering as her muscles squeezed his knot, forcing him to follow her. His release flooded her, hot and copious, spilling deep within. “Yes,” he growled, his voice breaking, knot pulsing, his body shuddering against hers. Her body milked him relentlessly, viciously ravenous for his seed. Like a fist, it squeezed with rhythmic strength, forcing out every drop into her womb. She could feel it, flooding her, swelling her insides—just the medicine she needed.

They clung to each other, their breaths ragged, their bodies locked together, trembling in the afterglow. His purr was a soft hum as he kissed her forehead, his hands stroking her sides, grounding her as the heat in her core began to ebb, if only slightly.

Chapter Text

The starlight from the dome’s skylights cast soft, ethereal patterns across the massive round bed, the shimmering curtains swaying gently, cocooning Caroline and Lysanther in the dark, intimate bedroom. Her heat raged on, an unrelenting fire that consumed her, her altered nerves amplifying every sensation. Lysanther was almost always buried inside her, anchored from within her. His body pressed against hers was her lifeline, his purr a deep, soothing hum that vibrated through the furs and pillows.

Lysanther’s lips roamed her skin, kissing, sucking and biting her neck, her shoulders, her jaw, each touch possessive, leaving trails of warmth that soothed her trembling body. “I’m marking you up, Caroline,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, his gold-green eyes glinting with mischief as he nipped gently at her collarbone, his teeth grazing her skin, leaving red marks that tingled with pleasure. “Everyone will know what I did to you.” His erection stayed locked inside her for long stretches, his thrusts slow and deep, each movement stretching her, filling her with an intense fullness that made her gasp.

Her belly grew larger with each passing hour, a noticeable bulge that swelled beneath her skin, its erotic curve reflecting the starlight. The sensation was surreal, a heavy, warm pressure that mingled with the pleasure of his thrusts, her body adapting to the strange life within her. “Look at you,” Lysanther whispered, his hand resting on her swollen belly, his fingers tracing the curve. “You’re blooming, darling.” His words, sweet and fervent, sank into her, easing the strangeness, her heat-driven need making her cling to him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his shimmering skin.

He made a game of seeing how deep he could sink into her, pressing her thighs up and out, grinding his pelvis hard against her. The deep, intimate stretch was a mix of discomfort and ecstasy, her body trying desperately to take him fully. Each thrust sent waves through her, her clitoris throbbing as his pelvis ground against it, her moans growing louder, her orgasms crashing through her in relentless waves. “You’re mine,” he growled, his lips brushing her ear, his bites sharper now his purr blending with his words. “Finally mine.” Her body responded, her core gushing with wetness, easing his movements, her belly bulging further with each deep thrust.

The night passed in a fevered haze, a blur of deep thrusts, his tender kisses, his possessive bites, his sweet words whispered against her skin—each moment binding them closer, her altered nerves electric. As dawn approached, the violet-gold light strengthened, filtering through the skylights, bathing the room in a soft glow that illuminated the nest of pillows and blankets.

Her belly was starting to become startlingly large, a pronounced swell that strained her skin, the faintest outline of their brood visible beneath the taut surface. The weight was heavy, warm, a constant presence that both grounded and overwhelmed her. She felt the strange need to arrange the bed, her hands smoothing the soft fabrics, arranging pillows in a protective cocoon, driven by an instinct she didn’t fully understand but couldn’t resist. The act was soothing, a ritual that eased the chaos of her heat, her body settling into the soft, plush nest, the blankets cradling her swollen form. 

Lysanther lay beside her, his naked body pressed close, his purr a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the bed, soothing her. His hand rested on her belly, his fingers tracing the curve with reverence, the markings beneath his skin pulsing in soft blues and silvers, mirroring his contentment. His eyes, no longer fully dilated, shimmered with affection as he gazed at her. “Caroline,” he murmured, “how many sons are you going to give me?” His hand pressed gently, feeling the faint movements within her, the brood shifting subtly, a sensation that made her breath catch, a mix of wonder and unease. “A dozen? Like you promised?” he teased. Caroline’s cheeks reddened, “I didn’t promise anything. I don’t know how I would care for a dozen babies anyways.” She was starting to get flustered.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing her forehead, his purr deepening as he kissed her softly, his breath warm against her skin. “Oh darling,” he whispered, his voice sweet, “I’m sorry I never explained it.” His hand stayed on her belly, his touch possessive but tender, his fingers splaying over the swell as if to protect the life within. “After they are born, our brood will gestate over years. They’ll be safe, independent, growing bigger, and then they will emerge as adolescents.” He adjusted the blankets around her, tucking them closer, his movements careful, ensuring her nest was perfect. “Like a child on Earth,” he said, his tone soothing.

Caroline’s eyes traced the starlight patterns on the ceiling, her mind grappling with the weight of her growing belly, the life inside her. She turned her head, meeting Lysanther’s gold-green eyes, his brown hair spilling over the pillows. Her voice was soft, hesitant, tinged with worry. “Lysanther… will I be overrun with children? Will I be overwhelmed?”

Lysanther’s lips curved into a gentle smile, his purr deepening as he shifted closer, his hand never leaving her belly. “No, my sweet girl,” he said, his voice warm, reassuring. “You won’t be overrun. Our ways are different here. The fathers take on the care of the young, raising them in their own homes. You’ll birth them, yes, but the burden of rearing them won’t fall on you. The hive shares the responsibility—fathers, brothers, uncles. We cherish our sons, and they’ll be cared for.”

She frowned, her hands resting over his, feeling the warmth of his touch. “But what does that mean for me? Will I just give them up?”

He shook his head, his eyes softening, his thumb brushing gently over her swollen belly. “Not give them up. You’ll always be their mother, their queen, revered and loved. You’ll see them, bond with them, but the fathers take pride in raising their sons. It’s our tradition. I was raised that way, by my father, with my eight brothers.” His voice took on a nostalgic warmth, a spark of joy lighting his face.

“Eight brothers?” Caroline asked, her brow arching, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite her worry. “What was that like?”

Lysanther chuckled, the sound rich and warm, his purr vibrating through the bed. “It was chaos, but the best kind. We grew up in my father’s home. My brothers and I were wild—climbing the walls, wrestling in the dirt, sneaking into the orchards to steal fruit. My father was stern but kind, always teaching us, guiding us. We’d spend hours exploring the forests, building forts, pretending we were warriors defending the hive.” His eyes glinted with mischief. “Once, I convinced my youngest brother, Kael, to climb a tree to steal a bird's nest. He fell, scraped his knee, and wailed so loud my father thought we’d been attacked. We got a lecture, but later, he laughed and joined us to build a fort in the tree.”

Caroline’s smile grew, the image easing the knot in her chest. “That sounds like it was fun,” she said, her voice softening. “You all got along?”

“Most of the time,” Lysanther said, grinning. “We fought, of course—brothers do. I’d brawl with my older brother over who got the last piece of bread. But we were close. We’d pile into bed all together and listen to our father’s stories of our mother, the queen.”

She looked at him, her fingers tightening over his. “But what if I want to be there too, Lysanther?”

Lysanther’s expression grew serious, his purr steady as he leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers. “Oh Caroline, I was never going to leave you, my darling girl. The others will. Your heat will come, you will give them sons and then they will leave you if you choose.” His hand pressed gently on her belly, his voice dropping to a tender whisper. “But I’m not giving you a choice to send me away, Caroline. I will always be with you.” His lips quirked into a smirk, one eyebrow raised. “And maybe your heat will choose me again and again. We could have a hundred sons, Caroline.”

Caroline’s eyes stung. “Will this planet be totally overrun with children?”

Lysanther’s purr deepened as he shifted closer. “No, my dear, it won’t be overrun,” he said, his voice warm and steady, like a storyteller weaving a tale. “This planet is vast, far larger than your Earth, with endless wild places waiting to be tamed. There are forests thicker than any you’ve seen, mountains that pierce the clouds, and plains that stretch beyond the horizon, dotted with silver grasses and rivers that sing. Our sons, your sons, will grow to explore and conquer those wilds, to build homes and hives, to spread our people across this world. There’s room for them, for all of them.”

She frowned, her fingers tightening over his, the weight of his words sinking in. “But so many children,” she said, her voice wavering. “It sounds overwhelming. How do you know it’ll work?”

Lysanther chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm, his eyes glinting with a spark of excitement. “Because it’s in our blood, Caroline. Our ancient ancestors were conquerors, not just of this planet but of the stars themselves. Long ago, before the invasions, we explored the cosmos, building hives on distant worlds. Our technology—our ships, our machines—was the envy of the stars. We tamed planets, forged empires. That spirit lives in us still in the sons you carry.”

Her eyes widened, the scope of his words stirring something in her—a mix of awe and unease. “The stars?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his expression fierce with conviction, his hand pressing gently on her belly, feeling the faint shift of the eggs. “We will,” he said, his voice ringing with certainty. “When we recover our technology, we’ll build ships again, faster and stronger than before. Our sons will lead the way, carrying your blood to new worlds. They’ll conquer the stars, Caroline, all in your name as their queen.”

Caroline’s eyes stung, a mix of fear and a fragile sense of purpose settling in her chest. “And you’ll be there? For all of it?” she asked, her voice small, seeking reassurance.

“Always,” he said, his lips brushing her temple, his purr steady and warm. “By your side, through the many centuries ahead of us.

She startled at the word, her heart jumping. “Centuries?”

Lysanther’s smile was warm. “Centuries Caroline,” he said, his voice rich with assurance. “You’ll live for many centuries, far beyond a human lifespan. The process of carrying the broods—it changes you, extends your life.”

Her brow furrowed, her fingers tightening over his, the concept staggering. “Centuries?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “How does that even work? I’m human, or I was. How can I live that long?”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and soothing, his eyes glinting with a mix of pride and tenderness. “You’re more than human now, my love. The eggs you carry, they release compounds, unique to our kind, that affect your biology. They repair, they rejuvenate, they extend. Each clutch you bear will renew you, keep you strong and vital for centuries.” His thumb brushed gently over her belly.

