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.
