Her mouth gaped open. Love? Love an evil beast like him? He was crazy and cursed if he thought that would ever happen. And yet, her body still hummed with unwanted arousal.
Through the windows, she could no longer see Roquemort. There was only the endless blue of the Crimson Sea, and the gentle rock of the ship beneath her feet, and the knowledge that there was a door at the end of the lowest corridor that she could never open. Why did he even mention it then?
She thought of her brother's blood on the road. She thought of her father's cowardice. She thought of the curse mark on the captain’s face and the hunger in his eyes and the way her omega nature had reached for him against every instinct she possessed.
"My body may respond to you," she told the empty room, told the lingering ghost of his scent. "That doesn't mean I will ever love you."
Chapter Two
JEANNE
She didn't sleep that first night.
The bed was too soft, too large, and it smelled like him. Every time she closed her eyes, her body responded in ways that made her want to claw her own flesh off. She lay rigid on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling, listening to the creak of the ship and the distant sounds of the crew.
Marc was dead. Every time she started to drift toward sleep, she saw his face. His mouth moving, trying to say her name. The blood pumping from his throat in rhythmic gushes.
Her father had sold her. She was trapped on a ship with twenty seawolves and an alpha who had buried six brides.
And all her stupid omega brain could think about was how good he had smelled.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until she saw stars. Marc deserved better than a sister who got wet for the man responsible for his death. Marc deserved grief, not this shameful heat building under her skin.
Dawn came gray and cold through the windows. Jeanne rose, splashed water on her face from the basin in the corner, and took stock of her prison. The quarters were well-appointed but spare. A trunk sat at the foot of the bed, its lock gleaming in the early light.
She knelt beside it. The lock was simple, the kind her brother had taught her to pick years ago when they were children playing at being thieves. Marc had taught her to pick locks and to climbtrees. He had shown her how to gut fish, mend fences, and all the other things their father couldn't be bothered to show her.
Her fingers itched to try the lock. Maybe there was something in it that could help her escape or find out how the other omegas had perished? The captain had given her rules. Don't ask about the omegas. Don’t ask about the curse. Don’t open the forbidden door. He hadn't said anything about trunks and finding out information on her own.
She found a hairpin in the small bag of belongings the debt collectors had allowed her to bring. It took her three minutes to work the lock open, her heart hammering the entire time. The lid creaked as she lifted it.
It was full of clothes, books, and papers. But there was also a dark velvet box. Petting the soft lid, she inspected it. It was long and had a simple gold clasp. She opened it and inside, nestled within lay seven rings.
Wedding rings. Each one different: a delicate gold band, a silver ring set with sapphires, a simple copper circle worn thin with age. Seven rings for seven brides. Jeanne's hands trembled as she lifted the first one, turning it in the light. An inscription gleamed on the inside.
Marguerite. Beloved.
She checked the others. Six of them bore a name. Marguerite. Celeste. Isabeau. Vivienne. Lucienne. Adele.
Six names. Six women. Six deaths.
What had they looked like? Had they been wolf omegas, strong and fast, able to shift and fight? Or were they human like herself? Had they come willingly, seduced by the captain's wealth or power or that devastating scent? Or had he captured them, stolen them from their homes kicking and screaming?
"You were told not to ask about them."