Caroline’s smile grew, the weight of his words settling into her, a mix of daunting possibility and fragile hope. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice steadier now. “Centuries… with you.”

“Yes,” Lysanther murmured, his lips pressing a soft kiss to her lips, his purr a steady hum as he climbed on top of her, sinking into her wet heat yet again. The morning light cast gentle glows across their entwined forms, the nest cradling them in their lovemaking.

…

Caroline stirred from a light sleep as the sound of the door opening broke the calm quiet of the nest. Julesan slipped into the room, his footsteps quiet and face tense with concern and restraint. He brought water in a glass pitcher and a tray laden with fruits and meat, setting them on a low table near the bed, as he murmured, “What else do you need, Lysanther,” his voice soft but strained. 

Caroline’s eyes drifted to Lysanther who was propped on his elbow beside her. “We’ll need a vessel for our brood, Julesan. Her time is approaching.” Julesan nodded, leaving to fetch the thing Lysanther requested. She peeked down at her abdomen, now very large and swollen. “Oh my,” she gasped, “it really might be a dozen.” 

She looked at Lysanther, her eyes tracing his features—his strong jaw, his beautiful lips, curled in a gentle smirk, the affection in his gaze—and felt a flicker of connection, a fragile bond amidst the strangeness of her new reality. Her hands rested over his on her enormous belly, feeling the warmth, the life within, and though the weight of it all—her abduction, the violations, her struggles—pressed on her, his presence made it bearable.

The door creaked open, and Julesan stepped inside. In his hands, he carried a large, clear, rounded vessel, its smooth surface gleaming like crystal. He set it carefully on a low table near the bed, his eyes flicking briefly to Caroline’s swollen form before meeting Lysanther’s gaze. “She looks like she’s close,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Call if you need anything.” He lingered for a moment, his concern evident, then turned and slipped out, the door closing softly behind him.

Lysanther’s hand tightened gently on Caroline’s belly, his gold-green eyes softening as he turned to her. “Are you ready?” he murmured, his purr deepening, his voice warm with reassurance.

Caroline’s breath caught, a flicker of fear tightening her chest. “I’m scared,” she whispered, her voice trembling, her hands clutching the blankets. “I don’t want it to be like it was…”

Lysanther leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers, his purr wrapping around her like a blanket. “It won’t be, Caroline,” he said, his voice firm but tender. “It will be different now. I’ll be here, every moment, helping you.” His lips went to her neck, gently biting her there. “Let me help you relax.”

He shifted, his hands sliding down her sides. His lips trailed kisses down her body, soft and reverent, until he settled between her legs, his breath warm against her core. His tongue flicked out, lapping gently at her apex, the sensation electric, sending a jolt of pleasure through her core. Her hips rocked instinctively, her moans soft as he licked with slow, deliberate care, his purr vibrating against her, amplifying the pleasure. The intensity built quickly, her body responding with overwhelming sensitivity, and her orgasm crashed through her, a shuddering wave that made her cry out. As she came, her belly contracted painlessly, a gentle tightening that felt natural, almost soothing, the eggs shifting slightly within her.

Lysanther lifted his head, crawling up to kiss her on the mouth, his lips warm and tasting faintly of her, his purr a steady hum. “I hope that helped,” he murmured against her lips, his hands sliding to her engorged breasts, milk beading at her nipples. He leaned down, his lips closing around one nipple, sucking gently, the relief immediate as milk flowed, the sensation a mix of comfort and arousal that made her sigh. He switched to the other, his tongue lapping broadly, his bites tender, drawing soft moans from her as the pressure eased.

Then, a sudden warmth flooded between her thighs, her water breaking in a gentle rush, soaking the blankets beneath her. Caroline’s eyes widened, her breath catching as the reality hit. Lysanther lifted his head, his eyes glinting with excitement. “It’s time, darling,” he said, his voice steady. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, her earlier fear melting under the echoing tingle of pleasure, her body feeling ready, prepared. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice steady, her hands gripping the pillows. Lysanther smiled, his purr deepening as he propped her up against a pile of pillows, angling her body for comfort, her legs spread wide as he knelt between them, his hands gentle on her thighs.

Her belly contracted again, painlessly, a smooth tightening that felt instinctive, natural. The first egg descended into her vagina, the sensation wonderful, a gentle pressure that stretched her, filling her with a strange, euphoric warmth. It was unlike anything she’d felt—a smooth, rounded weight gliding through her, her relaxed muscles easing its passage, her nerves sparking with pleasure rather than pain. She moaned softly, her hips rocking slightly, the feeling almost orgasmic in its intensity.

Lysanther’s eyes sparkled, a teasing grin curving his lips. “Look at you,” he said, his voice playful. “It looks like you’re enjoying this.” His hands rested on her thighs, ready to catch the egg as it emerged.

The egg moved lower, the stretch intensifying, and as another contraction came, it slid free, the sensation a sudden wave of pleasure that made her cry out, her body trembling as the egg left her. Lysanther caught it deftly, his hands gentle. The egg was smooth, a blue-black shade and shimmered faintly. He placed it carefully in the vessel, his eyes never leaving hers, his purr a triumphant hum. “One down, my girl,” he murmured, his voice thick with pride. “You’re doing beautifully.”

Another contraction came, painless but powerful, and the second egg descended, the sensation even more pleasurable than the first, a smooth, rounded weight gliding through her with a euphoric warmth. Her nerves sparked with pleasure, the stretch a delicious fullness that made her moan. Lysanther’s hands were ready, his touch gentle as he caught the egg, its dark membrane shimmering in his palms. “Two sons, darling,” he said, his voice a mix of pride and teasing, his grin playful. “You’re making this look effortless.”

Her breath hitched, a soft laugh escaping despite the intensity, his words grounding her. Another contraction followed, and the third egg came, the pleasure sharper, more intense, her core clenching as it slid free, the sensation orgasmic, sending a shudder through her. “Three,” Lysanther counted, his eyes sparkling, his purr deepening. “My strong girl.” He placed the egg in the vessel, joining the others.

One after another, they came, each delivery more pleasurable than the last, her body responding with waves of ecstasy that drowned out any lingering fear. The fourth egg stretched her wider, the sensation a radiant heat that made her cry out, her hands gripping the blankets. “Four,” Lysanther teased, his voice warm, his hands deft as he caught it. “Keep going, Caroline.” The fifth and sixth followed, each one intensifying the pleasure, her moans growing louder, her body trembling with each release. “Six,” he said. “Halfway there.” He winked and Caroline couldn't help but laugh. 

By the seventh and eighth, fatigue began to creep in, her body still responding with pleasure but her energy waning, her breaths heavier, her limbs growing leaden. “Eight,” Lysanther counted, his voice thick with awe, his hands steady as he placed each in the vessel. “You can do it, Caroline.” The ninth, tenth and eleventh followed, and it was starting to feel like the pleasure was being wrung out of her. Her body sagged slightly into the pillows, exhaustion tugging at her. “Eleven,” he said, his eyes wide with surprise. “You’re almost done.”

Her body felt heavy, her breaths labored, but another contraction brought the twelfth egg, the stretch still euphoric, though her moan was quieter, her energy nearly spent. “Twelve,” Lysanther said, his voice thick with pride, placing the egg in the vessel.

She panted, her body trembling, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Thought… you’d be happy with a dozen,” she managed, her voice shaky, her eyelids heavy despite the pleasure still coursing through her.

Lysanther chuckled, his hand resting on her belly, feeling the remaining weight. “A dozen would be perfect,” he teased, his eyes glinting. “But you’re not done yet, are you, my stubborn girl?”

But her belly contracted again, a final egg shifting within, and Caroline’s breath caught, her body trembling with fatigue. “One more,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her hands gripping the pillows weakly. The thirteenth egg came, the stretch exquisite but draining, the pleasure peaking in a final, orgasmic rush that left her gasping, her body slumping as it slid free. Lysanther caught it, his hands reverent, placing it with the others, thirteen glowing orbs pulsing with life in the vessel.

“Thirteen,” Lysanther breathed, his voice thick with awe, his eyes shining as he looked at her, his purr a deep, resonant hum that filled the room. “Thirteen sons, Caroline. You’ve given me more than I ever deserved.” He leaned over her, his lips brushing her forehead, then her mouth, his kiss tender but fierce. “I love you, my darling girl.” His hand rested on her now-softened belly, his touch gentle, his markings pulsing brightly as he gazed at the vessel, the eggs glowing softly in the sunlight. “Rest now. You’ve done so beautifully. I’m so proud of you.”

…

Hours later, as evening cast a deep violet glow through the star-shaped skylights, Caroline and Lysanther lay entwined in the nest of pillows and blankets on the massive round platform bed, the curtains swaying gently around them. They had eaten from the tray brought by Julesan—roasted meat and flat bread. And they had slept, Caroline’s body exhausted from her heat. The thirteen glimmering eggs were safe in the clear vessel nearby.

Lysanther, reclining in the nest, fed Caroline small, juicy fruits. Their sweet tang burst on her tongue as he teased, “You need to keep your strength up, darling.” His purr hummed low, his hand grasping her breasts, when a loud crack followed by a thunderous crash erupted from outside, shaking the stone walls. Caroline’s heart leap and Lysanther’s markings pulse wildly, his body tensing as he sprang to his feet.

Chapter Text

The afternoon air hung heavy in the bedroom, the star-shaped skylights casting bright beams  of sunlight across the massive bed, where Caroline lay nestled in her cocoon of pillows and blankets. Her softened belly, still tender from birthing thirteen eggs, pressed lightly against the loose gown Lysanther had helped her into after their meal of roasted meat and sweet, juicy fruits. The vessel holding the vulnerable eggs sat secure on a table nearby. Lysanther’s presence beside her, his hand resting on her arm, his earthy scent of rich soil, cinnamon, and musk, had been a grounding force, his purr a soft hum that lingered even in their quiet moments of rest. But the tranquility shattered with a sudden, bone-rattling crack, followed by a thunderous crash that echoed through the stone walls, the ground vibrating beneath the bed as if the city itself groaned in pain. Caroline’s heart leaped, her breath catching, her hands clutching the blankets as she sat up, eyes wide with alarm.

