He saw her at the truck stop just outside of Detroit. She was standing outside the diner, hugging a large green duffel bag, trying to look inconspicuous. He understood the situation instantly. She was a runaway, scoping out the people passing through and trying to decide who was likely to give her a ride. Who was safe.

She definitely wouldn’t pick him. He was a large man, overlarge in some respects, with hands and feet and jaw all out of proportion. His hair was long and shaggy and he had a four or five-day growth of beard that made him look even more unkempt. But he had every intention of leaving with her nonetheless. All he had to do was to get her away from the door. Too many people around, too many chances for him to be seen, and he was too easily remembered once he was. He didn’t want that. He wanted her, and once he’d seen her, he wanted her enough even to let her catch another ride, to follow her on to another stop.

Eventually he’d have his chance.

Marie shifted her bag in her arms and stomped her feet, trying to warm up her toes. When she’d thought about wanting to see snow, back home in Mississippi, she hadn’t thought about standing around in it. She didn’t like the looks of anyone she’d seen going in or out of the diner so far.

I should’ve bought a car, she thought tiredly. That had been the excuse she’d made at the bank when she cleared out her savings account. $1,536 had seemed like a lot of money at the time, but even then she knew it wouldn’t buy her much of a car. And the idea of heading out on the road with no money left—she might have been able to try it if she’d had any goal in sight, any idea of where she was heading, but she didn’t. In the end she’d bought a student Greyhound pass good for three months, and when that ran out, she bought another.

When that had run out, so had her money. She’d made a few dollars here and there doing kitchen work, mostly, but even people who didn’t mind hiring illegal aliens didn’t really want to take on an obvious runaway white girl who couldn’t produce any ID. So eventually she’d turned to hitchhiking; it had been almost two months now. The first time, she’d been terrified, remembering horrible stories her mother had told her of what happened to girls who hitchhiked. But so far she’d been all right—she’d stuck to truck drivers, figuring if they had jobs they were more likely to be decent men, and among them she tried to stick to those who were older, more grandfatherly. So far everyone she’d seen here had been of another type—too young, too mean-looking, driving an SUV instead of a big rig. She imagined they’d give her a ride, but she didn’t want to think about what they’d want in return.

She thought about going into the diner. She still had a little over twenty dollars left; she could get a cup of soup or something and sit at the counter for a while. But for a change, she actually wasn’t hungry right now. Her last ride had given her a decent meal before dropping her off, and she needed to conserve her money. Besides, she wanted to be ready to go if she did managed to scrounge a ride, and when she went into diners late at night there was always a chance that some “responsible” person would start asking questions.

Two men came through the door and she ducked her head to avoid notice; neither one was someone she liked the looks of. One man kept walking, but the other one stopped and stared at her.

“Hey, little lady. You lookin’ for a ride?” The man leaned in close to her and she could smell the beer on his breath.

“No thanks. I’m just waiting for a friend.” It was her standard answer to men she didn’t like.

“Well, you’n’me could be friends, don’tcha think?”

“Please leave me alone.” She hefted her bag up over her shoulder and put a hand on the door. “I’ll just wait inside.”

“No, don’t do that, missy. Let’s you’n’me just talk for a minute.” He put a hand on the door to keep her from opening it and Marie had a moment of panic. She dodged around him and headed towards the gas station across the parking lot. She could see activity there and she might be able to talk to the attendants, who would know the regulars—

The man grabbed her arm and jerked her around. “That ain’t too friendly, girl.” He pulled her in between two parked rigs, pushing her up against one truck. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Let me go.” She jerked her arm out of his hand and tried to push past him.

“What if I just want a little kiss first?” He blocked her.

Bad idea. Really bad idea. “Don’t touch me,” she warned. One good thing about cold weather, no one looked twice if you wore gloves, but now she started to pull one off.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you, girlie. Just gimme one kiss and I’ll give you a lift anywhere you want.” He grabbed for her again and Marie braced herself, bringing her bare hand up to push his face away. She winced at the rush of ugly thoughts and fear that flowed into her, and jerked her hand back as soon as his dropped away. The man staggered, stumbled back and fell. Marie seized her duffel bag and ran down the row of parked trucks. There was another diner across the highway, and right now she didn’t care which direction the road was going, she just wanted to be as far away as she could when someone found the fallen man. Then a dark form hurtled from between two trucks and ran straight into her, knocking her to the ground and leaving her breathless. Before she could think or react at all, the form was on her, pinning her to the ground with her face in the snow, and something tightened around her neck. She tried to scream, couldn’t even gasp for breath. She struggled, clawing at whatever was constricting her throat, until her sight dimmed and her hands fell away. She jerked once more and went limp.

