Chapter Two
JEANNE
She didn't sleep that first night.
The bed was too soft, too large, and it smelled like him. Every time she closed her eyes, her body responded in ways that made her want to claw her own flesh off. She lay rigid on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling, listening to the creak of the ship and the distant sounds of the crew.
Marc was dead. Every time she started to drift toward sleep, she saw his face. His mouth moving, trying to say her name. The blood pumping from his throat in rhythmic gushes.
Her father had sold her. She was trapped on a ship with twenty seawolves and an alpha who had buried six brides.
And all her stupid omega brain could think about was how good he had smelled.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until she saw stars. Marc deserved better than a sister who got wet for the man responsible for his death. Marc deserved grief, not this shameful heat building under her skin.
Dawn came gray and cold through the windows. Jeanne rose, splashed water on her face from the basin in the corner, and took stock of her prison. The quarters were well-appointed but spare. A trunk sat at the foot of the bed, its lock gleaming in the early light.
She knelt beside it. The lock was simple, the kind her brother had taught her to pick years ago when they were children playing at being thieves.
Marc had taught her to pick locks and to climb trees.
He had shown her how to gut fish, mend fences, and all the other things their father couldn't be bothered to show her.
Her fingers itched to try the lock. Maybe there was something in it that could help her escape or find out how the other omegas had perished?
The captain had given her rules. Don't ask about the omegas. Don’t ask about the curse.
Don’t open the forbidden door. He hadn't said anything about trunks and finding out information on her own.
She found a hairpin in the small bag of belongings the debt collectors had allowed her to bring. It took her three minutes to work the lock open, her heart hammering the entire time. The lid creaked as she lifted it.
It was full of clothes, books, and papers. But there was also a dark velvet box. Petting the soft lid, she inspected it. It was long and had a simple gold clasp. She opened it and inside, nestled within lay seven rings.
Wedding rings. Each one different: a delicate gold band, a silver ring set with sapphires, a simple copper circle worn thin with age. Seven rings for seven brides. Jeanne's hands trembled as she lifted the first one, turning it in the light. An inscription gleamed on the inside.
Marguerite. Beloved.
She checked the others. Six of them bore a name. Marguerite. Celeste. Isabeau. Vivienne. Lucienne. Adele.
Six names. Six women. Six deaths.
What had they looked like? Had they been wolf omegas, strong and fast, able to shift and fight? Or were they human like herself? Had they come willingly, seduced by the captain's wealth or power or that devastating scent? Or had he captured them, stolen them from their homes kicking and screaming?
"You were told not to ask about them."
She spun, heart lurching into her throat. The captain stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with cold eyes. She hadn't heard the door open. She hadn't heard him approach. He moved like smoke, like shadow.
"I didn't ask." She didn't put the box down. "I looked. There's a difference."
"A distinction without meaning." He crossed the room in three strides, and suddenly he was looming over her, his scent flooding her senses. Her thighs clenched. Lust flared, quick and powerful. She hated her body. She hated it.
"That ring is yours." He pulled out the seventh ring. “Put it on.”
She didn’t. She held up the first ring, letting it catch the light. "Marguerite. What was she like?”
“I told you...”
“I know what you told me, but damn it, I deserve some answers. Why am I here?”
“You’re here because you’re an omega.”
“So were they. Why did they die? Did they not love you? Is that why?”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. "They died because of the curse. The curse that’s behind that forbidden door.”
She placed the ring back in its velvet hollow with exaggerated care. "If I don’t love you will that save me?”
“No.”
“So I have to fall in love with you in order to survive?”
He sighed heavily. “That didn’t save the others.”
“Then why do you think my fate will be different from these other six brides?”
"You’re human." He reached out, and for a terrible, wonderful moment she thought he was going to touch her face again.
Instead, he took the box from her, his fingers brushing hers in the process.
Heat shot through her, and she grit her teeth to fight against the sweet pleasure.
“You may be able to break the curse.” He tossed her the lovely gold ring, adorned with small rubies.
With shaking hands, she put it on her finger and tried not to admire it. It fit her perfectly. Was that magic or fate? "And if I can't?"
He put some distance between them. When he spoke again, exhaustion carved lines into his face.
