ANATOLE
SHE FELL ASLEEP INhis arms, still knotted, her breath warm and even against his collarbone. Anatole stayed awake.
He watched her sleep the way he'd watched the sea for twelve years: searching for signs of the storm he knew was coming. Her face in repose was younger, softer, stripped of the defiance and wit she wore like armor during waking hours. Her lashes fanned against her cheekbones. A strand of honey-brown hair lay across her lips, fluttering with each exhale.
She'd said she was falling in love with him.
His wolf was incandescent. A bright, burning certainty that filled every corner of his being, drowning out the darkness that had lived there for over a decade.She loves us. Our mate loves us. The curse will break. She is strong enough. We are strong enough together.
Anatole wanted to believe it. With every damaged piece of himself, he wanted to believe that this woman, this stubborn, brilliant, infuriating human omega who had no wolf and no claws and no supernatural protection, could do what six wolf omegas before her could not.
But belief hadn't saved Marguerite. Hope hadn't saved Celeste. Cleverness hadn't saved Isabeau. Kindness hadn't saved Vivienne. Courage hadn't saved Lucienne. And love, simple and uncomplicated and growing in Adele's belly, hadn't saved her either.
What made Jeanne different?
She chose us,his wolf said.Tonight. Without heat, without biology, without compulsion. She walked into this room and kissed us and it was her choice. None of the others did that. None of the others could.
Because the others had all come to him through some form of transaction. Marguerite through forbidden love, yes, but also through secrecy and rebellion. The rest through purchase, barter, arrangement. Even the ones who'd grown to care for him had started from a position of captivity.
Jeanne had started there too. But she was building something different on that foundation. Not heat-induced attachment. Not the desperate gratitude of a woman with no options.
Something real. Something that had looked him in the eye tonight and saidstay here, stay with me, not the wolf, not the captain, you.
Nobody had ever asked for just him before.
His knot softened and he slipped free. Jeanne murmured in her sleep but didn't wake. He eased her onto his pillow, pulled the blanket up, and sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, watching her breathe.
What if I stop trying to protect her from the curse,he thought,and start trying to build something strong enough to survive it?
It was the most hopeful thought he'd allowed himself in twelve years.
And it was almost immediately drowned by the sound of the forbidden door's hum, rising through the decks, louder than he'd ever heard it.
The curse had heard it too.
The curse knew she loved him. And now, like a hunter catching the scent of blood, it was coming for her.
Anatole dressed without sound, slipped from the cabin, and descended to the lowest deck. The corridor was dark and cold, the wood damp beneath his bare feet. At the far end, the door waited. Ancient wood, warped hinges, the faint golden glow leaking from beneath like ichor.
He pressed his hand against the wood. It was warm. Alive. Pulsing with a rhythm that matched his own heartbeat.
"You can't have her," he told it. Told the curse. Told Morvenna's ghost, wherever it lingered. "I won't let you take her."
The door didn't answer. But the hum shifted, took on an almost mocking quality, and somewhere inside, he could swear he heard the dead brides laughing.
He'd heard that laugh before. Six times.
Always right before the end began.
He climbed back to the cabin, back to Jeanne, and when she turned in her sleep and reached for him, he gathered her against his chest and held on tight.
