"I swore I wouldn't take another omega. Swore I'd let my wolf starve and go mad before I put another woman in that room's path." He turned to look at her, and the starlight caught his eyes, full of mad regret and pain. "Then the debt collectors sent word about a human omega in Roquemort, and I broke every promise I'd made to myself in the space of a single breath."
"Because I might survive it."
"Because you might survive it. Because the witch's magic was built for wolves. Because I was running out of time." He uncurled his fist and turned his hand over, palm up on the deck between them. An offering, or a confession. "My wolf was degrading. Apex alphas without a mate bond lose control eventually. Go feral. I had a year, maybe two, before I wasn't safe to be around."
She stared at his open hand. The calluses from rope and rigging. The hand that had held her through three days of heat.
She placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers. Not gripping. Just holding.
They sat together in silence after that, hand in hand, watching the stars wheel slowly overhead. The pull in her chest was a constant low-grade ache, but with his hand around hers it was easier to ignore.
ANATOLE
HE COULDN'T STOP TOUCHINGher.
Not in the desperate, heat-driven way of the previous days. This was worse, in some ways. During the heat, he'd had biology to blame. Now, in the clear light of morning, there was no excuse for the way his hand found the small of her back as he guided her to the galley for breakfast. No excuse for the way his fingers lingered when he passed her a mug of the bitter tea Gris brewed each morning. No excuse for the way he leaned close to point out a feature on the navigation chart and stayed there, breathing her scent, long after she'd seen what he was showing her.
His wolf was unbearable about it. A running commentary of satisfaction that made him grind his teeth in frustration.
Touch her more. Put our scent on her skin. She likes it when we're close. Look how she leans toward us. She is ours. She chose us. She held our hand under the stars.
He'd held hands with her. Sat on the deck like a lovesick boy and held her hand and told her about the dead brides, and instead of running screaming, she'd laced her fingers through his and sat with him until dawn.
"You're staring at her again," Luc said from the helm.
Anatole dragged his gaze away from where Jeanne was sitting cross-legged near the bow, a length of rope in her hands as she practiced the knots he'd taught her. Her braid had come loose, honey-brown strands whipping around her face in the wind, and she kept blowing them out of her eyes with an expression of intense concentration.
"She's good for you. The crew sees it. I see it. For the first time in years, you look like a man with something to live for."
"That's exactly what scares me."
"I know." Luc's scarred face held no judgment. "But consider this. You've been treating every omega like a tool to break the curse or a victim to protect from it. Maybe what's needed is neither. Maybe what's needed is a partner."
"She's not my partner. She's my prisoner."
"Is she? Because from where I stand, she's sitting on your deck by choice, practicing knots you taught her, wearing your shirt under that jacket, and every wolf on this ship can smell that she wants to be here."
Anatole looked at Jeanne again. She'd given up on the knot and was now watching the sea, her face turned toward the horizon, the wind pulling at her hair. She must have sensed his gaze because she turned, and across the length of the deck, their eyes met.
She smiled. Small and uncertain and real.
His wolf howled. Not with hunger or rage or desperation, but with something far more dangerous.
Joy.
"If I let myself love her," he said to Luc without looking away from Jeanne, "and the curse takes her, I will not survive it. Not this time."
"Then make sure the curse doesn't take her."
"I don't know how."
"You didn't know how to captain a ship at first either. You learned." Luc clapped him on the shoulder. "Figure it out, Captain."
JEANNE
SHE WAS GOING TO KISShim.
