A sob escaped her. She hated this. She hated how weak she was, how desperate, how her body craved a man who had in essence bought her. Her core clenched around nothing, emptyand aching, and more wetness leaked out of her, running down both thighs now.
But she couldn't make herself let go of the shirt.
She was still standing there, clutching it like a lifeline, when the first wave of true heat crashed over her.
It was worse than anything she'd experienced before.
Her previous heats, suppressed and hidden, had been uncomfortable but manageable. This was wildfire. This was her blood turning to molten iron in her veins. This was every nerve ending screaming for something she couldn't have while her body tried to tear itself apart with need.
She collapsed onto the bed, the shirt still pressed to her face, and curled into a ball as the wave rolled through her. Wetness gushed from her, soaking through her clothes, pooling beneath her on the sheets until she was lying in a wet patch of her own arousal. The smell of it filled the room, honeysuckle and vanilla gone thick and heady, the unmistakable scent of an omega in heat.
Her inner walls clenched and spasmed around nothing, desperate to be filled. She could feel herself gaping, empty, her body opening itself for an alpha who wasn't there.
"Alpha," she heard herself whimper. The word came out broken, desperate. "Please. Alpha, please."
No one answered. Anatole made it clear he wouldn't come to her. Couldn't come to her.
She was alone.
The thought sent a spike of panic through the haze of heat. Alone. She was going to go through this alone, burning and desperate and empty.
The door opened.
Gris stood in the doorway, his weathered face creased with worry. He was holding a cup of something that smelled bitter, and he approached the bed carefully, keeping his eyes avertedfrom the wet mess of sheets and the way her shift had ridden up to expose her thighs.
"Drink this," he said, pressing the cup into her shaking hands. "It won't stop the heat, but it'll take the edge off the fever."
She drank. The liquid was bitter and thick, coating her tongue, but she swallowed it anyway. Anything. She would do anything to make this stop.
"Anatole," she gasped when the cup was empty. "Where is he?" She hated that she had to ask.
"In the hold. Chained." Gris's voice was grim. "He's not doing well, omega. Your scent is driving his wolf mad. I can hear him howling from two decks up."
As if on cue, a distant sound reached her ears. A howl, raw and anguished, echoing up through the ship. The sound of an alpha in rut, desperate for his mate.
Her body responded instantly. Another wave of heat crashed through her, stronger than before, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed. Wetness flooded out of her, drenching the sheets anew, and her nipples throbbed with need.
"I can't," she sobbed. "I can't do this. It's too much. Please, Gris, please make it stop."
The old cook's face was full of pain. "I can't, omega. Only an alpha can ease a heat this strong."
Another howl echoed through the ship, closer this time. Then the sound of metal groaning. Metal breaking.
“Oh shit. I need to go.” Gris left in a hurry.
Then Jeanne heard footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Coming closer.
ANATOLE
THE CHAINS HAD HELDfor three hours.
Three hours of her scent pouring down through the decks, coating his tongue, filling his lungs until he couldn't breathe anything else. Three hours of his wolf throwing itself against his control, howling and snarling and demanding he go to her.
MATE,it screamed.OUR MATE IS BURNING. SHE NEEDS US. SHE'S DYING WITHOUT US. LET US GO.
He'd fought it. He'd fought harder than he'd ever fought anything in his life, straining against the iron links, telling himself he was protecting her by staying away.
But then he'd heard her crying.
