He looked at her then, and the grief in his eyes was answer enough.
Bluebeard. The Cursed Captain. The monster who had taken six omega brides.
All of them died.
THEY CAME FOR HER WITHchains.
Four wolves in human form, all betas from the look of them, with the hard eyes of men who collected debts for a living. They found her in the farmhouse, sitting at the kitchen table with her hands folded in her lap. She hadn't run. There was nowhere to run to, and she'd seen what happened to people who fled from wolves. Better to meet this with her spine straight and her chin raised.
Her father stood in the corner, not looking at her. Henri Lavigne, fifty-two years old, smelling of cheap wine and cheaper excuses.
"The captain will be pleased," the debt collector said, eyeing her with professional assessment. "Human omega. That's rare these days. Rarer still to find one unclaimed at twenty-two."
"She's worth more than the debt," her father said. The words scraped out of him like he was the one being wronged. "I should receive the difference."
Jeanne's nails bit into her palms. She didn't look at him. She couldn't look at him or she would start screaming.
"You'll receive nothing except the pleasure of keeping your hands," the debt collector said. "Be grateful we don’t demand those as interest."
They put the chains on her. Iron, cold against her wrists. The omega in her recoiled, instinct screamingwrong wrong wrong,but she forced herself to stay still as they led her out of the only home she'd ever known.
Marc was waiting on the path to the village.
He had a knife, the one their mother had used to gut fish, but he held it like he meant to use it.
"Let her go." His voice shook. His hand didn't. "We’ll find another way to pay the debt.”
"Marc, don't." Jeanne pulled against the chains.
"I won't let them take you. I promised mother I'd protect you."
The debt collector sighed. "Humans," he said, almost fondly. Then he moved.
He didn't even shift. He didn't need to. One moment Marc was standing with his knife raised. The next, he was on the ground with his throat torn open, blood pumping into the dirt in rhythmic gushes. His eyes were still open. He was still looking at her.
Jeanne's scream tore out of her, raw and animal. She lunged toward her brother's body, chains rattling, but the wolves held her back. Marc's mouth was moving. Trying to say something. Trying to say her name.
Then he stopped trying to say anything at all.
"Fool," the debt collector said, wiping his hand on Marc's shirt.
They dragged her away while her brother's blood seeped into the vineyard soil. She stopped screaming after a while. She saved it. Tucked it down deep where she could feed on it later, let it burn like coals in her chest.
Her father had sold her. Her brother had died for her. And somewhere in the harbor, the most feared ship on the Crimson Sea was waiting to swallow her whole.
THE BARBE-BLEUE WASa nightmare carved from wood and tar.
Black sails hung limp in the windless harbor, a dark blot against the morning sky. The hull was painted the blue of deep bruises, and the figurehead was a snarling wolf with bared teeth and empty eyes. Werewolves moved across the deck, calling to each other in voices that carried over the water. Their scents hit Jeanne in a wave as she was led up the gangplank, the overwhelming presence of predators.
Her omega instincts were screaming at her to run, to hide, to submit, to bare her throat and hope for mercy. She told her instincts to shut up. She wouldn't give these monsters the satisfaction.
"Wait here." The debt collector pushed her to her knees on the deck. "The captain will inspect his purchase."
The crew gathered to watch. Twenty werewolves in human form, maybe more, all of them staring at her with varying degrees of curiosity, wariness, and pity. She lifted her chin and stared back. Her brother's blood was still drying on her skirts.
Then the crowd parted, and he walked through.
Captain Anatole Barbe-Bleue was nothing like the monster of the stories.
