Chapter Three
JEANNE
Aweek on the ship, and Jeanne had learned several things.
First: the pull toward the forbidden door was not going away. If anything, it grew stronger with each passing hour, a constant ache that whispered come see, come see, come see.
Second: her heat was approaching faster than expected. Her skin had become hypersensitive, every brush of fabric making her shiver. She was drenching her underwear twice a day now, her body preparing for an alpha it had decided it wanted.
Third: the captain was avoiding her.
Since the night he'd burst into her room after her nightmare, she'd barely seen him.
Glimpses on deck, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the gray sky.
The echo of his boots in the corridor outside her door.
But he never came close enough for her to catch his scent, never looked at her when she appeared.
It should have been a relief. Instead, her omega instincts interpreted it as rejection, and she spent far too much time staring at the ceiling, wondering why she cared.
Marc would have laughed at her. You're upset that the monster who bought you isn't paying attention to you? Really, Jeanne?
She pressed her palms against her eyes. Marc was dead. She needed to stop imagining his voice, stop wondering what he would say. It wasn't helping. It was just making the grief sharper.
A knock at the cabin door made her jump.
"Little one?" Gris's voice, muffled through the wood. "Storm's coming. Captain says you should stay below."
She opened the door. The old cook's weathered face was creased with concern. "How bad?"
"Bad enough. The Crimson Sea gets nasty this time of year." He handed her a bundle of bread and dried fish. "Eat something. It might be a rough night."
She took the food, though her appetite had been nonexistent since she'd come aboard. "Thank you, Gris."
He lingered in the doorway. "The pull," he said quietly. "Is it getting worse?"
She didn't bother lying. "Yes."
"The storm might help. Gives you something else to focus on." He paused. "Or it might make it worse. The curse likes chaos. Likes the moments when your guard is down."
"That's not reassuring."
"Wasn't meant to be." His smile was sad. "Stay in the cabin, little one. Whatever happens tonight, don't go wandering."
THE STORM HIT AT SUNSET.
One moment the ship was rocking gently, the sky a bruised purple. The next, wind screamed through the rigging. Rain lashed the portholes of the captain's quarters like fists. The Barbe-Bleue pitched and rolled, and Jeanne was thrown from the bed, crashing hard against the desk.
She scrambled to her feet. Through the windows, she could see nothing but black water and white foam. The ship groaned around her, wood protesting against the fury of the sea.
Stay in the cabin, Gris had said. But the cabin felt like a coffin, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except listen to the storm trying to tear the ship apart.
She staggered to the door before she realized what she was doing. Made it halfway up the stairs to the deck before she realized she was barefoot, wearing only her thin nightgown.
She should go back. She knew she should go back.
But the pull in her chest was screaming, and she couldn't tell anymore if it was dragging her toward the forbidden door or pushing her away from it. All she knew was that she needed air, needed to move, needed to do something other than wait in that cabin for the curse or the storm to claim her.
She pushed through the door onto the deck.
The wind hit her like a wall, nearly knocking her off her feet. Rain stung her face, her arms, every inch of exposed skin. The seawolves were everywhere, shouting orders she couldn't hear over the roar of the storm, hauling on ropes, fighting to keep the ship from capsizing.
And in the center of it all, the captain. Anatole.
He stood at the helm, his white shirt plastered to his body, his black hair whipping around his face.
His hands gripped the wheel with white-knuckled intensity, muscles straining as he fought to keep the ship on course.
Even drenched and battered by the storm, he looked like something out of a legend. A god of the sea, commanding the waves.
Then his eyes found her, and his expression went from focused to furious in a heartbeat.
"What are you doing?" His roar cut through the storm. "Get below!"
She tried to answer, but the ship lurched, and her bare feet slipped on the wet deck. She was falling, the rail rushing toward her, nothing between her and the hungry sea.
Arms caught her.
Strong arms, wrapping around her waist, yanking her back from the edge. She slammed into a hard chest, and his scent washed over her even through the rain and salt. Pine, gunpowder and alpha.
"I've got you." His voice was barely audible over the wind. "I've got you."
She was shaking. From cold, from fear, from the feel of his body pressed against hers.
Her nightgown was plastered to her skin, and she could feel every inch of him through the wet fabric.
The hard planes of his chest. The strength of his arms. The unmistakable ridge of his cock pressing against her backside.
He was aroused. Even in the middle of a storm, with the ship threatening to break apart around them, her nearness had made him hard.
"Luc!" he bellowed. "Take the helm!"
She didn't see Luc respond, but Anatole carried her across the pitching deck. He kicked open the door to the stairs and hauled her down into the relative shelter below, where the roar of the storm faded to a dull thunder.
He didn't stop until they were back in his quarters. Only then did he release her, and the loss of his warmth made her gasp.
"Are you trying to die?" His voice was savage, his eyes blazing gold. "You could have gone overboard. What were you thinking?"
"I couldn't breathe." Her teeth were chattering. "The cabin, the pull, I needed air."
"You needed air." He laughed, a harsh sound. "You needed air, so you walked into a hurricane in your nightclothes."
