Taming the Beast World with a Frying Pan-Chapter 59: Medical Treatment*

Ren was still reaching out toward the corner of the room, her fingers grasping at the air.

"Kael..." she whimpered, her eyes tracking the retreating form of Viper. "Don’t go... kitty needs to stay..."

Syris felt a vein in his temple throb dangerously. His patience snapped.

He turned his glare on Viper, who was still standing awkwardly by the door.

"Out," Syris hissed, the sound vibrating with lethal intent.

There was no hesitation. Viper didn’t even blink. He simply vanished; the heavy stone doors were clicking shut with a rush of air.

Ren let out a pathetic, pouty noise, her hand dropping limply to the mattress.

"You chased him away," she mumbled, tears pricking her eyes. "He was so fluffy."

"He was a reptile, Ren," Syris snapped, turning back to the bed. "And he is not Kael."

Syris clenched his jaw. "The tiger is dead."

"He’s not dead," Ren argued, her voice growing faint as the adrenaline faded and the heavy, suffocating weight of the neurotoxin took over. She blinked sluggishly, her head lolling on the pillow. "Kael... is alive..."

"Cats..." Ren whispered, her eyes fluttering closed, "...they have...nine lives..."

Syris scoffed. "Her sickness must be worsening," he muttered to himself. "Even in her dreams, she clings to that striped fool."

He watched her closely. The fight was leaving her body. Her breathing turned shallow and raspy, interrupted by low, pained groans. Her skin was burning hot, but she was shivering violently.

Her hand drifted down, clawing weakly at her right leg.

"Hurts..." she moaned. "Make it stop..."

Syris moved quickly. He pushed the black furs aside, exposing her bare legs.

The sight made his stomach clench.

The bite mark on her upper inner thigh—dangerously close to the juncture of her legs—was ugly. The flesh around the puncture wounds had turned a deep, bruised purple. Dark veins were spiderwebbing out from the center down her thigh.

She was dying. Probably.

Syris froze. He didn’t know what to do. He had no healer in the castle who knew mammal physiology.

"Think," he commanded himself.

He looked at the wound. He looked at her distress.

’Mammals,’ he thought, recalling his observations of the wild. ’When mammals are hurt, they lick their wounds.’

"Stay still," Syris whispered, his voice rough.

He positioned himself between her spread legs, kneeling on the mattress. He placed his hands on her hips to hold her steady. Her skin was scorching against his cool palms.

He lowered his head.

Ren gasped as his cold breath hit the sensitive, feverish skin of her inner thigh.

Syris didn’t hesitate. He pressed his mouth over the purple wound.

He sucked hard.

"Nnngh!" Ren cried out, her back arching off the mattress. Her fingers tangled in his long black hair, gripping tight.

Syris ignored her cry. He drew the blood into his mouth, tasting the metallic copper mixed with the bitter, acidic tang of the neurotoxin.

He swallowed it.

He worked with a rhythmic, desperate intensity. His tongue, long and agile, lapped at the wound, stimulating the blood flow, drawing every drop of toxin out of her system.

"Syris..." Ren moaned, her voice breathless and hazy. "It feels... weird..."

He could feel the poison leaving her. The purple color was slowly fading, replaced by the bright, healthy red of fresh blood.

But as the bitterness of the toxin faded, another scent hit him.

It was heavy. Sweet. Intoxicating.

Her natural scent was mixed with the musk of arousal.

Syris paused, his face buried in the soft curve of her thigh. He was so close. Just inches away. He could smell the wetness between her legs.

Syris shuddered. He knew he should stop. The wound was clean.

But he couldn’t.

He shifted slightly, moving higher. His nose brushed against what was left of the snake-skin skirt that had ridden up.

He nudged her legs wider. Ren complied pliantly, letting out a soft, inviting whimper.

"Just a taste," Syris lied to himself. "To check for...the poison spreading."

He lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the very center of her heat.

Ren shrieked softly, her hips bucking up to meet him.

Syris groaned, the sound vibrating against her sensitive flesh. He parted her folds with his nose and tasted her.

She was sweet. So incredibly sweet.

His tongue flicked out—not with the medical precision he had used on the wound, but with the wicked, vibrating dexterity of a snake. He lashed at her clit, teasing the swollen bud.

Ren was sobbing now, incoherent babbles of pleasure spilling from her lips.

Syris lost control. He grabbed her thighs, pinning her in place as he devoured her. He sucked and licked, alternating between long, languid strokes and sharp, fluttering flicks that made her body spasm.

He drank her in, intoxicated by her taste, forgetting that he was a King and she was his prisoner.

Right now, she was just his mate.

Ren’s climax hit her hard. She moaned his name, her body trembling violently as the waves of pleasure washed through her, finally flushing the last of the tension from her system.

She collapsed back onto the furs, her chest heaving, her skin flushed a deep, healthy rose.

Syris pulled back, panting heavily.

He looked up at her.

Ren’s breathing was slowing down. The pained furrow in her brow was gone, replaced by a peaceful expression. She was asleep.

Syris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt... dazed.

"Dangerous woman," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

He sat back on his heels, admiring her. Her clothes were in tatters, her body exposed and glowing in the dim light of the phosphorescent moss. She looked beautiful.

"I must go," Syris told himself. "Before I do something else."

He started to slide off the bed.

Suddenly, a hot hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

Syris froze.

Ren hadn’t opened her eyes. She was still deep in exhaustion, but her grip was surprisingly strong.

She tugged him.

"Stay," she slurred, the single word barely a ghost of a whisper.

Syris stared at her flushed face. He looked at the door, where sanity waited. Then he looked at the empty space beside her.

With a resigned sigh, he yielded.

He climbed back onto the bed, lying down beside her.

Ren wasted no time, she rolled immediately. She draped her arm over his chest and threw her leg over his hip.

She snuggled into him, burying her face in the crook of his neck.

She was a furnace. He was like a block of ice. The contrast was shockingly pleasant.

But there was a problem.

Ren was basically naked. She was lying half on top of him. And her soft, warm stomach was pressed directly against the very hard, very awake bulge in his robe.

Syris stared up at the ceiling of the Nest, feeling the soft weight of the woman he desperately wanted to hate, feeling the sensation of her breath on his neck, and the torture of her body against his arousal.

"This," Syris thought, closing his eyes with a groan, "was a terrible idea."