"Then I will engrave your ring and add it to the box. And find another omega."
He left without another word.
ANATOLE
ANATOLE STOOD AT THE helm, staring out at the endless gray of the Crimson Sea, and tried to force his mind away from the woman in his quarters.
It wasn't working. Every time he breathed, he caught traces of her scent on the wind.
Honeysuckle, vanilla and sea salt, threaded through the ship like a living thing, wrapping around his lungs and refusing to let go.
Mate, his wolf insisted, pacing behind his ribs. Ours. Go back to her. Claim her. Put our teeth in her throat and make her ours forever.
Don’t get attached, Anatole told his wolf. She will probably die, like all the others.
She is different. She is strong. She will not die.
You said that about Marguerite.
His wolf went silent. It always went silent when he mentioned Marguerite.
He had spent the last twelve years ignoring his wolf's demands. Twelve years of ruts spent alone, chained in the hold, his body tearing itself apart with need. It was better than watching omega after omega die in that cursed room, their love not strong enough to break Morvenna's spell.
His wolf had never called any of them mate. Not Celeste with her warrior's heart. Not Isabeau with her clever mind. Not Adele with her gentle hands and the child she'd been carrying without his knowledge.
"You're going to wear a hole in the deck."
Luc's voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. Anatole stilled, realizing he had been pacing without noticing.
"She found the rings," he said. "Already. Less than a day aboard and she's already picking locks and searching through my things."
"The others never thought to snoop around." Luc leaned against the rail, his scarred face thoughtful. "They were too busy trying to please you."
Anatole thought of Jeanne kneeling beside the open trunk, Marguerite's ring in her hand, demanding answers with her chin raised and her eyes blazing. She had been afraid. He could smell it on her, that sharp acrid note cutting through the sweetness of her scent. But she had faced him anyway.
And underneath the fear, underneath the grief for her dead brother, there had been arousal. Hot and sweet and unwilling. Her body had wanted him even as her mind screamed no.
His cock stirred at the memory. He ignored it.
Anatole looked out at the sea, at the gray horizon that held no answers.
His wolf stirred again, pushing against the cage of his ribs.
She will be ours. She is strong enough. She will break the curse and then we will knot her until she screams our name.
JEANNE
THE COOK'S NAME WAS Gris, and he was the only person on the ship who didn’t lower their gaze and back away from her when she walked passed.
"Eat," he said, placing a bowl of fish stew in front of her.
The galley was cramped and hot, smelling of brine and smoke.
It was the first place on the ship where Jeanne had been able to breathe without drowning in the captain's scent.
"You're too thin. Captain Anatole won't be pleased if you waste away. "
Anatole. His name rang like a bell through her, and she controlled a shiver.
"He can go to hell." Jeanne picked up the spoon. She was hungry. She hadn't eaten since before Marc died. Her throat tightened. She forced herself to swallow a bite of stew.
Gris sighed, settling onto a stool across from her. He was old for a wolf, his hair gone silver and his movements slower than the others. But his eyes were kind, and when he looked at her, she saw a tired sort of sadness.
"I've sailed with him for twenty years. Before the sea witch cursed him, he was a good man. Hard, but fair. The kind of captain seawolves wanted to follow."
"And now?"
"Now he's drowning." Gris's voice dropped. "Every bride he takes, he thinks will be the one to break the curse. And every time one of them dies, he loses another piece of himself. The man I knew is still in there somewhere. But there's less of him every year."
Jeanne stirred her stew, watching the chunks of fish swirl in the broth. "Did you care for the other omegas?” She knew she was breaking one of the captain’s rules, but she didn’t care. She needed to know more about what was going to happen to her so she could try and protect herself.
"I cared for all of them." Gris's hands folded on the table. "Marguerite was sweet, gentle. She loved the captain so much it was painful to watch. Her mother hated that. Hated that she gave herself to a mere pirate captain. So she cursed him. Cursed them both.”
“She cursed her own daughter?”
Gris shrugged. “I don’t think she meant to.”
Or maybe she did. Jeanne’s own father sold her. Maybe the sea witch was going to sell her daughter too because omegas were a valued commodity.