It wasn't formed—he hadn't bitten her mating gland—but he could feel the edges of it. The place where a bond would snap into place if he let it. Like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing one step would send him plummeting.
His wolf lunged for it. Lunged for her throat, for the vulnerable gland that would make her his forever.
"No." Jeanne's voice cut through the haze. She twisted to look at him over her shoulder, her eyes clearer than they should have been in the grip of heat. "Anatole. No."
He wrenched his head to the side, his fangs grazing her shoulder instead, hard enough to leave marks but not to break skin. His whole body shook with the effort of resisting.
"I'm sorry." The words came out strangled. "My wolf—"
"I know, but you stopped. You're still stopping."
He buried his face against her back, breathing hard, fighting for control. The urge to bite was overwhelming, primal, the deepest instinct an alpha possessed. But he wouldn't. He couldn't.
If he bonded her, she would be more vulnerable to the curse.
"Talk to me." Her voice was soft. "Tell me something. Anything. Just talk to me until it passes."
He tried to think of something safe to say. Something that wouldn't reveal how much he wanted her, how his wolf was screaming that she was MATE, that she belonged to him.
"My ship." The words came out rough. "The Barbe-Bleue. Do you know what it means?"
"Bluebeard." She was breathing hard, her body still adjusting to his knot. "Your name."
"My curse." He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, where his fangs had almost broke skin. "I earned my ship when I was twenty-two. Before the curse. Before everything went wrong. I captained her for three years before I met Marguerite."
"Tell me about her." Jeanne's voice was careful. "About Marguerite."
He shouldn't. He should keep his first love separate from whatever this was with Jeanne. But his knot was locked inside her, and knotting made wolves talk, made them share things they would otherwise keep hidden.
"She was beautiful." The memory rose up, sharp and painful. "Dark hair, dark eyes. She laughed like bells ringing. Her mother was Morvenna, the sea witch, but Marguerite didn't inherit the magic. Just the wolf." He was quiet for a moment. "We met at a port. She was selling fish with her mother's catch. I took one look at her and knew."
"Mate."
"Mate." The word tasted like ash. "We married in secret. Three months of stolen meetings, of sneaking away from her mother's island, of thinking we could outsmart fate." His hands tightened on Jeanne's hips. "We were wrong."
"The curse killed her."
"The curse killed her." He could still see it. Marguerite's skin turning gray, her breath coming in gasps, the light fading from her eyes as the magic ate through their bond.
Jeanne was quiet for a long time. Then: "Do you still love her?"
The question took him by surprise. "I—" He stopped. Did he? Did he still love the ghost of his first love? Or had the years of grief and guilt and watching other women die turned that love into something else?
"I loved who she was," he said finally. "I loved what we could have been. But I don't know if I love who she actually was. I barely knew her. We only had three months together and that isn't enough time to really know anyone."
"No," Jeanne agreed softly. "I suppose it isn't."
His knot was beginning to soften. In a few minutes it would release, and they would be separate again. The thought made his wolf whine.
"You asked me about the vineyard," Jeanne said. "About my home. Now I'm asking you. Tell me about yours. Before the curse. Before all of this."
So he did.
He told her about growing up in a coastal pack, the second son who was never meant to lead. About running wild with his brother through the salt marshes, shifting for the first time under a full moon, the joy of discovering his wolf. About taking to the sea at sixteen, working his way up from deck hand to captain through sheer determination.
About the man he'd been before Morvenna's curse had turned him into a monster.
And while he talked, Jeanne listened, her body relaxing against his, her breathing evening out. When his knot finally released and he slipped free, she turned in his arms, looking at him with eyes that had lost some of their wariness.