Lysanther sprang to his feet, his gold-green eyes narrowing, his markings pulsing wildly in chaotic swirls of blues, purples, and silvers, betraying his sudden alertness. His hair, loose from its top knot, spilled down as he crossed the room in two swift strides, his bare feet silent on the cool stone floor. He peered toward one of the skylights, his jaw tightening as he saw thick clouds of dust rising in the distance. 

“Something’s collapsed,” he muttered, his voice low and taut, laced with urgency. “A building. Something’s wrong.” He turned, his movements quick but controlled, grabbing his indigo tunic and trousers from a nearby chair, pulling them on with practiced efficiency, the fabric clinging to his muscular frame. He glanced at Caroline, his eyes softening briefly, and knelt beside her, his hands gentle as he helped her adjust the loose gown. “Stay calm, darling,” he said, his voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “The other men are downstairs and we’re safe here.”

Before she could respond, another, louder crack split the air, followed by a deafening crash that shook the room, the ground quaking so violently that pillows slid off the bed, the curtains trembling as if caught in a storm. Dust sifted from the domed ceiling, fine particles catching the sunlight, settling on Caroline’s skin like a ghostly veil. Her fear surged, her chest tightening, her hands gripping the blankets as she whispered, “Lysanther, what’s happening?” Her voice trembled, her eyes wide, the weight of the unknown pressing down on her.

Lysanther’s gaze darted to the vessel, his fear for the eggs palpable, his markings pulsing brighter as he moved to it. “The brood,” he said, his voice tight with urgency, “they could be damaged.” He grabbed blankets from the bed, wrapping the clear vessel tightly, his hands careful but swift as he secured it deep within a nearby wooden chest, closing the heavy lid with a thud. “They’ll be safe here,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, his fingers lingering on the chest as if to reassure himself. Shouts erupted from downstairs, chaotic and urgent, voices overlapping in a cacophony of alarm—men barking orders, others calling out in panic. Another crash shook the building, the ground vibrating beneath Caroline’s feet as she stood, her legs unsteady, her heart pounding. “Something bad is happening,” she said, her voice barely audible, fear knotting her stomach.

Lysanther turned to her, his eyes fierce with determination but shadowed with worry. “Caroline, I need to go downstairs and see what’s going on,” he said, his voice firm but laced with concern. “Stay here, lock the door behind me. You’ll be safe in this room.” He cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks, and kissed her deeply, his lips warm and grounding, his purr flaring briefly to calm her. “I’ll be right back, darling,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to hers for a fleeting moment. Then he strode to the door, his movements swift and purposeful, slipping out into the dusty hallway, the door closing with a heavy thud.

Caroline’s fear surged in his absence, her body trembling as she stood alone in the dark room, the starlit skylights offering no view of the chaos outside, their isolation both a comfort and a cage. Another crack rang out, followed by a bone-shaking crash, the room trembling, dust falling thicker from the ceiling, coating the pillows and blankets in a fine layer. The building shuddered violently, as if struck by something massive, the walls groaning, the curtains swaying wildly. Caroline’s breath hitched, her hands shaking as she clutched the edge of the bed, her fear for Lysanther overwhelming. She couldn’t stay here, locked away, not knowing if he was safe. Her heart pounded, her mind racing with images of collapsing stone, of Lysanther trapped or hurt.

She stumbled to the door, her bare feet cold against the stone floor, her hands fumbling with the bolt until it slid free. The door creaked open, revealing the spiral staircase, the air thick with choking dust that stung her eyes and coated her throat. “Lysanther!” she called, her voice hoarse, echoing in the stairwell, but no answer came, only the distant shouts of men, frantic and chaotic, mingling with the clatter of debris. She started down the winding steps, her hand gripping the smooth stone railing, her steps unsteady as the dust grew thicker, swirling in the faint torchlight from below. Another crack, louder than before, was followed by a deafening crash, the building shaking so violently she stumbled, catching herself against the wall, her heart racing. As she neared the bottom, her breath caught—the staircase was blocked, a pile of rubble clogging the final steps, a gaping hole blown into the outer wall. Through it, she glimpsed the chaotic street outside, dust swirling in thick clouds, silhouettes of men running, and the flickering glow of fires in the distance, the city of Kalthar was under siege.

Caroline’s heart pounded, fear for Lysanther clawing at her chest as she stood at the rubble-strewn base of the spiral staircase, the gaping hole in the wall revealing the chaotic street beyond. The air was thick with dust, stinging her eyes and coating her throat. Her bare feet felt the cold, jagged stone beneath her, and she moved carefully, wincing as she stepped over debris, her loose gown catching on a twisted piece of rough stone. Driven by desperation, she climbed through the hole, her hands gripping the rough edges for support, and emerged onto the street, her breath catching at the scene before her.

The city was in chaos, a warzone under the afternoon sky. Dust swirled in dense clouds, illuminated by flickering fires, the air heavy with the acrid scent of smoke and scorched stone. A few men ran past, their faces grim, swords drawn, shouting to one another in frantic bursts, their voices lost in the cacophony of collapsing structures and distant screams. Buildings of white stone, once grand with arched roofs and glinting mosaics, lay in ruins, their walls cracked or reduced to rubble.

Suddenly, a thin, electric-blue laser sliced through the air with a sharp crack, its light searing her vision as it struck a nearby building. The wall split with a deafening crash, stone crumbling in a cascade of dust and debris, the ground trembling beneath her feet, forcing her to brace against a shattered pillar to keep her balance.

She needed to find Lysanther, Julesan—the other men who had been in their group. Her bare feet moved cautiously over the uneven street, shards of stone pricking her soles as she navigated toward the front of the building, her eyes scanning for any sign of them. The path was littered with destruction—overturned carts, their contents spilling across the road, rubble crunching underfoot, and smoldering piles of debris. She called out, her voice hoarse, “Lysanther! Julesan!” but the chaos swallowed her words, no answer returning. Her heart raced, fear tightening her chest as she reached the front of the building, its ornate facade now marred by cracks, the entrance gaping open like a wound.

She stepped inside, the interior dark and silent, dust motes swirling in the sunlight. The grand hall was empty, tables overturned, tapestries torn, the air heavy with the scent of smoke. “Lysanther!” she called again, her voice echoing off the stone walls, but only silence answered, amplifying her dread. She stumbled back outside, her bare feet aching, her gown catching on debris as she scanned the chaotic street, shouting, “Lysanther! Where are you?” Her voice cracked, tears pricking her eyes as despair threatened to overwhelm her.

A sudden crack split the air, followed by a thunderous crash as a building nearby was struck by another blue laser, its upper wall collapsing in a shower of stone and dust. A chunk of debris hurtled toward her, and she froze, her breath catching—until a strong hand grabbed her arm, yanking her out of the way. She stumbled, turning to see gold-green eyes. But it wasn’t Lysanther, it was his brother—Kiran—his rugged face streaked with dirt, his brown hair dusted with debris, those familiar gold-green eyes sharp with urgency.

“Caroline!” Kiran said, his voice rough but steady, his grip firm as he steadied her. “You shouldn’t be out here—it’s too dangerous!”

She stared at him, surprise cutting through her fear, her hands clutching his arm. “Kiran? Where have you been?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He shook his head, his expression grim. “I couldn’t meet up with you when you left the capital city. Nerothys’s forces cut me off, ambushed my group. I’ve been tracking you, fighting my way here.” His eyes softened briefly, taking in her disheveled state, her bare feet, her tear-streaked face. “You’re safe with me now.”

Her heart leaped, desperation surging. “Do you know where Lysanther is?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Please, Kiran, I need to find him.”

He nodded, his grip tightening reassuringly. “He’s with the others, holding a defensive line a few streets away. I’ll take you to him, but we need to move carefully.” His voice was firm, his eyes scanning the chaotic street.

Caroline threw her arms around him, relief flooding her as she hugged him tightly, her voice a choked whisper. “Thank you, Kiran. Thank you.” Her tears fell against his shoulder, her fear for Lysanther still sharp but tempered by the hope of reuniting with him.

Kiran’s grip on Caroline’s hand tightened, his fingers digging into her wrist as he guided her through the chaotic streets of Kalthar, the city a maelstrom of destruction. Thick clouds of dust swirled through the air. Her bare feet ached, pricked by jagged shards of rubble scattered across the uneven ground, her loose gown catching on debris, the hem fraying as she stumbled forward. The city was a warzone—men sprinted past, their faces grim, swords flashing in the flickering torchlight, their shouts swallowed by the cacophony of collapsing buildings and distant screams. White stone structures, once grand with arched roofs and glinting mosaics, lay in ruins, their facades cracked, some reduced to smoldering piles of debris. Fires burned in the distance, casting an eerie orange glow through the dust, the air heavy with the weight of chaos. Caroline’s heart pounded, her fear for Lysanther a sharp, gnawing ache, her eyes scanning every shadow for a glimpse of his dark hair or shimmering markings, but Kiran’s urgent pace gave her no time to linger.

They turned a corner, and Caroline froze, her breath catching in her throat as Lysanther’s ship—his spaceship—loomed into view, its sleek, metallic hull towering over the shattered street, its curves unmistakable even in the dim light. The ship that had carried her from Earth to this alien world stood like a monolith, its surface glinting ominously in the firelight. Her heart lurched, unease twisting in her gut like a cold blade. “That’s… Lysanther’s ship,” she stammered, her voice trembling as she glanced at Kiran, his rugged face set in a hard line, his gold-green eyes avoiding hers. “Why is it here? Kiran, what’s going on?” Her bare feet faltered on the rough stone, her gown snagging on a jagged piece of rubble, but Kiran’s grip tightened, pulling her forward toward the ship, his silence amplifying her dread.