He lifted the unconscious figure as easily as if she’d been a doll and threw it over his shoulder, scooping her fallen bag from the snow as he did so. At the end of the parking lot, in the darkest possible corner, there was a battered black van. He pulled open its rear door.

This was his.

He dumped the unconscious girl onto a mattress that lay on the floor of the van. Moving more quickly that one would think such a large, awkward man could move, he climbed in after her and slammed the doors behind him. His hand went up to flick on a lamp that hung overhead and he knelt over her, taking just a second to breathe in her scent, to feel the blood-lust that pounded through him. As much as he loved the hunt, the thrill of the capture was always better. It brought him what he wanted, what he coveted.

He knew what this one was, and it thrilled him even more. No one was going to be looking for this little outcast. He didn’t have to race to ground with his latest prize, worrying that border patrols and Mounties would be checking suspicious vehicles. He could take his time with this one, stringing out the trip, milking every last bit of her terror. He leaned close to her face, careful not to make direct contact.

“Mutant,” he whispered.

For now, he did have to be quick. He’d been careful with her, releasing the cord from her throat as soon as she’d gone limp, and she’d had the breath knocked out of her when he’d taken her down, so her air had run out quickly. Now she would soon awaken. He reached for her arms and saw one of her gloves still gripped in a small hand. Carefully he lifted that arm, removing the glove from her grasp, and got it back onto her fingers. Holding her there, he stripped her coatsleeve off and finished pulling on the glove; he smoothed the slick fabric up over the exposed skin.

This would be an exciting toy, a dangerous one.

He lifted her hand to the waiting loop of rope and tightened it securely around that wrist, then finished removing her coat and tied her other hand. Her feet were next; he pulled off her boots and quickly fastened to other two loops of rope that were at the ready, already fastened to the bolts in the floor. Then he shortened the slack in the rope; this was always the one uncertain point, how tall his new acquisition would be. Now she lay stretched out before him, helpless, and he knew she was his.

She coughed then and he saw her head move. Instantly he was on top of her, straddling her chest, and he saw her eyes go wide and terrified as she tried to take a breath and scream. He brought the cord down on her throat again at the perfect moment and the scream turned into a strangled cry, barely audible. He saw her become aware of her bonds, saw her fear increase. He leaned forward into her face and she tried to squirm away from him, but there was nowhere to go.

“You’re mine.” She tried to scream again, tried to wrest a hand free, to search for help, but his knots held and her frantic eyes saw nothing except him. “Stupid little mutie—shouldn’t be out by yourself late at night.” He released the cord then and she tried to get a breath, but he had a cotton cloth ready, waiting beside her head, and he jammed it into her mouth so deeply she almost choked. Before she could spit it out, he had the duct tape out and two strips laid across her lips, sealing her mouth. He pressed his hand down on the tape, careful not to touch her skin, enjoying the feel of her chest heaving under him as she tried to keep the cloth out of her throat. Now he could slow down a little and he did, sitting up and watching her increasingly more panicked struggles as he slowly drew his own gloves from his pocket. He pulled them on slowly, making sure she saw them, and then deliberately slapped her hard across one cheek. She went still and he saw tears form in her eyes, begin to trail down those perfect cheeks.