"I didn't say it was smart."
"No. It wasn't." He was breathing hard, water streaming from his hair, his shirt clinging to every muscle. A cut on his temple was bleeding sluggishly, the blood mixing with rain. "You could have died tonight. Do you understand that? You could have died, and I wouldn't have been able to stop it."
"Would you have cared?" The question came out before she could stop it.
He went still. The gold faded from his eyes, leaving only blue.
"Yes," he said. "I would have cared."
She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know what to do with the way he was looking at her.
"You're bleeding," she said instead, because it was easier than everything else.
He touched his temple, looked at his fingers, seemed surprised by the blood. "It's nothing. Something came loose during the storm."
"Let me see." She moved toward him without thinking, her hand reaching for his face. He flinched back, and she stopped, her arm suspended between them. "I won't hurt you. I just want to see how bad it is."
"You're the one who almost died, and you want to tend to me?"
"Someone has to." She held his gaze. "Let me."
For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he bent his head, giving her access to the wound.
It was a shallow cut, maybe two inches long, still bleeding but not dangerously. She found a clean cloth by the washbasin and pressed it to his temple, her fingers gentle against his skin.
He was so still beneath her touch. Like a wild animal submitting to handling, every muscle locked, every breath controlled. She could feel the tension radiating off him, could smell the way his scent had shifted. Darker. Hungrier.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For whatever made you this way. For the curse. For the witch who thought punishing love was justice." She dabbed at the wound, her movements gentle.
He caught her wrist. Not hard, not painfully, but firmly enough to stop her.
"Don't." His voice was rough. "Don't feel sorry for me. I've done terrible things. I've watched omegas die and kept taking more. I don't deserve your sympathy."
"Maybe not." She didn't pull away from his grip. "But you have it anyway."
"You should change out of those wet clothes," he said, releasing her wrist. "Before you catch a chill."
"So should you."
"I need to check on the ship. Make sure the storm hasn't damaged anything critical. I'll have Gris bring you dry clothes. And something warm to drink."
"Anatole."
He stopped, his hand on the door. She watched his shoulders tense at the sound of his name.
"Thank you," she said. "For catching me."
He didn't turn around. "Don't thank me. I'm the reason you're in danger in the first place."
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him, and Jeanne was left alone with the sound of the fading storm and the memory of his skin beneath her fingers.
ANATOLE
HE MADE IT TO THE HOLD before his legs gave out.
Anatole braced his back against the hull, sliding down until he sat on the damp floor, his head in his hands. His whole body was shaking. Not from the cold, though he was soaked through. Not from the exertion of fighting the storm.
From her.
She had touched him. Her small, human hands on his face, gentle and careful, tending his wound like he was something worth saving. She had looked at him with sympathy, not fear. Had said I'm sorry like she meant it.
Had called him by his name.
Anatole. Not Captain. Not Bluebeard. Anatole.
His wolf was pacing behind his ribs, not howling for once, but purring. A deep, rumbling satisfaction that made his chest vibrate.
She sees us, it said. Not the monster. Us. She touched us with kindness. She will be ours.
She is not ours, Anatole told it. She can never be ours. The curse...
Did you not smell her? Did you not feel the way she softened toward us? She is beginning to care. Beginning to see.
And if she cares too much, she dies. Like all the others.
His wolf went quiet, but he could feel its disagreement simmering beneath the surface. It had never wanted a mate the way it wanted Jeanne. Never pushed so hard, never been so certain.
And tonight, when she'd almost gone over the rail, his wolf had nearly torn free of his control entirely. The terror of that moment, the certainty that he was about to watch her drown, had stripped away every defense he'd built.
He had caught her. He had held her against his body with the storm raging around them, and he had wanted her so badly he'd barely been able to think.
She had felt it. She must have felt it, his cock hard against her backside, his arms shaking with the effort of not claiming her right there on the deck. But she hadn't pulled away. Hadn't looked at him with disgust.
She had touched his face and thanked him for catching her.
"Captain?"
Luc's voice came from the stairs. Anatole didn't look up. "Storm's dying down?"
"Another hour and we'll be through the worst of it. Minimal damage. We got lucky." Footsteps approached. "You're sitting in the dark."
"I'm aware."
"The omega?"
Anatole finally lifted his head. In the dim light filtering down from above, Luc's scarred face was unreadable. "She’s fine."
"I saw you catch her." Luc settled against the opposite wall. "I also saw the way you were holding her."
"Don't."
"I'm not judging, Captain. Just observing." Luc was quiet for a moment. "She's different from the others. I've been saying it since she came aboard."
"Different doesn't mean she'll survive."
"No. But it means something." Luc pushed off the wall. "Her heat's close. I can smell it even from here. Another day, maybe two. What are you going to do?"
Anatole closed his eyes. "Chain myself here. Same as always."
"Will the chains hold this time?"
The question hung in the air between them. Anatole thought about the way his wolf had surged when Jeanne was in danger. The way every instinct he had screamed to claim her, protect her, make her his.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I honestly don't know."