Chapter Nine #2
"I'm sorry." Sébastien said. "That's a hard way to lose someone."
"There's no easy way." She sat back on her heels, studying her work. The stitches would hold. "But thank you."
“The captain killed the man responsible,” Gris said.
Sébastien nodded. “Then justice has been served.”
“My brother is still dead,” Jeanne said.
“But not forgotten.” Sébastien touched his cheek. “I will remember him, omega. And honor his sacrifice. All the seawolves will.”
Jeanne’s throat closed up and she blinked back tears. “Thank you.”
The ship lurched violently, and Jeanne was thrown sideways. Strong hands caught her before she hit the floor.
Anatole.
He was soaked through, his shirt plastered to his body, his hair loose and dripping. But his hands were steady as he set her upright.
"What are you doing down here? I told you to stay in the cabin."
"Sébastien needed help." She gestured to the young beta. "He was bleeding."
Anatole's eyes went to the neat line of stitches on Sébastien's face, then back to her. “That will help him heal faster.” He turned to Sébastien. "Can you stand?"
"Yes, Captain." The beta got to his feet, slightly unsteady.
"Good. Get to your hammock and rest. You're off duty until that heals." Anatole looked at Gris. "Storm's passing. Should be clear in another hour."
"I'll make food once it settles." Gris said. "I think we could all use something hot."
Anatole nodded and left without another word.
Jeanne stayed where she was, her hands shaking now that the emergency was over. She'd touched him. Just for a moment when he'd caught her, but she'd felt the heat of his skin through the wet shirt, smelled his scent cut with rain and ozone.
And she'd wanted to lean into him. To let him hold her the way he'd held her during her heat.
"You love him." Gris's voice was gentle.
She didn't bother denying it. "Is it that obvious?"
"The curse knows." Gris's face was grim. "It always knows when an omega starts caring. That's when the danger begins."
"The door." She pressed her hand to her chest. "It's been quiet since the heat started."
"It'll come back." Gris gripped her shoulder. "And when it does, you need to fight it harder than you've ever fought anything."
"What if I can't?"
"Then we'll chain you up if we have to. Whatever it takes to keep you alive, omega."
“What will I face behind the door?”
“Death. Just like all the others. You need to resist its siren call.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as it takes to break the curse.”
“But how long is that?”
“We don’t know.”
THAT NIGHT, SHE WENT looking for him. The sky was clear, stars brilliant against the darkness. The ship rocked gently, the storm's violence replaced by an almost eerie calm. Anatole stood at the rail, staring out at nothing.
"You're supposed to be resting." He didn't turn around.
"I've been resting for hours." She moved to stand beside him. "Couldn't sleep."
"Nightmares?"
"No." She didn't mention that her thoughts had been about him, not the forbidden door. That felt too revealing. "Just restless."
They stood in silence. The only sounds were the creak of the ship, the whisper of water against the hull, the distant call of night birds.
"Thank you." His voice was quiet. "For helping Sébastien. You didn't have to."
"Yes, I did." She looked at him. "He was hurt. I could help. That's all that mattered."
"Most omegas wouldn't have left the safety of the cabin during a storm."
"I'm not most omegas." She said it without heat, just stating fact. "I'm human. I don't have a wolf's strength or healing. All I have is what my brother taught me—how to mend things, how to help people, how to keep going when everything's falling apart."
"He taught you well."
"He did." The grief rose up, familiar and sharp. "He taught me a lot of things." Her voice caught. "But he didn’t teach me how to go on without him."
Anatole turned to face her then. In the starlight, his eyes were shadowed. "Tell me about him. About Marc."
She shouldn't. Talking about Marc made the loss fresh. But Anatole had shared things with her—about Marguerite, about the curse, about the man he'd been before everything went wrong.
Maybe she owed him the same honesty.
"He was ten years older than me." She looked out at the sea. "When our mother died, he tried to fill that space for me—being mother and brother both."
"What about your father?"
"He loved his wine and his cards more than his children." The bitterness in her voice surprised her. "After mother died, Marc held our family together through sheer stubbornness."
"Is that where you learned it? The stubbornness?"
Despite everything, she almost smiled. "Probably. Marc used to say I was the most stubborn person he'd ever met, and that was saying something coming from him."
"What else did he teach you?"
She thought about that. About all the small moments that had made up their life together.
"How to climb. There was this old oak tree at the edge of our property, and he taught me to climb it when I was six. Said if I could climb trees, I could escape anything." Her throat tightened. "He was wrong about that."
"He gave you tools to survive." Anatole's voice was gentle. "That's not nothing."