“You better stop blubberin’ right now, mutie. Your nose is all you got to breathe through for the next few hours, and I don’t want you dyin’ on me just yet.” She closed her eyes and made a moaning noise deep in her throat, but the tears stopped. He stroked her cheek, feeling her flinch away from his touch, savoring it. Then he seized a handful of her hair and her eyes opened again. “That’s right. You better look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” He reached for the blindfold, letting her see it. “I’m gonna put this on you now and then we’re goin’ for a ride. You’ll like that, won’t you? You must love travelin’. We’ll take a little trip together, just you and me.” She shook her head, fighting the gag, fighting his hands ever more furiously as he forced the tight rubber mask over her head, adjusted the foam-rubber padding over her eyes. Even then she didn’t stop, twisting her wrists in the ropes as he eased his way down her body, running his hands over her. She made a furious, strangled sound when he reached her breasts; it was just too bad that he couldn’t feel them better through his leather gloves, but she was firm and lush and he squeezed a little just to feel her jerk with the pain and shock of it.

“Now what’s this? You’re a little overdressed for our trip. We’re real casual here.” He reached into his pocket for his switchblade and flicked it open, then brought the cold steel to the soft flesh of her neck. She stopped moving when the metal touched her throat; he could see the pulse beating rapidly under her skin. “All that pretty skin.” He ran the blade up and down her neck; she still didn’t move. “Too bad it’s dangerous, huh?” Her head twitched then and he knew he’d just taken one of her few remaining hopes away. He leaned in close again. “I’ll be real careful, don’t you worry.” He traced the tip of the blade down her neck, along her chest, not cutting the skin, but leaving a thin red line. “Such sensitive skin. You’re a little princess, aren’t you?” He slid the tip of the knife under her shirt, further down, ignoring her jerks on the ropes that held her hands, until it caught on the tight band where her bra met in the front. He slid the blade under the bridge of material and sawed back and forth, slowly fraying it away. Then the fabric gave and her shoulders tried to hunch together as the garment fell away to either side. He reached for the straps then, slitting them over each shoulder in turn, holding her arms down against the mattress as he did it. “Better hold still there, princess. This knife is pretty sharp. Wouldn’t want to cut you.” The ruined bra, in pieces, came away in his hands as he tugged at it, and this time when he cupped her breasts in his hands they were free under her thin t-shirt. “Now that’s better.” He kneaded the soft flesh, heard the moan he wanted. “You like that, princess?” A furious shake of the head. “You’re gonna like it. I like it.” He reached up to check the ropes at her wrists, assuring himself that her struggles hadn’t loosened his knots, and then got up. “All right. You just lie here nice and comfortable and think about all the fun we’re gonna have together.” He smoothed the duct tape more firmly over her chin one last time before leaving. “You’re mine now, princess. Don’t you forget that.”

He took her coat, boots and bag with him when he left, as well as the lamp. If she managed to get free during this first trip, it wouldn’t much matter. She would still be alone and in the dark, and he would still have her life in his hands.

Oh, god. Please help me. Marie heard the doors slam, and a minute later the engine started. I’m in a car. A van. God, where’s he taking me? She yanked as hard as she could at the ropes holding her wrists, but the loops only seemed to tighten. She felt the vehicle begin to move, slowly at first as he maneuvered through the parking lot, then faster as he picked up speed. We’re on the highway. We could be going anywhere.

She tried for hours. She managed to work the tape from her mouth and spit out the cloth she was gagged with, but she was afraid to scream without knowing someone else was around to hear her. The ropes gave her no slack to work with. She twisted and pulled until she could feel her skin was raw and every joint ached. At last she lay exhausted, tears soaking the tight blindfold that she couldn’t dislodge.

Eventually the van slowed and came to a stop. Marie heard footsteps and then a chain rattled outside the van. Her heart pounded painfully.

She heard the doors open, and she did scream.

Ten days. She thought it had been ten days. All she really had to go on were the number of times they had been on the move, the number of times he’d stopped the van and she’d known he was coming for her. Again.

He’d told her that this day of travel was going to be the last, and she was terrified of what that meant. She had the horrible feeling that this was going to be her last chance, one way or another. He’d switched from ropes to chains after she’d gotten free once, and now she was again lying on her back on the dirty mattress, weak from hunger and thirst as well as from mistreatment. She could barely feel her outstretched hands any more, but her wrists throbbed. She’d fought her restraints, ever since the doors of the van had closed behind him like the gates of hell, for the first time in days. Neither the handcuffs that held her arms down or the chains around her ankles had given an inch. Now she was exhausted, without even the strength to try and push the gag out of her mouth. When the van finally slowed and bumped to a stop, she wanted to cry, but there were no tears left in her.

