Chapter Two #2
“Celeste was fierce, a warrior,” Gris went on, his eyes far away. “Iseabeau was clever. Vivienne was kind. Lucienne was brave. Adele was..." He stopped, swallowing hard. "Adele was pregnant when she opened the door. Three months along. The curse took them both."
Jeanne's spoon stilled. "Pregnant."
"The captain didn't know. She hadn't told him yet. She was going to surprise him." Gris's voice cracked. "She thought a baby might give him hope. Instead, she entered the room."
“The forbidden room?”
Jeanne felt it then. A pull, in her chest. Like there was a thread tied to her ribs, tugging her toward the lowest deck. Maybe this was why she wasn’t supposed to ask questions. Had she awoken something? It was like the ship was breathing, and she could hear it.
Gris’ features darkened. “It’s where the heart of the curse resides.”
The stew sat heavy in Jeanne's stomach. Six brides.
Six deaths. One of them carrying a child that would never be born.
And the cursed captain, Anatole, watched it happen over and over, powerless to stop it.
She didn't want to feel sympathy for him.
She had to think of him as the enemy. As the obstacle between her and survival.
"Why do they open the door?" she asked. "If they know it will kill them, why do they go?"
"They can't help it." Gris's eyes met hers, and there was a warning in them now. "The room calls to omegas. It sings to them in their dreams. The closer they get to heat, the stronger the pull becomes. They all swore they wouldn't go. They all went anyway."
"Anatole says I might be different because I'm human."
"Maybe." Gris didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe the curse will find a way around that too. It's old magic, little one. Older than the captain. Older than this ship. The witch who cast it knew what she was doing."
"Tell me about her." That, at least, was an allowed question. And maybe it would quiet the lure of the forbidden room that was suddenly all she could think about.
Gris shook his head slowly. "I only know the stories.
Morvenna, they called her. A wolf shifter with magic in her blood, living alone on an island that no ship approaches willingly.
The captain loved her daughter, and she loved him back, and Morvenna couldn't stand that. She thought her daughter deserved so much more than to be a pirate’s bride.
" He paused. "Some say Morvenna still alive, still watching, still feeding the curse with her hatred.
Others say she died years ago and her magic outlived her. "
"Which do you believe?"
Gris was quiet for a long moment. "I believe that love should not be punished.
I believe the captain has suffered enough.
And I believe..." He reached across the table and gripped her hand, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle.
"I believe you're stronger than you look. Stronger than the others were."
She hoped so too.
THAT NIGHT, SHE DREAMED of the door.
It stood at the end of a long, dark corridor, the wood old and warped, the hinges rusted. Light leaked from beneath it, golden and wrong, pulsing like a heartbeat. Voices whispered from the other side, women's voices, soft and sad.
Jeanne, they called. Jeanne, come see. Come see what he did to us. Come see what love really looks like.
She walked toward it. She didn't want to walk toward it, but her legs moved anyway, carrying her closer and closer to that pulsing light. The voices grew louder. Marguerite. Celeste. Isabeau. Vivienne. Lucienne. Adele. Six names, six dead women, all of them calling her forward.
He loved us too, Marguerite's voice whispered. He loved us and we died anyway. You will too. You will join us behind this door.
Her hand reached for the handle.
She woke gasping, drenched in sweat, her hand outstretched toward nothing. The captain's quarters were dark around her, the only light coming from the moon through the windows. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her skin burned, too hot, feverish.
Pre-heat. The symptoms were getting worse. And this time she didn’t have the herbs to suppress it. For the first time in her life, she was going to experience the heat instead of just reading about it in forbidden books.
She sat up, pressing her hands to her face. Her panties were damp, and not just from sweat. The dream had left her aching, aroused, her body confusing fear and desire in the maddening way omega bodies always did.
The pull in her chest was stronger now, insistent, like a fishhook behind her sternum. She could feel the door waiting for her, somewhere below. Could feel the dead brides whispering her name.
She pressed her hand over her heart and made herself breathe.
"I won't go," she said to the darkness. To the dead women. To Marc's memory. "I won't open the door. I won't die."
The voices didn't answer. But somewhere in the depths of the ship, she could have sworn she heard them laughing.
ANATOLE
HE HEARD HER SCREAM.
Anatole was on his feet before the sound had finished echoing, crossing the deck toward his quarters before his mind caught up with his body. His wolf surged forward, flooding him with adrenaline, claws already pushing at his fingertips.
Mate in danger. Protect. Kill anything that threatens her.
He slammed through the door, half-shifted, fangs descended, ready to tear apart whatever had made her cry out.
The room was empty except for Jeanne.
She sat upright in his bed, her honey-brown hair tangled around her face, her eyes wild and unfocused. Sweat gleamed on her skin, soaking through the thin nightgown she wore. Her scent flooded the room, sharp with fear and ripe with approaching heat.
His cock hardened instantly. He hated himself for it.
"What happened?" It came out as a growl, barely human. He forced himself to stay by the door, to not cross the room and gather her into his arms and bury his face in her throat. "What hurt you?"
"Nothing." Her voice was hoarse. "A dream. Just a dream."
"The door."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. He could see it in her face, in the way her hand pressed against her chest like she was trying to hold herself together. The curse was already working on her, calling to her, drawing her toward the room that would kill her.
Just like all the others.
No, his wolf snarled. Not like the others. She is stronger. She will fight it. She is ours.
"It will get worse." He made himself say the words, made himself give her the truth she deserved even though it tasted like poison.
"The dreams will come every night now. They will show you the room.
They will show you what's inside. The pull will grow stronger until it feels like your bones are trying to walk without you. "
"How do I fight it?"
"I don't know." The admission burned. "The others couldn't. They fought for weeks, some of them. Months. But the curse always won in the end."
She looked at him and the expression on her face made him feel things he had forgotten he could feel.
"You watched them die," she said. "You loved them."
"I stopped loving them after Marguerite." He forced the words out. "It was easier."
"Liar."
The word hung between them. She was right. He was a liar. He had loved every single one of them, in his broken, desperate way. Had hoped every single time that this one would be different, this one would survive, this one would break the curse and set him free.
And every single time, he had buried another ring in that damned velvet box.
"Go back to sleep," he said roughly. "I'll station a guard outside the door. If you feel the pull getting stronger, if you find yourself walking without meaning to, call out. We'll stop you."
"And if I can't stop myself?"
He met her eyes. "Then I will chain you to this bed until your heat passes and you can think clearly again."
Her scent spiked. Arousal, hot and sweet, flooding the room. She didn't want to respond to that. He could see it in her face, the shame and the anger and the helpless wanting. But her body didn't care what she wanted.
Neither did his.
Chain her, his wolf urged. Chain her to the bed and mount her and fill her with our seed. Make her ours before the curse can take her.
"Get some sleep," he said, and left before he could do something they would both regret.