A sharp crack split the air, like lightning tearing through the sky, and a thin, electric-blue laser shot from the ship’s hull, slicing through the air with a searing light that burned her vision. It struck a nearby building, the white stone wall splitting with a deafening crash, collapsing in a cascade of dust and debris, the ground quaking beneath her feet. Caroline stumbled, her free hand grasping at the air for balance, her fear surging as the destruction unfolded mere paces away. The ship’s presence, its deadly power, sent a chill down her spine, her heart racing as they drew closer, the open door now visible, a dark maw in the hull. “Kiran,” she said, her voice shaking, her bare feet hesitating on the uneven ground, “is the group there? Why are we going there?” Her panic spiked, her body trembling as she tried to pull back, but his grip was iron, unyielding.

“Come on,” Kiran snapped, his voice low and harsh, his eyes flashing with impatience as he yanked her forward, his fingers bruising her wrist. The pain made her wince, her fear blossoming into terror, her heart pounding as she dug her heels into the dirt, trying to stop. Kiran’s face darkened, and he began to purr—that stilted, grating sound that scraped against her senses, nothing like Lysanther’s soothing hum, its jagged rhythm amplifying her panic. “Move, Caroline,” he growled, his voice a snarl, his markings pulsing faintly under his skin as he pulled her harder, her bare feet scraping against the ground, the dust stinging her eyes. “Kiran, please, stop!” she pleaded, her voice breaking, tears welling as she fought against his strength, but he ignored her, his anger flaring as he dragged her toward the ship’s open door.

The door loomed closer, a gaping void in the ship’s hull, and Caroline’s breath caught as she glimpsed a silhouette within—a priest, robed in black, his presence chilling, his eyes glinting with cold intent. Her terror surged, her heart hammering as she tried to stop, her bare feet sliding on the dusty stone, her gown tearing further as she thrashed against Kiran’s grip. “No! Let me go!” she screamed, her voice raw, her fists pounding uselessly against his arm, but he was too strong. With a rough jerk, he grabbed her around the waist, lifting her off the ground, his arms like iron bands as he carried her into the ship, her struggles futile against his power. The door hissed shut behind them, sealing her inside with a heavy, metallic thud, the cold, sterile air of the ship’s interior enveloping her, the metallic tang sharp in her lungs.

Inside, the sterile light cast harsh shadows, revealing several priests waiting, clad in black robes, their eyes gleaming with a predatory calm. One stepped forward, his voice smooth and commanding. “Follow us, Kiran..” But Kiran’s face twisted with rage, his grating purr intensifying, a jarring vibration that made Caroline’s skin crawl. “No!” he screamed, his voice echoing off the metal walls, his grip tightening painfully on her. “I’m taking what’s owed to me now, before you bastards go back on our deal!” 

He threw Caroline to the ground, the cold metal floor slamming against her knees, the pain sharp as she landed. “Hold her down!” he barked, his voice a feral snarl, and two priests moved swiftly, their hands like vices as they pinned her on her back.

Caroline’s terror consumed her, her screams echoing in the confined space, her body thrashing against the priests’ hold. “No! Stop!” she cried, her voice raw, tears streaming down her face, but a priest’s hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her screams. Kiran’s hands moved frantically, unbuttoning his trousers, revealing his penis. It was engorged and grotesque, the knot at its base deformed, too large, gnarled, and pulsing unnaturally, a sickening sight that made her stomach lurch. “It’s my turn,” he growled, his eyes wild, his grating purr a mockery of comfort as he leaned over her, his breath hot on her neck. Then he let out a bone-vibrating growl and a sudden cramp tore through her abdomen. Her body betrayed her in a rush of wetness gushing from her core.

Kiran yanked her dress up and entered her roughly, the thrust harsh and painful, her inner walls stretching against his size, the sensation a searing violation that made her sob harder, her muffled cries trapped by the priest’s hand. He thrust erratically, his movements brutal, his grating purr jarring her senses, amplifying her terror. “Don’t cry, Caroline,” he demanded, his voice dripping with desperation. “You’re going to like it.”

Her tears fell faster, her body trembling as she fought against the priests’ hold, her screams stifled, her heart shattering under the weight of betrayal and pain. He pushed harder, trying to force his deformed knot inside but it was too large, the pain excruciating as it stretched her beyond her limits, her body convulsing in agony. With a final, brutal thrust, he forced it in, the searing pain overwhelming, as his hot release flooded her, a violation that broke her sobs into a keening wail, her tears soaking the cold metal floor beneath her.

After an excruciatingly long moment, Kiran’s deformed knot pulsed one final time, his release flooding Caroline with a searing heat that mingled with the sharp pain of his brutal intrusion, her body trembling violently on the cold metal floor of the spaceship’s interior. Kiran pulled out with a rough jerk, the pain making her gasp, her inner walls aching as blood and semen spilled down, staining the torn remnants of her gown. The priests released her arms and Kiran yanked her to her feet, his hand clamping around her wrist, his grating purr a jarring mockery of comfort. “Get up,” he demanded, his voice thick with satisfaction, his gold-green eyes glinting with triumph. Caroline’s legs wobbled, barely able to support her, her bare feet slipping on the slick floor as she stumbled, her body weak and trembling, tears streaming down her face in relentless waves.

The priests flanked them, their black robes shimmering faintly in the dim, sterile light of the ship’s corridors. They guided Kiran forward, their hands gesturing toward a narrow passageway, the air heavy with the metallic tang of the ship and the faint, acrid scent of smoke seeping in from outside. Caroline’s sobs echoed softly, her body dripping with the evidence of Kiran’s assault, the cold of his semen and the sting of blood a constant reminder of her violation. Kiran’s grip tightened, his voice low and insistent as he leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “You have to understand, Caroline,” he said, his tone a twisted attempt at justification, his grating purr scraping against her senses. “I was promised this—promised you. Nerothys’s priests, they owed me for my loyalty, for the risks I took. You were always meant to be shared, not just his.”

Her tears fell faster, her chest heaving with silent sobs, his words a knife twisting in her heart. She wanted to scream, to fight, but her body was too weak, her spirit crushed under the weight of betrayal and pain. The priests led them through the ship’s winding corridors, the walls smooth and cold, the hum of the ship’s systems a low, ominous drone. Her bare feet dragged against the floor, each step a struggle, the slickness between her thighs a humiliating reminder of what Kiran had done. Her mind reeled, clinging to Lysanther’s name, his image—his gentle purr, his tender kisses—a lifeline in the darkness of her fear.

They arrived at the medical room, the door hissing open to reveal a stark, sterile chamber, its curved walls lined with sleek, blinking machines and jagged alien symbols glowing faintly on the screens. Caroline’s breath caught, her heart stopping as her eyes landed on Lysanther, strapped to the medical chair at the center of the room. His muscular frame was slumped, his dark hair matted with sweat and blood, his face bruised and swollen, crimson streaks trailing from a gash on his forehead and a split lip. His markings flickered weakly, his gold-green eyes dim but alive with pain and fury. Restraints of smooth, metallic bands held his wrists and ankles, his chest heaving with shallow breaths. He lifted his head, his gaze locking onto hers, and her name broke from his lips, raw and desperate. “Caroline!”

Chapter Text

Caroline stood trembling in the medical room’s sterile light, her bare feet cold against the smooth floor and torn gown wet with blood and bodily fluids. Her sobs were raw, her body shaking as Kiran's grip on her arms kept her upright, his grating purr a jarring vibration that made her skin crawl. Her eyes, blurred with tears, locked onto Lysanther, strapped to the medical chair at the room’s center, his bruised and bloodied face a dagger to her heart. His eyes burned with pain and fury, his dark hair matted with sweat, his torn indigo tunic clinging to his battered frame, the metallic restraints cutting into his wrists and ankles.

Her eyes flicked to the far side of the room. Five clear, rounded vessels lined the room’s edge, each holding a brood of eggs. Four were a deep blue-black and shimmered faintly in the light, but the fifth stood apart, its eggs a striking golden hue, more radiant, unmistakably belonging to Nerothys. The sight sent a chill through Caroline, her stomach twisting with dread. Nerothys stood near the vessels, his tall, gaunt frame draped in shimmering black robes, his pale face sharp and cruel, his eyes glinting with malice. In his hand, he held the hair whip—the braid that was cut from her own head. He stepped forward, his presence suffocating, his voice smooth but venomous as he addressed her.

“Look at you,” Nerothys sneered, his lips curling into a cruel smile, the whip dangling from his fingers. “Did you think you could escape me? Your body, your fertility—they’re mine, property of the hive’s true master.” He gestured to the golden eggs, his eyes gleaming with possessive pride. “These will birth a new era, and you’ll serve me again, whether you wish it or not.”

Caroline’s sobs grew louder, her body trembling as she shook her head, her voice choked. “No… please, no…” Her eyes flicked to Lysanther, his restrained form a beacon of her desperation, her heart breaking at his pain.

Nerothys turned to Lysanther, his whip cracking against the floor, the sound sharp and menacing. “The codes, Lysanther,” he hissed, his voice cold. “Give me the launch codes for this ship, or I’ll carve them out of you.” He lashed the whip across Lysanther’s chest, the braided strands of Caroline’s hair slicing into his skin, drawing a red welt. Lysanther grunted, his body jerking against the restraints, but his eyes remained defiant.

Caroline’s cries intensified, her heart shattering at the sight. “Stop! Please, don’t hurt him!” she begged, her voice raw, her body straining against the Kiran’s hold.

Nerothys ignored her, his whip striking again, the crack echoing as it tore into Lysanther’s arm, another welt forming. “The codes!” he demanded, his voice rising. “We’re leaving this planet, taking her with us. Your little resistance is crumbling. It’s over!”

Lysanther’s eyes flicked to Kiran, narrowing with sudden realization, his voice a low growl despite the pain. “You… you’re with them, Kiran? You betrayed us?” 

Kiran’s face twisted, his grating purr faltering as he straightened his spine, his eyes flashing with bitterness. “You don’t get it, do you?” he spat, his voice thick with resentment. “You were gone, Lysanther, off on your grand journey, leaving me to suffer in the capital while Nerothys’s priests tightened their grip. I fought, I bled, and what did you do? You came back with her.” He gestured at Caroline, his voice dripping with venom. “She slept in our bed, and she never even looked at me with an ounce of affection. She wanted you. I was owed something!”

