Chapter Nine
JEANNE
Jeanne dressed in borrowed clothes, rolling up sleeves that hung past her fingertips, cinching the waist with a length of rope she found in one of the trunks. When she caught her reflection in the small mirror above the washbasin, she barely recognized herself.
Her hair was tangled. Her cheeks had color in them, no longer the pale exhaustion of her vineyard years. And her neck—
She touched the marks there. Not bites. He'd kept his promise about that. But bruises from his mouth, from the way he'd buried his face against her throat when the urge to bite became too strong. Evidence of restraint, not claiming.
Evidence that he'd chosen her life over his instincts.
The door to the cabin opened without warning.
Luc stood in the doorway, his scarred face impassive. "Captain wants to see you. On deck."
Her stomach twisted. "Why?"
"Didn't say." Luc stepped back, gesturing for her to follow. "But he's been standing at the helm since dawn, staring at the charts like they've personally offended him. Might be best not to keep him waiting."
She followed Luc up the narrow stairs, through the corridors that were becoming familiar. The ship creaked around them, wood and rope singing in the wind. Crew members moved past, some nodding to her, others averting their eyes.
They knew. Of course they knew. She'd spent three days screaming Anatole's name loud enough for the entire ship to hear.
When they emerged onto the deck, the morning sun made her squint. The air was crisp, carrying the salt-sting of open water. And there, at the helm, stood Anatole.
He'd bathed. Changed clothes. His hair was tied back, the silver-blue streak in his beard catching the light. He looked every inch the captain—commanding, untouchable, nothing like the man who'd trembled in her arms while fighting not to bite her.
"You wanted to see me?" she said.
He gestured to the charts spread across the helm. "If you're going to be on this ship, you should know how to read these."
It wasn't what she'd expected. No discussion of what had happened between them. No acknowledgment of the past three days. Just an offer to teach her something practical.
Maybe that was safer for both of them right now.
She moved to stand beside him, studying the charts. Lines and symbols she didn't understand, coordinates that meant nothing to her untrained eye.
"This is where we are." His finger traced a point on the map. "The Crimson Sea, two weeks from any major port. We're sailing south, keeping to open water to avoid territorial disputes."
"Why south?"
"Because north leads to pack territories, and I don't need them to scent you on board." His voice was flat. "South keeps us away from complications."
"I'm a complication?"
"Of course you are. You're an omega." He didn't look at her. "These symbols here mark currents. See how they flow? You can use them to speed your journey or avoid being pulled off course."
She leaned closer, trying to make sense of the markings. His scent washed over her, and her body responded instantly, her nipples hardening against the borrowed shirt.
Three days of heat hadn't been enough. Her omega nature still craved him.
If he noticed, he didn't show it. Just kept pointing out features on the chart, his voice steady and patient, like she was any student and he was any teacher.
"The stars match the charts." He pulled out a different map, this one marked with constellations. "If you know where the stars should be, you can calculate your position even without instruments."
"Show me." The words came out softer than she intended.
He did.
For the next hour, Anatole walked her through the basics of celestial navigation. How to identify key stars. How to measure angles using nothing but your hand against the sky. How sailors had crossed oceans long before modern instruments, using only the patterns overhead.
His hands moved over the charts, and she watched his fingers more than the maps.
These were the same hands that had gripped her hips while he thrust into her.
The same hands that had stroked her hair while they lay knotted together.
The same hands that had nearly marked her as his mate before he'd chosen her life instead.
"You're not listening." His voice cut through her thoughts.
"I am."
"Then tell me what constellation marks true north?"
She had no idea. She'd been thinking about the way his hands had felt on her skin, not stars.
"I don't know."
"The Wolf's Eye." He tapped the chart. "Remember that. If you're ever lost at sea, that's what you look for first."
"I'm not planning to be lost at sea."
"Plans change." Finally, he looked at her. His eyes were tired, shadows beneath them like he hadn't slept. "You should know how to survive if something happens to me."
"Nothing's going to happen to you."
"You don't know that." He turned back to the charts. "The seawolves are pirates. We pillage and loot. Sometimes the battles go our way. Sometimes they don’t.”
"I don’t want to think about that."