Nothing happened for a long time. She tried to hear what was going on outside her prison, what preparations her kidnapper was making, but all she made out was a far-away buzzing from time to time. Then suddenly there was the crunch of gravel. She screamed, every ounce of her remaining energy going into the stifled sound.

Logan pulled into the parking lot and, as was his usual habit, drove all the way to the back corner. He was mildly annoyed to see another car already parked there, but he parked a short distance away and fumbled for a cigar before opening the door to his truck. Getting out, he cracked his neck and took a moment to breathe the crisp night air before lighting his cigar. The lot overlooked a cliff and he could see for miles; he wandered towards the view as he reached into his pocket for his lighter. Then his head turned as his ears picked up an odd, muffled sound. His nose twitched.

Nearby. Waves of terror. Blood, sweat, urine. A heartbeat pounding in fear.

He turned slowly, scanning the nearly-deserted lot and the trees surrounding it. Then he took a step towards the black van. The scent grew stronger.

He stuffed the cigar into his inner jacket pocket and strode over to the van, peering into its front seat. Nothing, but the scent was overwhelming now. He banged on the side of the van and the terrified heartbeat grew even more frenzied. “Hey. Someone in there?” There was nothing for a moment, then a faint sound of metal-on-metal that even he would never have heard if his senses hadn’t been on alert. Logan walked slowly around the van and reached for the handles of the rear doors; then he saw the chain and padlock holding them shut. He rattled the chain and the scent of fear increased, if that was possible.

Logan scanned the parking lot one more time. No one was around; the only activity he could sense was inside the diner. He turned back to the van, released one set of claws and plunged them through the lock and chain, then swung the door open, holding the claws at the ready. He froze.

The back of the van reeked of human waste and other emissions. It took him a startled second to realize that the bundle lying on the filthy mattress on the floor of the van was a woman, her arms and legs bound and outstretched. He let the claws slide back in and vaulted into the van, kneeling beside her. “Christ! What the fuck is this?” He couldn’t even see her face; her long, tangled hair fell over it, and as he reached towards her she turned away from him in insensate terror. He saw that she was both gagged and blindfolded and tried to make his voice reassuring. “Hey—it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.” Her wrists were chained down to bolts in the floor of the van; since she couldn’t see him, he popped one blade and reached for the hand closest to him. Adamantium slid through steel as if it were butter and as the chain fell away he noticed that she wore gloves. That seemed odd. Even more oddly , she didn’t move an inch.

He released her other hand and still she didn’t move; she just lay still, her chest heaving with terror. “Come on, it’s all right. Let me get that blindfold off you.” He reached towards her face and as soon as his fingers touched her she did move, covering her face with one arm. She made a small whimpering sound and he let his hand fall back. “Okay, okay. Take it easy.” He shifted down to free her legs; her ankles and knees were wrapped with duct tape, and underneath her ankles were also chained to the floor. “Someone wasn’t takin’ any chances,” he muttered to himself, and disposed of the bonds quickly. Then he moved back to her side; she lay still, the protective arm still over her face. She was wearing jeans and a torn shirt, both filthy, and he could smell the blood on her—her blood—mixed with the scent of someone else.

It’s not him. It’s not. Marie tried to force her mind to accept what her heart already knew. It’s someone else, and he’s letting me go. She felt the new hands, gentle, on her shoulders, coaxing her to let her arms down, to sit up. Then someone was tugging at the tight blindfold; as long as the hands stayed behind her head, she wasn’t scared, so she let them. Then the leather strip between her teeth was loosened.

“Go on, spit it out.” This voice was different, not vicious or cloying. It wasn’t ordering her. She relaxed her jaw and let the hateful thing fall away, then choked out the filthy rag it had held in place. She felt the hands on her shoulders again and she was being gently turned around. She still had her eyes closed, but she dared to just let them flutter open for a second.