Lysanther’s gaze shifted to Caroline, taking in the blood staining her gown, the bruises on her wrists, and his face contorted with fury, his markings pulsing wildly. “Kiran, did you rape her?” he roared, his voice breaking with rage, his body straining against the restraints, the chair creaking under his force.

Before Kiran could answer, Nerothys’s whip lashed out, striking Lysanther across the face, the braided hair slicing open the gash across his cheek, blood dripping onto the chair. Lysanther’s head snapped to the side, a groan escaping him, but his eyes burned with defiance, locked on Caroline.

“Enough!” Nerothys yelled, his pale face twisted with rage.

Caroline’s sobs echoed, her body trembling with fear. Nerothys’s whip cracked again, slicing across Lysanther’s chest, the braided strands tearing into his skin, drawing a sharp grunt. “The codes, Lysanther!” Nerothys hissed, his voice cold and venomous, his eyes glinting with sadistic intent. “Give me the launch codes for this ship, or I’ll make you watch her suffer.” He stepped closer, his whip trailing the floor, his gaze flicking to Caroline, a cruel smile curling his lips. “I’ll spare her further pain if you comply. No more harm to your woman. Just the codes, and we’ll leave her untouched.”

Lysanther’s chest heaved, his markings pulsing weakly, his eyes locked on Caroline, taking in her tear-streaked face, the bruises on her wrists, the blood staining her gown. His voice was a low growl, strained but resolute. “You’ll never get the codes, Nerothys. If you take her off-planet, she’ll be enslaved, bred for your twisted cult until she breaks. I won’t let that happen.”

Nerothys’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight. “So noble,” he sneered, pocketing the whip in his robes. He strode to Caroline, his long fingers grabbing her roughly, yanking her from the Kiran’s grip. She cried out, her body weak, her bare feet slipping on the cold metal floor as he pulled her against him, his touch invasive and brutal. “Let’s see how long your resolve lasts,” he taunted, his hands groping her roughly in front of Lysanther, squeezing her waist first then her breasts, his fingers digging into her tender skin. Lysanther’s growl deepened, a feral sound of rage, his body thrashing against the restraints, the chair groaning under his force.

Nerothys laughed, a cold, cutting sound, and yanked up Caroline’s torn gown, exposing her thighs, still wet from Kiran’s violation. His hand moved upward, groping her roughly, his fingers pressing against her hypersensitive folds, the touch painful and humiliating. Caroline sobbed, her body trembling, her eyes squeezing shut as she tried to block out the feeling, Lysanther’s anguished roar echoing in her ears. “Look at her, Lysanther!” Nerothys taunted, his voice dripping with malice. “See what she’s become—your woman, defiled, and still so sweet. Give me the codes, or I’ll do worse.”

Lysanther’s face contorted with fury, his markings flaring brightly, his voice a broken snarl. “Touch her again, and I’ll kill you!” His body strained, the restraints cutting into his wrists, blood trickling down his arms.

Caroline’s vision blurred with tears, but a flicker of light caught the corner of her eye, just beyond the priests’ robed figures—a small, glinting object arcing through the air, landing near the vessels of eggs with a clink. Another followed, spinning across the floor, and then a burst of flames erupted. The priests shouted, their voices sharp with alarm, as the room filled with the acrid scent of burning chemicals, the chaos breaking Nerothys’s focus as he spun toward the sudden blaze.

The medical room descended into chaos as flames licked at the table near the egg vessels. Caroline’s sobs faltered, her tear-blurred vision catching the sudden movement of familiar figures bursting through the smoke—Silva, Julesan, and Uric, their faces grim with determination. Silva’s silver-blond hair glinted in the firelight, his pale eyes locking onto Caroline’s, a faint, defiant smile curling his lips. In their hands, they held glass bottles filled with flaming liquid. With a coordinated shout, they hurled the bottles across the room, the projectiles arcing through the air before shattering against the walls and floor, bursting into roaring flames that spread rapidly, engulfing the far side of the room.

Nerothys spun, his gaunt face twisting with rage, his voice a sharp command. “Stop them! Kill them!” The priests surged forward, their robes catching fire as they drew curved blades, clashing with Julesan and Uric in a frenzy of steel and shouts. Nerothys lunged toward the egg vessels, his golden eggs glowing with reflected firelight. He grabbed the container, his robes smoldering as he clutched it protectively. Silva, undeterred, charged at him, his lean frame moving with desperate speed, tackling Nerothys to the ground. The two grappled amidst the flames, their forms blurring in the smoke, the golden vessel tumbling from Nerothys’s grasp, rolling dangerously close to the fire.

Caroline’s vision was obscured by the thickening smoke, her heart pounding as she strained against Kiran’s bruising grip on her arm. Uric broke free from a priest, his scarred face set with urgency as he rushed to Lysanther, his broad hands working swiftly to undo the metallic restraints binding him to the medical chair. “Hold on, friend,” Uric grunted, his voice rough as the bands snapped free.

Julesan lunged towards Caroline, his reddish-brown hair slick with sweat. He grappled against Kiran’s swings, as he tried to wrench her free. “Let her go, you traitor!” Julesan roared, his voice a fierce growl, his strikes precise but desperate. Kiran’s face contorted with bitterness, grunting with effort to keep hold of Caroline.

Lysanther staggered to his feet, his body battered but fueled by rage, and surged forward with a primal roar that cut through the crackling flames and clashing steel. His gold-green eyes blazed like twin infernos as he locked onto Kiran. Blood streaked his bruised face, his torn indigo tunic clinging to his sweat-slicked skin, his markings pulsing chaotically in violent swirls mirroring the storm of fury within him. He grabbed Kiran’s arm mid-swing, twisting it viciously with a sickening crack, the bone straining under his grip as Kiran yelped in pain. 

“You touched her,” Lysanther growled, his voice raw with fury, a guttural snarl that vibrated through the smoke-filled room, his free hand clamping around Kiran’s throat, squeezing just enough to make his brother’s eyes bulge. “You betrayed us, betrayed me, your brother! After everything we’ve been through, you sold her to them?” His markings flared brighter, his purr silenced by rage, his muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike.

Kiran gasped, his face contorting with fear, his grating purr faltering into a choked wheeze. “You… you left me to rot!” he spat, his voice strained, blood flecking his lips from the pressure on his throat. “While you played hero, I was alone. You said she was for all of us.” His words only fueled Lysanther’s wrath, his grip tightening as he wrestled Kiran’s sword from its scabbard with a metallic shing, the blade glinting with firelight, reflecting the roaring flames that licked at the walls. Julesan stepped back, his face a mask of grim satisfaction.

Lysanther’s eyes never left Kiran’s, burning with a brother’s betrayal and a lover’s vengeance. “You’ll never touch her again,” he snarled, his voice breaking with emotion, and in one swift, brutal motion, he drove the sword through Kiran’s chest, the blade piercing flesh and bone with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed across the floor in a hot arc, splattering Lysanther’s markings and the smoldering debris. Kiran’s eyes widened in shock, a gurgling gasp escaping his lips as the light faded from his gaze.

His body slumped, the sword impaled to the hilt, and Lysanther yanked it free with a savage twist, letting Kiran collapse amidst the growing flames, his corpse crumpling in a lifeless heap, the fire’s heat already claiming the edges of his clothes. Lysanther stood over him, his chest heaving, blood dripping from the blade.

But there was no time for contemplation, the room was being engulfed, flames roaring up the walls, the heat intense, the smoke choking as the fire consumed everything within. Caroline’s coughs mingled with her sobs, her eyes stinging as she clung to Julesan’s arm, her fear for Lysanther and the others overwhelming. A faint groan cut through the chaos, a sign of life from the flames where Silva and Nerothys had disappeared behind the smoke. 

Caroline’s heart lurched, her voice breaking through the thick haze, desperate and raw. “Silva! He’s alive!” she cried, her hands clutching Julesan’s arm with a frantic grip, her nails digging into his sweat-slicked skin. Her tear-streaked eyes searched the swirling fire, barely able to make out the shapes amidst the choking smoke and searing heat. “Please, you have to get him!” she begged, her voice cracking.

Lysanther and Uric didn’t hesitate, their faces set with grim determination. Lysanther plunged into the flames first, his broad frame disappearing into the smoke. Uric followed, his massive hands shoving aside burning debris, the fire’s roar drowning their shouts as their silhouettes vanished in the haze. Caroline’s breath caught, her chest tight with dread, her hands trembling as she clung to Julesan, his purr a steady vibration meant to anchor her but unable to quell her panic.

Moments later, the smoke parted, and Lysanther and Uric emerged, their clothes smoldering, their faces streaked with soot and sweat, dragging Silva’s limp form between them. His silver-blond hair was singed, clumps charred and curling, his pale skin blistered and raw, his tattered tunic hanging in burnt shreds, exposing patches of burned flesh. The burnt bandages over his amputation wound were unraveling as his body was awkwardly moved out of the inferno. Yet he was alive, his chest rising faintly, a weak groan escaping his lips. In his clenched hand, he clutched the whip made of Caroline’s hair, its dark strands singed but intact. 

And there, around his neck, glinting through the charred and tattered fabric of his tunic, hung her silver locket—the very one she had worn empty through the years since the loss of her marriage and babies. The sight struck her like a physical blow: the small, familiar oval catching the firelight, swaying against his blistered chest with every labored breath. He had had it all this time.

Chapter Text

Weeks later

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Caroline walked alone through a narrow passageway deep beneath the palace in the capital city. The air was cool and heavy with the scent of damp stone and faint torch smoke. The underground corridor was lit by flickering torches mounted in iron sconces, their orange glow casting long, wavering shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Her bare feet padded softly against the cold floor, her simple long dress—a flowing garment of deep blue, soft against her skin—swishing with each step. In her hands, she carried a ceramic corked container, the liquid within sloshing gently. The silence of the corridor was broken only by the distant drip of water and the soft crackle of the torches, her heart steady but heavy with the weight of her purpose.