"Why not?" His hands stilled on the charts. "If I die, the curse might let you go. I've killed six women. Six omegas who trusted me to keep them safe. My death would be justice."
She grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her. "That witch cursed you for loving her daughter. You didn't ask for this. You didn't deserve this."
"Didn't I?" His laugh was bitter. "I married Marguerite in secret, knowing her mother would be furious.
I was arrogant. Thought love would be enough to protect us.
" His eyes met hers, and the pain in them made her chest ache.
"I was wrong. Love wasn't enough. And Marguerite paid the price for my arrogance. "
"That's not—"
"Captain!" Luc's shout cut through her protest. "Another storm is coming in from the west. Fast-moving."
Anatole's expression shifted instantly, all personal grief locked away behind the mask of command. "All hands. Secure the rigging. Bring in the outer sails." He glanced at Jeanne. "Get below. Now."
"But—"
"Now." His voice left no room for argument. "This isn't a request."
She should have argued. Should have insisted on staying, on helping. But the captain's voice had taken on an edge she recognized—the same edge he'd used when warning her about the forbidden door.
She went below.
THE STORM HIT AN HOUR later.
Jeanne sat in the cabin, listening to the wind howl, the ship groaning as waves battered the hull. Rain lashed the windows. Above her, she could hear shouting, the thunder of boots on deck, the crack of canvas as sails were furled.
She pressed her hands over her ears, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds. Did nothing to ease the anxiety crawling up her throat.
Anatole was up there. In the storm. Commanding the ship through weather that could kill them all.
The thought of him being swept overboard, of watching him disappear into the unforgiving water, made her stomach clench.
You care about him, a voice whispered in her mind.
He told her that she needed to love him to break the curse. But she didn’t know what happened then. Would she open the door and defeat what was inside or would she open the door and die like all the others?
Maybe it was safer to hate him. But after what they shared, Jeanne knew she couldn’t hate him any longer.
But knowing she was in danger if she fell in love with him didn't stop the fear that gripped her every time she heard something crash on deck, didn't stop her from imagining him hurt, bleeding, gone.
The cabin door burst open.
A young beta she didn't know stumbled in, soaked through, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. "Sorry Omega. I need to get the captain’s medical kit. Rigging came loose, and some debris caught Sébastien across the face."
"I can help." Jeanne was on her feet before she'd made the conscious decision to move.
“I don’t think you should.”
“You’re needed back up top. I’ll bring the medical kit to him. Where is he?”
"He’s in the galley. Gris is trying to—"
She was past him before he finished, running down the corridor toward the galley. It felt good to be actually doing something instead of sitting in her room worrying about things she didn’t understand. The ship pitched beneath her feet, throwing her against the wall, but she kept moving.
The galley was chaos. Sébastien sat on the floor, his hands pressed to his face, blood seeping through his fingers. Gris knelt beside him, trying to pry his hands away to see the damage.
"Let me." Jeanne dropped to her knees. "I've done this before."
Gris moved aside. "Glad to have the help." He moved on to the next injured seawolf.
"Let me see," she said to Sébastien.
Slowly, he lowered his hands. The cut ran from his temple to his cheekbone, deep but clean. It would need stitching.
"This is going to hurt," she warned.
"Everything hurts right now." His attempt at a smile was more of a grimace. "Do what you need to do, omega."
She cleaned the wound first, her hands steady despite the ship's movement.
Marc had taught her how to stitch skin, how to keep calm when someone was bleeding.
She wondered what he would have thought of her situation now.
Would he feel that she was honoring his death or that she was ignoring his sacrifice?
The needle slid through skin, and Sébastien hissed but didn't pull away. She worked quickly, efficiently, making small neat stitches the way Marc had shown her.
"You're good at this." Gris handed her a clean cloth. "Where'd you learn?"
"My brother." She tied off the last stitch, cutting the thread with her teeth. "He was always getting hurt. Falling off ladders, cutting himself on pruning shears, getting kicked by the neighbor's horse." Her throat tightened. "I got a lot of practice."
"What happened to him?”
She cleaned the blood from Sébastien's face with gentle touches. "He tried to stop them from taking me. The debt collectors killed him for it."
The galley went quiet except for the storm's fury outside.