THE THIRD WAVE CAMEtwo hours later.
Jeanne woke from a light doze to find Anatole's hand between her legs, his fingers sliding through her pussy, testing her readiness.
"Again?" she mumbled, still half-asleep.
"Your scent changed." His fingers circled her clit, gentle and exploratory. "Sweeter. Riper. Your body's preparing for another wave."
As if his words had summoned it, heat began to build in her core. Not the burning urgency of before, but a slow simmer that promised to boil over soon.
"I'm tired." It came out petulant, and she immediately regretted it.
But he just laughed, soft and rough. "I know. But your heat doesn't care if you're tired. It will keep coming until it's satisfied." His fingers slid inside her, two at once, curling to hit that spot that made her gasp. "Lucky for you, I'm here to help."
She was already wet again, slick coating his fingers, easing the way. Her body responded to his touch even though her mind was still foggy with sleep, her hips rolling against his hand.
"That's it." He pumped his fingers slowly, adding a third. "Wake up for me. Let me see those pretty eyes."
She forced her eyes open. The cabin was darker now—evening, maybe, or early night. She'd lost track of time entirely. All she knew was the cycle: wave, knot, rest, wave again.
"There you are." He withdrew his fingers and moved over her, settling between her thighs. "Ready for me?"
"I don't think I'll ever be ready." But she was spreading her legs wider anyway, her body betraying her exhaustion. "You're too big."
"And yet you take me every time." He pushed inside, slower this time, letting her feel every inch. "Your body knows what it needs, even if your mind doesn't."
The stretch was still intense, but her body had learned his shape now. Her inner walls gripped him, pulling him deeper, and when he was fully seated she could feel his cock throbbing against her cervix.
"Tell me about the vineyard." His voice was strained, his control clearly costing him. "The one your family owned."
She blinked up at him. "What?"
"Talk to me." He began to move, slow and deep. "Between waves, while we're locked together. That's when wolves talk. When they share things they wouldn't say otherwise." His hips rolled, grinding against her clit. "So tell me about your home. The one you lost."
She didn't want to talk about home. Didn't want to think about Marc, about her father's betrayal, about everything she'd lost. But his cock was moving inside her, steady and relentless, and the rhythm of it loosened something in her chest.
"It was called Belle Vigne." The words came haltingly at first. "Beautiful Vine. My grandfather built it, before I was born. He planted every row himself."
"What did you grow?" His thumb found her clit, circling in time with his thrusts.
"Red grapes. For wine." She gasped as he hit deep. "We used to make our own. My mother knew all the old recipes, passed down from her grandmother. She would—" Her voice caught. "She would sing while she worked. Old songs about the harvest."
"What happened to her?"
"Died in the field. Heart attack." The guilt rose up, familiar and bitter. "My father blamed me for it. Never said it out loud, but I could see it in his eyes every time he looked at me."
Anatole's rhythm faltered. "He was a fool."
"He was a coward." The words came out sharper than she intended. "Marc tried to make up for it. Tried to be both mother and father to me. Taught me everything—how to tend the vines, how to read the weather, how to hide what I was when I presented." Her throat tightened. "He died trying to save me from this. From you."
"I know." His voice was low. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?" She looked up at him, this alpha who had bought her, who was buried inside her, whose knot would lock them together in moments. "Sorry he died? Sorry you took me? Or just sorry you got caught?"
"All of it." He thrust deeper, harder, and she moaned despite herself. "I'm sorry your brother died. I'm sorry you're here. I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to let you go." His knot began to swell. "And I'm sorry that even knowing all of that, I still want you more than I've wanted anything in twelve years."
The honesty in his voice broke something in her. She reached up, cupping his face, feeling the curse mark rough against her palm.
"I hate you," she whispered.