She reached the end of the passageway, where a heavy iron door loomed, flanked by two guards in dark, scaled armor, their faces stern but respectful. Their eyes flicked to her, recognizing the queen, and they stepped aside, pulling the door open with a low groan. Caroline nodded faintly, her grip tightening on the container as she stepped into the room beyond. The chamber was vast, crypt-like in its silence, its high stone walls carved into intricate shelves that receded into shadow. The air was cooler here, tinged with a faint, earthy scent, the silence reverent, as if the room itself held its breath.

Four vessels rested securely in the carved shelves, their translucent surfaces shimmering under the dim torchlight. Caroline approached the first, her breath catching as she gazed at Lysanther’s brood, the eggs that had been born in in Kalthar. They had changed since that day, their once blue-black hue now a breathtaking gold, radiant and warm, pulsing with life. Perhaps it was her eyes playing tricks but they looked ever so slightly larger today. Her heart swelled with awe and tenderness, her fingers brushing the vessel’s smooth surface as she uncorked the ceramic container. She poured a splash of the liquid—her milk drawn earlier that day—and it swirled into the vessel, coating the golden eggs, ensuring their strength and continued growth. Lysanther’s legacy, the princely brood, was destined to lead, and the weight of that hope pressed gently on her chest.

Her mind drifted back to that day in Kalthar, the beautiful room with its domed ceiling and star-shaped skylights, the silvery curtains swaying as she lay in the nest of pillows and blankets, Lysanther’s purr a constant hum, his hands guiding her through the painless, euphoric birth. The memory was vivid—the pleasure of each delivery, his teasing voice counting them, his pride as the final egg emerged, the sunlight bathing them in a soft glow. She smiled faintly, her eyes stinging with the weight of it, the love and connection that had grown despite the chaos, the pain, the betrayal.

Caroline’s fingers lingered on the first vessel, the golden glow of Lysanther’s princely brood warming her heart as she stepped away, the ceramic container still heavy with milk in her hands. She moved to the next, her bare feet quiet on the cool floor. The second vessel held Julesan’s brood of ten healthy eggs. She uncorked the container, her hands steady as she poured the milk, watching it swirl around the blue-black eggs, nourishing them, ensuring their growth. Her eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at her lips as memories of their creation flooded back, vivid and charged.

It had been on the journey back to the capital, a week after the chaos in Kalthar, the group traveling through dense forests under a canopy of alien stars. Her heat had struck unexpectedly, a sudden, overwhelming surge that caught her off guard in their forest camp. The men had been setting up bedrolls, when her body betrayed her, a rush of wetness soaking her thighs, her nerves sparking with desperate need. The tension had been palpable, the men’s purrs flaring instinctively, their eyes darkening as her scent filled the air. Julesan, his reddish-brown hair tousled, his rugged face flushed, was with her in an instant, his gaze locking onto hers with a hunger that made her heart race.

Lysanther, ever watchful, sensed it, his gold-green eyes glinting with love and playful teasing. “Caroline, darling,” he’d murmured, his purr a warm hum as he stepped closer, his hand brushing her cheek. “Your heat’s chosen again, hasn’t it? Look at Julesan—he’s already lost to you.” His voice was light, but his touch was urgent, guiding her toward Julesan, who stood frozen, his breath ragged, his erection straining against his trousers. The other men circled, their purrs a low chorus, their presence intensifying the moment, but Lysanther’s teasing kept it grounded. “Go on, Julesan,” he’d said, grinning. “She wants you. Don’t keep your queen waiting.”

Julesan had been overwhelmed, his lust a tidal wave as he pulled her close, his hands trembling as they yanked up her dress, his lips crashing against hers with a desperate need. The release had been explosive, his thrusts deep and frantic, her body arching into him, her moans echoing through the forest as the other men watched, their purrs a primal backdrop. Lysanther’s voice had woven through it, teasing her lovingly. “That’s it, my love, take what you need,” he’d said, his hand kneading her breasts as Julesan moved inside her, his knot swelling, locking them together in a shuddering climax. The memory was vivid—the heat of Julesan’s body, the overwhelming pleasure of his release deep inside of her, Lysanther’s playful encouragement, the circle of men a silent witness to her surrender.

Caroline’s cheeks flushed as she moved to the next vessel which held Uric’s brood, the forms of eight eggs within sturdy and distinct, reflecting the fighter’s strength. She tipped the container, pouring the warm milk with care, watching it swirl around the eggs, nourishing them. Her heart stirred, a flush creeping up her cheeks as memories of their mating flooded back, raw and vivid.

It had been the day they began moving into the palace in the capital, a sprawling structure of white stone and glinting mosaics, its halls buzzing with the chaos of renovation. Caroline’s heat had struck abruptly, a sudden, searing wave that hit her as she stood in her unfinished bedroom, the nest of pillows and blankets only half-prepared on a massive bed. The intensity caught her off guard, her body trembling, a rush of wetness soaking her thighs. The men were scattered, carrying crates and arranging furniture, when her scent filled the air, their purrs flaring instinctively. Uric, his scarred face flushed, his bald head gleaming with sweat, had been closest, his massive frame pausing mid-step, his eyes darkening with lust.

Lysanther, always a tease, announced to the room. “My queen’s heat calls again,” he’d said, his hand brushing her arm as he nodded to Uric. “Go to her, Uric. She needs you now.” The other men had rushed to finish the nest, their movements frantic, piling soft furs and pillows onto the bed, their purrs a low chorus in the background.

Uric hadn’t hesitated, his broad hands lifting her effortlessly, pressing her back against the cool stone wall of the palace bedroom, the rough texture biting into her shoulders through her gown. His lips crashed against hers, his kiss fierce and hungry, his scent of smoked wood and leather overwhelming her senses. He’d yanked up her dress, his calloused fingers gripping her thighs as he spread them, his erection—thick and unyielding—pressing against her slick folds. The mating was raw, urgent, his thrusts powerful as he took her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, her moans echoing in the vast room. Lysanther watched, his purr steady, his eyes glinting with love and arousal, his voice teasing. “Look at you, Caroline, taking him so well,” he’d murmured, stepping closer, his presence grounding her as Uric’s knot swelled, locking them together in a shuddering climax, her body convulsing with pleasure, her cries mingling with the men’s purrs as they finished the nest nearby.

Caroline’s fingers trembled slightly as she moved to the final vessel, the ceramic container nearly empty, the faint slosh of remaining milk a soft echo in the chamber. The torchlight flickered across the carved stone shelves, her long blue dress swishing as she approached the last vessel, its nine eggs delicate yet vibrant, reflecting Woan’s graceful intensity. She poured in the last of the warm milk with care.

Their union had been the night of the inaugural dinner, a grand affair in the capital’s palace to establish her court. The vast hall was adorned with glinting mosaics and shimmering chandeliers, filled with important men from the capital and neighboring towns. Their scaled armor and ornate tunics were a display of loyalty to the new queen. The formal dinner had been a whirlwind of toasts and speeches, Caroline seated at the head table beside Lysanther, her gown a deep silver that hugged her curves, her role as queen both daunting and surreal. After the meal, the dancing began, the hall alive with music, the men’s purrs a low undercurrent as they took turns partnering with her, their eyes glinting with restrained desire, awaiting the day her heat might choose them.

Woan had been her partner for one dance. His long black hair was tied back regally, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a quiet intensity, his lean frame moving with a dancer’s grace. The heat crept in during their dance, building slowly until her core pulsed with need as they spun across the floor. Overcome, she’d kissed him impulsively, her lips pressing against his in a desperate, heated moment, the hall’s eyes on them, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. She’d pulled back, mortified, and fled to Lysanther, whispering her need, her voice shaking. “I want him, Lysanther,” she’d confessed, her face burning, “what do I do?” Lysanther’s gold-green eyes had sparkled with understanding, his purr warm as he’d smiled. “My silly girl,” he’d teased, kissing her forehead before discreetly inviting Woan to her nest.

In her starlit bedroom, the nest of pillows and blankets already prepared, Woan had taken her with a fervent passion, his hands deft as he stripped her gown, his lips trailing fire across her skin. Lysanther had stayed, his presence a grounding force, his purr a steady hum as he guided them, his hands stroking her hair, teasing her gently. “Let him please you, my love,” he’d murmured, his voice thick with arousal as Woan entered her, his thrusts deep and rhythmic, her body arching into him, her moans filling the room. Lysanther’s touch had amplified the pleasure, his fingers teasing her clitoris as Woan’s knot swelled, locking them together in a shuddering climax, her heat sated, his seed taking root. Like with the other broods, she’d given birth a day later, the eggs emerging in a euphoric rush, Woan’s quiet pride and Lysanther’s loving encouragement anchoring her through it.

The quiet of the chamber was a gentle weight, her heart full of the deep emotions tied to each brood, when the soft echo of footsteps broke the silence, approaching from the passageway behind her. She turned, her breath catching as Julesan appeared, his reddish-brown hair catching the torchlight, his rugged face softened by a warm smile. He stepped close, his scent of smoked leather and forest herbs enveloping her, and pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of her neck, his lips warm and lingering, sending a shiver through her.

“My queen,” he murmured, his voice sweet and low, his purr a melodic hum that wrapped around her. “I’ve been looking for you. It’s time to get ready for dinner.” His hands rested lightly on her hips, his touch reassuring as he pulled her closer, his eyes glinting with affection. “The broods are safe here, Caroline. The guards are vigilant, and the vessels are secure. Let me take you upstairs.”

She leaned into him, her tension easing slightly, her fingers brushing his as he took her hand, his grip warm and steady. “I just… wanted to see them,” she said softly. He squeezed her hand, leading her toward the passageway, the torchlight casting their shadows long across the stone walls. As they climbed the staircase, his voice filled the quiet, light and engaging. “We’ve had new men arrive at court today,” he said, a playful note in his tone. “Some from the northern towns, a few from the coast. There’s a young captain, Riven, with blue eyes and a quick laugh—you might like talking to him at dinner. And a scholar, Taryn, who’s full of stories. I think you’ll enjoy their company.”

