Arms caught her.
Strong arms, wrapping around her waist, yanking her back from the edge. She slammed into a hard chest, and his scent washed over her even through the rain and salt. Pine, gunpowder andalpha.
"I've got you." His voice was barely audible over the wind. "I've got you."
She was shaking. From cold, from fear, from the feel of his body pressed against hers. Her nightgown was plastered to her skin, and she could feel every inch of him through the wet fabric. The hard planes of his chest. The strength of his arms. The unmistakable ridge of his cock pressing against her backside.
He was aroused. Even in the middle of a storm, with the ship threatening to break apart around them, her nearness had made him hard.
"Luc!" he bellowed. "Take the helm!"
She didn't see Luc respond, but Anatole carried her across the pitching deck. He kicked open the door to the stairs and hauled her down into the relative shelter below, where the roar of the storm faded to a dull thunder.
He didn't stop until they were back in his quarters. Only then did he release her, and the loss of his warmth made her gasp.
"Are you trying to die?" His voice was savage, his eyes blazing gold. "You could have gone overboard. What were you thinking?"
"I couldn't breathe." Her teeth were chattering. "The cabin, the pull, I needed air."
"You needed air." He laughed, a harsh sound. "You needed air, so you walked into a hurricane in your nightclothes."
"I didn't say it was smart."
"No. It wasn't." He was breathing hard, water streaming from his hair, his shirt clinging to every muscle. A cut on his temple was bleeding sluggishly, the blood mixing with rain. "Youcould have died tonight. Do you understand that? You could have died, and I wouldn't have been able to stop it."
"Would you have cared?" The question came out before she could stop it.
He went still. The gold faded from his eyes, leaving only blue.
"Yes," he said. "I would have cared."
She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know what to do with the way he was looking at her.
"You're bleeding," she said instead, because it was easier than everything else.
He touched his temple, looked at his fingers, seemed surprised by the blood. "It's nothing. Something came loose during the storm."
"Let me see." She moved toward him without thinking, her hand reaching for his face. He flinched back, and she stopped, her arm suspended between them. "I won't hurt you. I just want to see how bad it is."
"You're the one who almost died, and you want to tend to me?"
"Someone has to." She held his gaze. "Let me."
For a long moment, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he bent his head, giving her access to the wound.
It was a shallow cut, maybe two inches long, still bleeding but not dangerously. She found a clean cloth by the washbasin and pressed it to his temple, her fingers gentle against his skin.
He was so still beneath her touch. Like a wild animal submitting to handling, every muscle locked, every breath controlled. She could feel the tension radiating off him, could smell the way his scent had shifted. Darker. Hungrier.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
"For what?"
"For whatever made you this way. For the curse. For the witch who thought punishing love was justice." She dabbed at the wound, her movements gentle.
He caught her wrist. Not hard, not painfully, but firmly enough to stop her.
"Don't." His voice was rough. "Don't feel sorry for me. I've done terrible things. I've watched omegas die and kept taking more. I don't deserve your sympathy."