"No." She blinked back tears. "It's not nothing. But it wasn't enough. He died trying to save me, and I couldn't save him."
"That's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" She turned to face him. "If I hadn't been omega, if my father hadn't sold me, Marc would have had a much different life. He'd probably be married, maybe with children. Instead, he's dead in the dirt because of what I am."
"No." Anatole grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "He's dead because your father was a coward and the debt collectors were brutal. You didn't kill him. Don't carry that guilt."
"How can I not? He died for me."
"He wouldn’t have wanted you to feel this guilt." His grip tightened. "It was his choice. He loved you."
The words hung between them.
"Teach me more,” she said briskly, too much of a coward to see where the conversation could go.
“About navigation. About the ship. About whatever you're willing to share.
I want to learn. Not because I'm planning to escape, but because.
.." She couldn't finish. Couldn't say the truth that was forming in her heart.
Because I want to know you. Because learning about your world makes me feel closer to you. Because I'm falling for you, and I don't know how to stop.
"All right, sweet omega." His voice was indulgent. "I'll teach you."
So he did.
For the next two hours, Anatole taught her about sailing.
How to read the wind, how to trim sails for maximum speed, how to predict weather by watching the sky.
He showed her how to tie nautical knots, his hands covering hers as he guided her through the movements.
He explained the ship's structure, pointing out the masts and rigging, explaining how everything worked together to move them across the water.
And while he taught her practical things, he told her stories.
About ports he'd visited, storms he'd survived, the time he'd outsailed a rival pack's ship through waters so dangerous most captains avoided them.
He talked about his crew, about Luc's unwavering loyalty, about Gris's terrible jokes and even worse cooking before he'd gotten better.
He talked about everything except the curse.
Jeanne absorbed it all. The knowledge, yes, but more than that—the sound of his voice when he was relaxed, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about sailing, the small smile that crossed his face when he remembered something good.
This was who he'd been before the curse. This was the man Marguerite had fallen in love with.
And Jeanne understood why.
"It's late." Anatole glanced at the stars. "You should sleep."
"So should you."
"I will. Soon." He moved toward the stairs that led below. "Go on. I'll follow in a bit."
She knew he was lying. Knew he'd stay up here, keeping watch, maintaining distance. But she let him have it.
"Goodnight, Anatole."
"Goodnight, Jeanne."
She went below, her mind full of stars and the sound of his voice. When she reached the cabin, she couldn’t hide from herself anymore.
She was falling in love with him.
And the curse was waiting.
The door’s call shuddered to life again.
ANATOLE
HE STAYED ON DECK UNTIL dawn, watching the stars wheel overhead.
Teaching Jeanne had been a mistake. Every minute spent with her made it harder to maintain distance. Every question she asked, every eager way she absorbed information, every soft sound of understanding she made—all of it pulled him deeper into feelings he couldn't afford.
Finally, his wolf said. Finally you're treating her like our mate.
His wolf was right. That was the worst part. Somewhere between catching her on the dock and teaching her to read stars, between fighting through her heat and watching her stitch a crew member's wound, he'd fallen for her.
And the curse knew.
He could feel it, a darkness gathering at the edges of his awareness. The same feeling he'd had with Marguerite, in the days before she'd found the room. Like something was waiting, watching, preparing to strike.
"Captain."
Luc approached, two cups of what passed for coffee on the ship. He handed one to Anatole without a word.
"You saw," Anatole said. Not a question.
"The whole crew saw." Luc leaned against the rail. "You teaching her to sail. Smiling. Actually smiling, like the old days."
"It was a mistake."
"Was it?" Luc sipped his coffee. "Or was it the first honest thing you've done since she came aboard?"
"Honesty will kill her."
"Maybe. Or maybe honesty is what saves her." Luc was quiet for a moment. "The curse requires true love, freely given. You've been treating it like a death sentence. What if it's actually the key?"
"Love killed Marguerite."
"Marguerite's love was hidden. Rushed. Formed in secret and shame." Luc met his eyes. "That's not what's happening with Jeanne. She knows who you are. She knows what you've done. She knows the danger. And she's choosing you anyway."
"She doesn't know what she's choosing."
Anatole wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe Jeanne was different, special, strong enough to break what had killed six women before her.
But wanting didn't change reality.
"The door will call her," he said quietly. "It's already started. And when it does, when she can't resist anymore, she'll open it. She'll look in the mirror. And she'll die, just like all the others."
"Maybe." Luc finished his coffee. "Or maybe she'll survive. Maybe the witch never planned for a human omega. Maybe that's the loophole that breaks everything."
"And if it's not?"
"Then we’re all damned.”