Caroline managed a small smile, his warmth lifting her spirits as they emerged from the stairs into a grand hall, the air warm with the scent of polished wood. Across the grand room, the doors swung open, and Lysanther and Silva strode in from outdoors, their laughter echoing, their faces flushed and sweaty from whatever exertion they’d shared—sparring, perhaps, or running drills. Lysanther’s indigo tunic clinging to his muscular frame, while Silva moved with a careful gait. His silver-blond hair was growing back and his burns had healed into fresh scars. Caroline’s smile faded, irritation flaring in her chest at the sight of them together, their easy camaraderie grating against her.

Silva glanced her way, his pale eyes unreadable, then turned and walked in another direction, his steps measured. Lysanther, spotting her, strode over, his gold-green eyes brightening, his purr flaring as he reached her and Julesan. “Darling,” he said, his voice warm, pulling her into a deep kiss, his lips firm and possessive, his scent of rich soil and cinnamon grounding her despite her irritation. He pulled back, his hand cupping her cheek, but her frown deepened, her arms crossing.

“You’re spending too much time with him,” she said, her voice sharp, her eyes flicking toward Silva’s retreating figure. “His healing, training with him—it’s constant. I wish someone else could take it up.”

Lysanther’s grin turned teasing, his purr lightening as he leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers. “Jealous of my time, my stubborn girl?” he murmured, his voice playful but laced with understanding. “Silva’s almost back to full health and I’ll be freed up soon. You’re my heart—don’t doubt that.” He kissed her again, softer this time, his hand sliding to her lower back. “Come, let’s get you ready for dinner.”

Julesan chuckled, his hand still in hers, and the three of them walked toward her private rooms, the palace’s grandeur unfolding around them, Caroline’s irritation softening under Lysanther’s touch, though a flicker of unease about Silva lingered as they prepared for the evening ahead.

The trio walked through the palace’s grand halls. Caroline’s irritation simmered, her hand still in Julesan’s, Lysanther’s teasing presence at her side both soothing and aggravating. They reached her private rooms, the heavy double doors flanked by two guards in armor, their swords gleaming in the torchlight. The guards stepped aside, pulling the doors open with a low creak, revealing the sitting room beyond. The space was elegant yet intimate, its walls draped in deep blue tapestries embroidered with silver vines, the floor covered in plush, dark rugs that muffled their steps. A low, cushioned bench sat against one wall, flanked by ornate tables holding glowing orbs that cast a soft, golden light, their warmth mingling with the faint scent of wax.

They passed through the sitting room into the dressing room, a grand chamber that took Caroline’s breath away despite her familiarity. The room was vast, its high ceiling adorned with delicate carvings of stars, the walls lined with racks of luxurious clothes—dresses of shimmering silks in sapphire, emerald, and crimson, each embroidered with intricate patterns that caught the light. A large vanity dominated one side, its polished surface cluttered with jeweled combs, vials of scented oils, and a massive silver-framed mirror reflecting the opulence. A low, velvet couch in deep green sat nearby, its fabric inviting, a place for rest amidst the grandeur.

Lysanther paused, glancing at an ornate clock on the wall, its hands ticking softly. “We’re going to be late to dinner,” he said, his voice warm but urgent. “The court’s waiting, darling—the men are expecting us.” He stepped closer, ignoring her lingering irritation, and kissed her deeply, his lips firm and possessive, his earthy scent of rich soil and cinnamon flooding her senses, stirring a reluctant arousal despite her mood. She stiffened, then softened, the kiss melting some of her frustration. He pulled back, his sweaty frame radiating heat from his time outdoors. “Should I bathe?” he asked, a teasing grin curling his lips. “I’m a bit… ripe from sparring.”

Caroline leaned in, her nose brushing his neck, inhaling his scent—sweaty, musky, utterly intoxicating, making her pulse quicken. “No,” she murmured, her voice softer, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “You smell… perfect.”

Lysanther’s grin widened, his purr a low, playful hum. “My girl likes her men wild, does she?” he teased, winking as he moved to a rack, pulling out a formal indigo tunic embroidered with silver threads, beginning to dress. Caroline sat at the vanity, her reflection staring back—her hair longer now brushing her shoulders, its dark waves framing a face glowing with youthful energy. But her eyes were shadowed with irritation, her emotions tangled.

Julesan moved to the racks, his fingers trailing over the dresses. “What do you want to wear tonight, Caroline?” he asked, his voice light but expectant, pulling out a sapphire gown shimmering with silver threads. She didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the mirror, her mind churning, her irritation flaring. Lysanther, buttoning his tunic, glanced over, his grin teasing. “Sulking again, my love? Your heat’s overdue—eight days since you had Woan, isn’t it? No wonder you’re all fire and no spark.” His voice was playful, but his eyes held a knowing glint, acknowledging the hormonal storm she knew was driving her mood.

She glared at him through the mirror, her cheeks flushing. “I’m fine,” she snapped, though she knew he was right, her overdue heat making her irrational, her irritation at Silva’s constant presence with Lysanther bubbling over. “I don’t care what I wear.”

Julesan’s patience thinned, his purr sharpening as he set the sapphire gown on the couch. “Come on, Caroline,” he teased, his voice firm but laced with heat, his eyes glinting as he stepped closer. “You can’t brood all night. Stand up.” She didn’t move, her eyes locked on the mirror. Julesan’s tone turned commanding, a low growl in his purr. “Up, now,” he said, his hands reaching for her, his touch warm and insistent as he pulled her to her feet.

The air crackled with tension, his closeness overwhelming, his scent of smoked leather and herbs stirring her heat despite her irritation. His fingers brushed her shoulders as he gripped the hem of her simple blue dress, lifting it slowly, deliberately, his eyes locked on hers in the mirror, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. The fabric slid up her thighs, exposing her smooth skin, her curves, the faint dampness of milk at her breasts. Her breath hitched, her body responding traitorously, a rush of wetness between her thighs as his hands grazed her hips, peeling the dress away. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low, his purr vibrating through her, “you really are fighting this one.” The dress fell to the floor, leaving her bare, her skin prickling under his gaze.

Lysanther chuckled from across the room, his tunic half-buttoned, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Julesan’s got your attention now, doesn’t he, Caroline?” he teased, his purr a warm hum. “Careful, or your heat might choose him again before dinner.”

Caroline’s cheeks burned, her irritation warring with the arousal Julesan’s touch sparked, her body trembling as he picked up the sapphire gown. His hands were quick but deliberate, sliding the shimmering fabric over her skin, the cool silk a stark contrast to his warm fingers, which lingered on her waist, her shoulders, adjusting the gown’s fitted bodice to hug her curves, the skirt flowing to the floor. The tension hung heavy, his purr a low rumble, his eyes dark with restrained desire as he stepped back, admiring her. “There,” he said, his voice teasing but thick with want. “Fit for a queen, even if she’s pouting.”

Caroline glanced at the mirror, the sapphire gown stunning, its silver threads catching the light, her youthful glow undeniable, but her irritation lingered, her heart heavy with the day’s emotions. Lysanther, now fully dressed, his indigo tunic and cape impeccable, approached, his purr a warm hum as he took her hand. “Come, darling,” he said, his voice soft but teasing. “Let’s go dazzle the court—and maybe find you someone new to charm.” They stepped toward the door, Julesan at her side, the weight of dinner and her role as queen looming as they prepared to face the gathering court.

---

Caroline, Lysanther, and Julesan descended the palace’s grand staircase, her sapphire gown shimmering with every step, its silver threads catching the torchlight as they approached the banquet hall. The heavy double doors, carved with intricate vine-like glyphs, swung open, revealing a vast chamber aglow with chandeliers of glowing orbs, their light dancing across white stone walls adorned with shimmering mosaics. The air was rich with the scents of roasted meats, spiced fruits, and warm bread, the long banquet table laden with platters, surrounded by dozens of men in formal tunics and scaled armor. As Caroline entered, flanked by Lysanther’s commanding presence and Julesan’s steady warmth, all eyes turned to her, the room falling silent for a heartbeat. The men stared, their gazes a mix of reverence, desire, and curiosity, her role as queen of the hive commanding their attention. Her cheeks flushed, her irritation simmering under the weight of their scrutiny, her heat’s overdue absence making her mood volatile.

In the crowd, she spotted Uric and Woan near the table, their faces breaking into knowing smirks and their eyes glinting with playful recognition of their shared history. Her gaze shifted, landing on Silva, standing near the table’s center, his formal black outfit with a flowing cape a stark contrast to his pale skin. His missing arm, the sleeve pinned neatly, did little to diminish his presence. This was his first court dinner since his recovery, and Caroline’s irritation flared, her heart tightening at his audacity to sit so prominently.

They assembled at the head of the table, Lysanther guiding her to the central seat, his purr a warm hum as he leaned close. “Darling,” he murmured, his voice low, “who do you want beside you tonight? Choose your companions.” His tone was playful, but his gaze held a challenge, sensing her moody restlessness.

Caroline’s irritation bubbled over, her heat’s absence making her irrational, her desire to needle Lysanther sharp, especially with Silva’s presence across the table. She scanned the room. With a defiant flick of her hand, her voice clipped, she snapped, “the two that Julesan recommended.” Her choice was deliberate, an attempt to spark jealousy, to make Lysanther feel the sting of her frustration.

Lysanther’s grin widened, his purr a low, amused rumble, unfazed by her defiance. “Oh, my moody girl,” he teased, his voice dripping with playful mockery, “trying to rile me with Riven and Taryn? Clever, but I’m not so easily shaken.” He raised a hand, beckoning the men with a flourish. “Riven, Taryn, come sit by your queen!” The young captain, Riven, approached with a flustered bow, his sharp eyes darting to Caroline as he took the seat to her left, while Taryn, the scholar, followed with a calm nod, settling at her right, his gaze steady but respectful. Their purrs were soft, hesitant, aware of Lysanther’s watchful presence—and Silva’s, directly across from her, his scarred face unreadable as he lifted a goblet, his pale eyes locked on hers, intensifying her irritation.

