Chapter Six
JEANNE
She woke to find herself clutching Anatole’s shirt.
She threw the shirt across the room like it had burned her.
This was getting worse. Everything felt sharper, more urgent.
Her skin was too sensitive, every brush of the sheets making her shiver.
Her nipples ached, stiff and swollen, pressing against the thin fabric of her nightgown.
Between her thighs, she was already slick, her arousal soaking through her panties and dampening the sheets beneath her.
And the pull toward the door was stronger than ever.
She forced herself out of bed, her legs unsteady. When she stood, she felt wetness slide down her inner thigh, warm and shameful. Her body was preparing itself, opening itself, readying itself for an alpha it couldn't have.
She needed air. She needed to move.
She needed him.
No. She didn't. That was biology talking, not her. She was not going to let her body make decisions for her.
She retrieved his shirt from where she'd thrown it, intending to stuff it back in the trunk. But her hands wouldn't cooperate. Instead of putting it away, she found herself pressing it to her face, breathing deep, letting his scent fill her lungs.
A sob escaped her. She hated this. She hated how weak she was, how desperate, how her body craved a man who had in essence bought her. Her core clenched around nothing, empty and aching, and more wetness leaked out of her, running down both thighs now.
But she couldn't make herself let go of the shirt.
She was still standing there, clutching it like a lifeline, when the first wave of true heat crashed over her.
It was worse than anything she'd experienced before.
Her previous heats, suppressed and hidden, had been uncomfortable but manageable. This was wildfire. This was her blood turning to molten iron in her veins. This was every nerve ending screaming for something she couldn't have while her body tried to tear itself apart with need.
She collapsed onto the bed, the shirt still pressed to her face, and curled into a ball as the wave rolled through her.
Wetness gushed from her, soaking through her clothes, pooling beneath her on the sheets until she was lying in a wet patch of her own arousal.
The smell of it filled the room, honeysuckle and vanilla gone thick and heady, the unmistakable scent of an omega in heat.
Her inner walls clenched and spasmed around nothing, desperate to be filled. She could feel herself gaping, empty, her body opening itself for an alpha who wasn't there.
"Alpha," she heard herself whimper. The word came out broken, desperate. "Please. Alpha, please."
No one answered. Anatole made it clear he wouldn't come to her. Couldn't come to her.
She was alone.
The thought sent a spike of panic through the haze of heat. Alone. She was going to go through this alone, burning and desperate and empty.
The door opened.
Gris stood in the doorway, his weathered face creased with worry. He was holding a cup of something that smelled bitter, and he approached the bed carefully, keeping his eyes averted from the wet mess of sheets and the way her shift had ridden up to expose her thighs.
"Drink this," he said, pressing the cup into her shaking hands. "It won't stop the heat, but it'll take the edge off the fever."
She drank. The liquid was bitter and thick, coating her tongue, but she swallowed it anyway. Anything. She would do anything to make this stop.
"Anatole," she gasped when the cup was empty. "Where is he?" She hated that she had to ask.
"In the hold. Chained." Gris's voice was grim. "He's not doing well, omega. Your scent is driving his wolf mad. I can hear him howling from two decks up."
As if on cue, a distant sound reached her ears. A howl, raw and anguished, echoing up through the ship. The sound of an alpha in rut, desperate for his mate.
Her body responded instantly. Another wave of heat crashed through her, stronger than before, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed. Wetness flooded out of her, drenching the sheets anew, and her nipples throbbed with need.
"I can't," she sobbed. "I can't do this. It's too much. Please, Gris, please make it stop."
The old cook's face was full of pain. "I can't, omega. Only an alpha can ease a heat this strong."
Another howl echoed through the ship, closer this time. Then the sound of metal groaning. Metal breaking.
“Oh shit. I need to go.” Gris left in a hurry.
Then Jeanne heard footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Coming closer.
ANATOLE
THE CHAINS HAD HELD for three hours.
Three hours of her scent pouring down through the decks, coating his tongue, filling his lungs until he couldn't breathe anything else. Three hours of his wolf throwing itself against his control, howling and snarling and demanding he go to her.
MATE, it screamed. OUR MATE IS BURNING. SHE NEEDS US. SHE'S DYING WITHOUT US. LET US GO.
