Chapter Eight
JEANNE
The fifth wave was gentler.
Jeanne woke slowly, her body aching but not burning, the heat building gradually instead of crashing over her all at once. Anatole was behind her, his arm draped over her waist, his breath warm against her neck.
"Morning." His voice was rough with sleep.
"Is it?" She couldn't see the windows from this angle. Couldn't tell if it was dawn or dusk or somewhere in between.
"I think so." He nuzzled against her throat, and she felt his cock hardening against her backside. "Can you feel it? Another wave coming?"
She could. The slow build of heat, the increasing slick between her thighs. But this one felt different. Softer. Almost manageable.
"It's not as bad as before."
"The worst is over." His hand slid down her stomach, between her legs, his fingers sliding through her wetness. "The later waves are easier. Your body's had what it needed. Now it's just... finishing."
She turned her head to look at him. His eyes were blue, his expression softer than she'd ever seen it. Stubble shadowed his jaw, making the silver-blue streak in his beard more pronounced. He looked tired. He looked human.
He looked beautiful.
She reached up and cupped his face, feeling the rough texture of his beard against her palm.
"Thank you." The words came out whisper-soft. "For staying with me through this. For stopping yourself."
"You called my name." His thumb circled her clit, lazy and exploring. "Every time I got close to biting, you called my name and brought me back."
"We brought each other back."
"Yes." He kissed her shoulder, the spot where his fangs had grazed the night before. "We did."
He moved slowly this time, rolling her onto her back and settling between her thighs with none of the desperate urgency of before. When he pushed inside, it was gentle, giving her time to adjust, to feel every inch of him filling her.
"All right?" he asked.
"Yes." She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "More than all right."
He began to move, slow deep rolls of his hips that made her gasp. There was no dirty talk this time, no commands or praise. Just the two of them moving together, finding a rhythm that had nothing to do with heat and everything to do with choice.
She watched his face as he moved above her. Watched the way his eyes stayed blue, the way he held himself back from the edge of losing control. He was being careful with her. Gentle. Like she was something precious instead of something bought.
"Anatole." His name felt different on her tongue now. Not a plea for release, but an acknowledgment. A recognition of who he was beneath the curse and the fear.
"I'm here." He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth. "I'm right here."
When she came, it was soft and rolling, pleasure washing through her in gentle waves. He followed her over moments later, his seed filling her as his knot swelled, locking them together one more time.
But this time, when they were tied, when the bond hovered at the edge of forming, neither of them fought it quite as hard.
They just held each other, breathing together, and let the moment be what it was.
IT TOOK THREE FULL days for Jeanne's heat to burn itself out. Three days of waves and rest and waves again. Three days of Anatole's knot locked inside her, of his seed filling her until she thought she might burst, of conversations while tied that revealed more than either of them intended.
On the morning of the fourth day, she woke to find the burning gone. Her body was sore, exhausted, but the desperate need had finally faded. The heat was over.
Anatole was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands.
In the early morning light filtering through the salt-streaked windows, she could see the toll the last three days had taken.
Dark circles under his eyes. New lines of tension around his mouth.
The silver-blue streak in his beard seemed more pronounced, like the curse had fed on his effort to resist it.
"It's over." Her voice was hoarse from three days of screaming his name.
"Yes." He didn't look at her. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been trampled by horses." She sat up slowly, wincing at the ache between her thighs. "But alive. I'm alive."
"You are." Finally, he turned to face her. His eyes were haunted. "Against all odds, you survived your first true heat."
There was something in his voice. Something that made her stomach twist.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Everything." He stood, pulling on his breeches with sharp, jerky movements. "You need to rest. Eat. Recover your strength."
"Anatole—"
"I need to check on the ship. Make sure Luc hasn't gone off course while I was..." He gestured vaguely at the bed, at her, at the three days they'd just spent locked together. "Occupied."
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
She saw his throat work as he swallowed. Saw the muscle jump in his jaw. “Nothing.”
“No. You’re pulling away from me.”
“I’m wondering.”
“Wondering if I love you?”
He shook his head. “It’s too soon for that.”
“Is it?”
He hesitated and then took a deep breath. “I’ll send the maids in the help you get washed and dressed. Gris will be by with some food.”
And then he left her.
And she wasn’t sure if she did love him. But she no longer felt the pull of the forbidden door.