Dark hair. Different eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut again. It isn’t him. Oh, god…what’s happening…

Even in the weak light that filtered in from the parking lot, Logan could see her face, and it shocked him. She couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen years old, and she still seemed absolutely terrified; after one quick darting glance she closed her eyes tightly. “Christ, kid, what the hell is going on here?” He slid out of his jacket and put it over her shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Get away from my mutie.” A click told Logan a gun was cocked and pointed at him, and the girl simply stopped breathing. He swore inwardly at himself for letting his guard down. That sentence had told him all he needed to know about this situation, and he didn’t like it one bit. He turned.

The man on the other end of the shotgun was huge, dirty, and looked snake-mean. Logan could smell the filth on him, and he knew it was his scent he’d smelled on the girl. He liked that even less. “She don’t belong to you, and it sure as hell doesn’t look to me like she wants to be here.” He dropped his arm from her shoulders so he could move in front of her; the gun didn’t bother him, but it was probably scaring her, if she’d opened her eyes at all.

“She’s mine. Outta the van.” The man curled his lip in a sneer. “You get on your knees! Right now!” It took Logan a second to realize that the command wasn’t directed at him. He glanced behind him and saw the girl make a move as if to obey. Then her eyes did open, wide and dark, the pupils dilated with fear. She shook her head.

Good for you, kid. Logan moved slowly, making sure his body was between her and the gun. “Don’t listen to him, kid. It’s okay.”

“You fuckin’ asshole. Get outta my van! You ain’t gettin’ none tonight.” The man thrust the barrel of the gun towards Logan. “You stay right there, princess. I’ll deal with you later.” Logan heard the girl’s breath catch in her throat and it made him see red. He moved forward slowly. All he wanted was to get farther away from the van before he dealt with this scumbag. No one was going to miss the motherfucker, but bullets could ricochet, and one might hit her. Plus he didn’t want her to have to watch him do it—she was scared enough already. He raised his hands and got out of the van.

The other man shoved him out of the way and banged the doors closed. That was all Logan needed. With one swipe the gun was in pieces, and then he slammed an adamantium-laced forearm into the man’s throat, driving him into the van and crushing his trachea instantly. Logan held him there, against the van, and watched his eyes and mouth work silently as the life began to ebb out of him. Then Logan put his fist against the bastard’s stomach and released the claws one more time. Blood began to run from his mouth and nose as Logan dragged the claws up, slowly.

“That’s what you get for rapin’ little girls,” Logan growled into his face, but he never knew if the man could still hear him. He let the body fall to the ground, wiped the blood off his knuckles onto the shirt, and dragged the body out of sight, around the van.

Marie cowered in the corner of the van where she had scrambled when the doors banged shut. The gun hadn’t gone off; after the one jolt against the doors there had been nothing. She covered her face with her hands when the doors began to open again, certain that it would be her kidnapper returning to tie her up again, to tell her that her would-be rescuer was dead.

“Come on, kid.” She heard someone getting into the van. “It’s okay. He’s gone, I promise. He can’t hurt you again.” Her teeth started to chatter. Oh my god. What did that mean? Then the other man was beside her again, wrapping something around her shoulders that didn’t reek of sweat and urine like everything else surrounding her. He helped her inch forward, past the chains and the mattress, but when she got to the doors and felt the outside air she tensed in fear, closing her eyes again tightly. Then she was being lifted by strong arms that carried her into that cold, clean air. She kept her eyes shut as he carried her; then she was being put down, but not in the van or on the ground. This was a cool leather seat in a different vehicle. It smelled faintly of gasoline and tobacco, but not of anything bad. She felt the strong, gentle hands wrapping the jacket more closely around her body. “Just hang on. I’ll be right back.” Then the door closed and it was blessedly silent and peaceful. She kept her eyes closed, just in case.

Logan returned to the heap he’d left on the ground. He hauled it up and opened the back of the van, heaving it in and tossing the pieces of the ruined gun in after it. He looked over the little hell that had been created there. Chains hung from the ceiling and walls of the van; ropes and tape were piled beside the filthy mattress. He saw several boxes of surgical gloves and his mouth twisted in disgust. “You died too easy, motherfucker.” He slammed the door on the body and went around to the front of the van.