He'd fought it. He'd fought harder than he'd ever fought anything in his life, straining against the iron links, telling himself he was protecting her by staying away.
But then he'd heard her crying.
Faint, muffled by decks and distance, but unmistakable. His mate, sobbing in pain, begging for relief that wasn't coming. And underneath the crying, he could smell something else. Something wrong.
Fever. Heat fever. Her human body was burning itself alive.
The first chain snapped.
He barely felt it. His wolf was in control now, surging forward with a strength that should have been impossible. The second chain went. The third.
Go to her. Save her. Claim her. OURS.
The last chain shattered, and Anatole was moving before the pieces hit the ground.
Up the stairs, through the corridors, his claws extended, his fangs descended.
Crew members scrambled out of his way. Someone shouted his name.
He didn't hear them. He could only hear her heartbeat, fast and thready, the sound of a body pushed past its limits.
He ran to his quarters at full speed.
The scent stopped him dead in his tracks.
Omega heat, thick and intoxicating, flooding his senses until he could barely think. Honeysuckle and vanilla gone dark with need, layered with the musk of slick and desperation. His cock, already hard, turned to iron. His wolf howled in triumph.
Then he saw her.
Curled on her side in the middle of his bed, drenched in sweat, her shift plastered to her body and rucked up around her thighs. One hand clutched his shirt to her chest. His shirt. She'd taken his shirt, buried her face in it, sought out his scent for comfort.
And between her thighs, slick glistened on her skin, pooling on the sheets beneath her.
She looked up at him, her eyes glazed with heat and fever, and her lips formed a single word.
"Anatole."
He stood frozen in the doorway, every muscle locked, fighting for control. His cock strained against his breeches, so hard it was painful. His wolf clawed at his ribs, demanding he take her, claim her, bury himself in that slick heat and never come out.
But she was looking at him with those fever-bright eyes, and underneath the heat-haze, he could see something else. Fear. Not of him. Of what was happening to her body.
"Tell me to leave." His voice came out wrecked, barely human. "Tell me to leave and I'll try. I don't know if I can, but I'll try."
"Don't." She reached for him, her hand trembling. "Don't leave. Please. I'm burning alive and I need... I need..."
"I know what you need." He took a step into the room, then another. Each step was agony, fighting his wolf's urge to simply pounce. "But if I touch you, I don't know if I can stop. My wolf wants to bond you. It's taking everything I have not to..."
"I don't care about the bond." She was crying now, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. "I don't care if I die. I just need it to stop. Please, Anatole. Make it stop."
She didn't mean it. He knew she didn't mean it. But hearing her beg, seeing her in so much pain, his control cracked.
"I won't bond you." He crossed the remaining distance and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands shaking as he reached for her. "Whatever happens, I will not bite your mating gland. I need you to understand that. I need you to hold me to it."
"I understand." She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her cheek, and the contact sent fire racing through his veins. "I trust you."
Trust. She trusted him. This woman who had every reason to hate him, trusted him.
"Don't," he said roughly. "Don't trust me. I'm a monster."
"Maybe." She turned her face into his palm, pressing a kiss to his skin. "But you're the monster who chained himself in a hold to protect me. The monster who's shaking right now because he's so afraid of hurting me." Her eyes met his. "Touch me, Anatole. Please."
His control shattered.
JEANNE
HE WAS ON HER BEFORE she could take another breath.
His mouth crashed into hers, hungry and desperate, and she opened for him instantly. His tongue swept inside, claiming her, tasting her, and she moaned against his lips. This was what she needed. This was what her body had been screaming for.
His hands tore at her nightgown, and she heard fabric rip. Then cool air hit her overheated skin, and she was bare beneath him, exposed, her nipples pebbled and aching.
He pulled back to look at her, and his eyes went molten gold.
"Look at you." His voice was gravel and smoke. "So beautiful. So ready for me." His hand traced down her body, over the swell of her breast, across her stomach, down to the slick mess between her thighs. "You're dripping, omega. All this for me?"
"Yes." The word came out as a whine. "It's been... all day... I couldn't stop..."
"Couldn't stop getting wet for your alpha?" His fingers slid through her folds, gathering slick, and she cried out at the contact. "That's good. That's exactly right. Your body knows who it belongs to."