She should have argued. Should have insisted on staying, on helping. But the captain's voice had taken on an edge sherecognized—the same edge he'd used when warning her about the forbidden door.
She went below.
THE STORM HIT AN HOURlater.
Jeanne sat in the cabin, listening to the wind howl, the ship groaning as waves battered the hull. Rain lashed the windows. Above her, she could hear shouting, the thunder of boots on deck, the crack of canvas as sails were furled.
She pressed her hands over her ears, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds. Did nothing to ease the anxiety crawling up her throat.
Anatole was up there. In the storm. Commanding the ship through weather that could kill them all.
The thought of him being swept overboard, of watching him disappear into the unforgiving water, made her stomach clench.
You care about him, a voice whispered in her mind.
He told her that she needed to love him to break the curse. But she didn’t know what happened then. Would she open the door and defeat what was inside or would she open the door and die like all the others?
Maybe it was safer to hate him. But after what they shared, Jeanne knew she couldn’t hate him any longer. But knowing she was in danger if she fell in love with him didn't stop the fear that gripped her every time she heard something crash on deck, didn't stop her from imagining him hurt, bleeding, gone.
The cabin door burst open.
A young beta she didn't know stumbled in, soaked through, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. "Sorry Omega. Ineed to get the captain’s medical kit. Rigging came loose, and some debris caught Sébastien across the face."
"I can help." Jeanne was on her feet before she'd made the conscious decision to move.
“I don’t think you should.”
“You’re needed back up top. I’ll bring the medical kit to him. Where is he?”
"He’s in the galley. Gris is trying to—"
She was past him before he finished, running down the corridor toward the galley. It felt good to be actually doing something instead of sitting in her room worrying about things she didn’t understand. The ship pitched beneath her feet, throwing her against the wall, but she kept moving.
The galley was chaos. Sébastien sat on the floor, his hands pressed to his face, blood seeping through his fingers. Gris knelt beside him, trying to pry his hands away to see the damage.
"Let me." Jeanne dropped to her knees. "I've done this before."
Gris moved aside. "Glad to have the help." He moved on to the next injured seawolf.
"Let me see," she said to Sébastien.
Slowly, he lowered his hands. The cut ran from his temple to his cheekbone, deep but clean. It would need stitching.
"This is going to hurt," she warned.
"Everything hurts right now." His attempt at a smile was more of a grimace. "Do what you need to do, omega."
She cleaned the wound first, her hands steady despite the ship's movement. Marc had taught her how to stitch skin, how to keep calm when someone was bleeding. She wondered what he would have thought of her situation now. Would he feel that she was honoring his death or that she was ignoring his sacrifice?
The needle slid through skin, and Sébastien hissed but didn't pull away. She worked quickly, efficiently, making small neat stitches the way Marc had shown her.
"You're good at this." Gris handed her a clean cloth. "Where'd you learn?"
"My brother." She tied off the last stitch, cutting the thread with her teeth. "He was always getting hurt. Falling off ladders, cutting himself on pruning shears, getting kicked by the neighbor's horse." Her throat tightened. "I got a lot of practice."
"What happened to him?”
She cleaned the blood from Sébastien's face with gentle touches. "He tried to stop them from taking me. The debt collectors killed him for it."