The banquet hall pulsed with energy, the clink of goblets and the roar of conversation filling the air as the feast unfolded beneath the glowing chandeliers. The long table was a vision of opulence—platters of roasted meats glistening with savory juices, spiced fruits shimmering in the light, warm bread torn apart by eager hands. Caroline sat at the center, her sapphire gown catching the torchlight with every movement, its silver threads weaving a subtle glow around her, her role as queen drawing every eye in the room. Riven, to her left, spoke with animated fervor, his sharp features alight with nervous energy, recounting tales of coastal skirmishes, while Taryn, offered measured insights on ancient conquests. Their words drifted over her, their soft purrs a gentle undercurrent, but Caroline’s focus was elsewhere, her attention locked on Lysanther and Silva across the table, her irritation festering like an open wound.

Lysanther laughed with a rich, unguarded warmth, his gold-green eyes sparkling as he leaned toward Silva, their conversation lively, their voices cutting through the hall’s din. Silva matched Lysanther’s energy, his laughter a low, resonant hum. The sight of them, so at ease fueled Caroline’s anger, her heart pounding as the alcohol flowed freely, goblets refilled with a dark, potent brew that loosened tongues. The dinner grew rowdy, the men’s voices rising, some standing to toast the hive’s future, others slamming the table in raucous amusement, the hall a cacophony of primal energy.

Caroline’s gaze never wavered, her irritation escalating with every shared laugh, every glance between Lysanther and Silva. Her hands clenched beneath the table, her breath shallow, her heat’s overdue absence making her emotions volatile, irrational, a storm she couldn’t control. Silva’s presence gnawed at her—his scarred face, the burns from Kalthar now pink, jagged lines, his missing arm a constant taunt.

Then, unbidden, a sudden intrusive image seized her, vivid and horrifying, flooding her mind with a clarity that made her heart race and her breathing stutter. In her mind’s eye, she saw Silva rising from his seat, his pale eyes burning with obsessive intensity, striding around the table, and then bending her over it, right there in front of the court. His hands, rough and unyielding, would yank up her gown, exposing her to the hall’s staring eyes, his body pressing against hers, his knot forcing its way inside her, stretching her painfully as he claimed her. In the fantasy, his voice, low and haunting, echoed the words he’d spoken in the forest: “Before your heat chooses me—and it will someday—you’ll have to decide. Kill me, or take me.” His breath would be hot on her neck as he took her. Her body betrayed her with a rush of wetness, her approaching heat responding despite her horror.

Her heart pounded, her breathing quickened, a cold sweat breaking out as the fantasy gripped her, her body trembling with fear, shame, and unwanted arousal. She was horrified, her hands shaking as she fought to push the image away, her eyes locked on Silva’s scarred face across the table, his pale gaze meeting hers, unreadable but piercing, as if he sensed the chaos in her mind. The memory of his words crashed over her, her anger surging past reason.

Without thinking, her hand shot out, grabbing the knife from the table, its handle cool and heavy in her palm, the blade glinting in the chandelier light. The room’s noise dulled to a distant roar as she stood, her chair scraping harshly against the stone floor, her gown swishing as she walked toward Silva, the knife clutched tightly. Her steps were deliberate, her heart a storm of fury, fear, and the intrusive pull of her heat. The men’s eyes followed her, their voices faltering, the hall tensing as she approached him, her mind a whirlwind of rage and unwanted desire.

The banquet hall’s vibrant chaos ground to a halt, the clink of goblets and the roar of conversation fading into a suffocating silence as Caroline stood before Silva, the knife gripped so tightly in her trembling hand that her knuckles gleamed white, its blade catching the chandelier’s glowing light in sharp, menacing glints. Her gown shimmered with every shuddering breath. Her heart thundered in her chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed in her ears, drowning out the distant hum of the hall’s dozens of men, their eyes fixed on her in shock and barely restrained tension. 

Silva was before her, his formal black cape pooling over his chair like a dark tide, his silver-blond hair framing a face still striking despite the pale, jagged scars marring one side. Lysanther, seated to his right, leaned forward sharply, his eyes wide with alarm. “Caroline, don’t—” he began, his voice a low, urgent warning, his hand reaching toward her, fingers splayed as if to pull her back from the edge. But Silva raised his hand, his movement slow and deliberate, his voice cutting through the tense air with a calm, authoritative edge that stilled even Lysanther’s protest. “Let her,” he said, his pale eyes never leaving Caroline’s, a faint, enigmatic smile curling his lips, as if he welcomed the confrontation, as if her rage was a gift. “Let her speak. Let her choose.”

Caroline’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, her chest heaving, her body trembling with a volatile storm of anger, fear, and the lingering heat of the intrusive fantasy that had seized her moments ago. Tears stung her eyes as they spilled over, her vision blurring but never wavering from his face. The knife shook in her grip, her arm aching from the effort of holding it steady, her heart a frantic drumbeat as the weight of the hall’s silence pressed down on her.

Silva leaned forward slightly, his cape shifting, his voice low and deliberate, a dangerous calm threading through his words, as if he were savoring the moment. “Here we are again. Have you made your decision, Caroline?” he asked, his pale eyes glinting with an intensity that made her stomach twist, his smile sharpening into something both predatory and vulnerable. “Are you going to kill me? Tell me—how will you do it?” His tone was almost conversational, but it carried a weight that silenced the room further, the men frozen, their breaths held. He tilted his head, his scarred face catching the light, his voice dropping to a provocative murmur. “Will you stab my heart, right here?” His hand pressed to his chest. “One quick thrust, and it’s done. Or my eye,” he continued, pointing to the unscarred side of his face, his gaze unwavering, “drive the blade in, twist it, make me suffer. Or perhaps…” His voice softened, a chilling intimacy creeping in, “my belly—gut me slowly, let me bleed out at your feet. Slow. Painful. A fitting end.”

Her heart raced faster, a wild, erratic beat that made her dizzy, her breathing a frantic staccato, her grip on the knife tightening, the blade trembling but never lowering. Silva’s words painted vivid, gruesome images, each one a taunt, a challenge, stirring the storm of rage and fear within her. Lysanther’s hand hovered near her, his purr a low, strained hum, his body poised to intervene, but Silva’s calm held him at bay, the hall caught in a breathless standoff.

Silva reached out, his hand moving with deliberate slowness, his fingers closing gently but firmly over hers, enveloping the hand clutching the knife. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through her, her nerves sparking despite her fury, her body betraying her with a flicker of heat. He guided her hand, the blade’s tip scraping lightly against his skin as he pressed it to his neck, just over his carotid artery, the pulse beneath throbbing visibly, a steady rhythm against the cold metal. “The fastest way,” he whispered, his voice soft but searing, his eyes boring into hers, unblinking, “is to slit my throat. One clean cut, right here, and I’m dead. Do it, Caroline. If that’s your choice, end me and my suffering now.”

The room was a void of silence, the men’s eyes wide, Lysanther’s breath catching, his body coiled like a spring. Caroline’s heart thundered, her vision tunneling on Silva’s face—the scars, the pulse under the blade—her tears falling faster, her anger and fear a maelstrom she couldn’t escape. She opened her mouth to scream at him, to unleash the fury, the pain, the betrayal choking her, but the sound that emerged was not a scream.

High-pitched and piercing, a primal, heat-driven call tore through the hall like a bolt of lightning, raw and instinctive, born from the depths of her rage and need.

Her whine.

Silva’s eyes dilated instantly, his pupils blowing wide, swallowing the pale irises in a flood of black, his body tensing, as her whine struck him like a physical force.

Silva’s voice cut through the silence, deadly serious, a low, commanding growl that sent a shiver down her spine. “Do it right now, Caroline,” he said, his tone unyielding, his gaze locked on hers, unblinking. “You can’t wait another moment. If this is your choice, end me. I’ll help you—guide your hand if you ask me to.” His hand tightened over hers, his fingers hot and firm, the pressure of the blade against his throat unwavering, a thin trickle of blood seeping where the tip pressed. “Ask me, Caroline,” he whispered, his voice a dark promise.

Caroline’s heart thundered, her breathing frantic, her body trembling as his words sank in, the weight of the moment crushing her.

Her whine escaped again, high-pitched and piercing, a primal surge of heat and desperation that tore through the hall, her fear amplifying the sound into something raw, instinctive. Silva’s eyes widened further, his pupils impossibly large, his breathing accelerating, a low growl rumbling in his chest, his body shuddering with the force of it.

The hall erupted into commotion, men standing abruptly, their chairs scraping against the stone floor, goblets tipping, their purrs flaring in chaotic disarray. Lysanther surged to his feet, eyes wild with alarm. “Caroline, stop!” he warned, his voice sharp, his hand reaching toward her. “Don’t do this—you’ll regret it!”

Silva’s voice rose, a yell that cut through the chaos, raw and commanding. “Do it now, Caroline! Kill me!” His hand pressed hers harder against his throat, the blade biting deeper, a fresh trickle of blood welling, his eyes desperate, pleading, daring her to act.

“Kill me!”

Her vision blurred with tears, her gaze darting across his face—the pale, jagged scars, the desperation in his dilated eyes, a mirror of her own turmoil. Her heart raced, her body trembling with the weight of the knife and the choice before her. Her eyes dropped to his neck, preparing to slice, to end the torment of his presence. But then, catching the firelight, she saw it—the glint of the locket’s chain, just peeking from beneath his tunic. The sight struck her like a bolt, a sudden, overwhelming realization crashing through her rage and fear: she wanted him. Not to kill, not to destroy, but to claim, to bend to the twisted pull of her heat. His obsession and their history bound them together in a knot she couldn’t untangle.

The knife slipped from her fingers, clattering to the stone floor with a sharp, metallic ring that echoed in the silent hall. Her lips parted, and a soft, trembling whine escaped—not the piercing call of before, but a quiet, aching sound, his name spilling out like a confession.

“Silva.”