The girl’s scent was all over the van; she’d been kept there a while. He jerked the seat of the van forward and found a bundle of cloth that smelled of her, or at least what she probably smelled like under all the dirt. He pulled it out; it was a long cloth coat. He rooted around and came up with some boots and a large green duffel bag. He unzipped it enough to confirm that it was hers; he stuffed the boots and the coat into it and closed it up. Nothing else in the cab of the van looked like it could be hers, so he slung the duffel over his shoulder and tossed it into the back of his own pickup as he returned. The girl hadn’t moved a muscle, didn’t react as he got in on the driver’s side. Then he realized his keys were in his jacket pocket. Her eyes were closed; cautiously he reached towards her, but the second he touched the jacket she was pressed back against the door, eyes wide open, naked terror written on her features.

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice was a raspy whisper.

“I won’t. I just need my keys—they’re in the pocket there. You wanna get them for me?” She blinked, once. Then slowly one gloved hand slipped into the pocket he’d indicated and came back out with the key ring. She held it out shakily and he took it from her fingertips. “Thanks.” He started up the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, heading back towards the highway. He glanced over at her after a minute; her eyes were open but glassy and her expression was dazed. “Kid? You okay?” It was a stupid question; obviously she wasn’t okay, but it was one of those automatic queries. She didn’t seem to hear. “I think we oughta get you to a hospital.”

She did react to that. “No! No hospital. Please—just let me go—“ She reached blindly towards the door and he reached over to grab her hand; she shrank away from his touch.

“Look, you can’t just jump out of a moving car. Hold still, okay?” He hated the way she responded instantly to his command, going completely still at his words, but he couldn’t let her hurt herself. “Jesus, kid, I’m sorry, but we’re going pretty fast here.”

“Please…” Her face looked grey and ashen, and her voice was a weak moan. Logan bit back a curse and pulled off onto the shoulder of the road. No one was going to bother checking out the now-abandoned van until daylight at least, so it didn’t really matter if they lost a few minutes. He cut the engine and turned to her.

“Let’s get something straight. I don’t know exactly what was going on back there, but I can guess. It’s over, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you. You understand? I’m just tryin’ to help you.” Those huge brown eyes turned up to him were heartbreaking in their disbelief. He waited, letting his words sink in. Finally, just a spark of animation appeared. She swallowed hard.

“Who are you?” A tremulous whisper.

“My name’s Logan. What about you?” ‘Princess’, the fucker had called her. He mentally banished the word from his vocabulary. There was no answer, and he saw her fingers plucking at the edges of his jacket, pulling it more tightly around herself. The gloves she wore, stained and dirty, suddenly made sense, along with the way she hadn’t let him near her face. “Your skin—that’s your mutation, right? That’s why you don’t want to go to a hospital?”

She closed her eyes and he heard her breath hitch. Then she nodded once, abruptly. “Don’t touch me,” she said again. “It hurts people. And it hurts me too—so don’t. Please. I’ll do whatever you want.”

She sounded utterly broken, and the resigned offer made him sick. “I told you, I’m not gonna hurt you.” He had to force his voice to remain calm, masking his inner fury. That son-of-a-bitch— “I’m one too. A mutant. It’s okay.” Her eyes opened at that and he nodded encouragingly. “That’s right. I get it. You want to tell me your name?” She shook her head and he sighed. “All right, kid. What do you want me to do here? You oughta see a doctor.” Although where he was going to find a doctor who would treat a mutant teenager, especially one with apparently dangerous skin, he had no idea.

“No—I can’t. I’m all right.” She was so obviously not all right that it would have been funny if it weren’t so sad. “I’ll just—“

“I can’t leave you here. We’re in the middle of nowhere. You’d freeze to death.” He said it with finality and she seemed to accept it. She wasn’t in any condition to make decisions, he realized. She was young and scared and hurt and he was just going to have to deal with it. He reached around behind the seat and came up with a can of soda. It wasn’t exactly cold, but somewhere or other he’d heard that sugar was good when people were in shock. He held it out to her. “Here. Drink. You look like you need it.” She gave him another long, wide-eyed look before hesitantly reaching for the can. She fumbled with the flip-top, her gloves getting in the way, but she managed it. The warm soda fizzed over the top of the can as it opened and she brought it to her mouth quickly to keep it from spilling all over her. Some did trickle down her chin and she mopped it up with a glove. After she’d managed a few sips, she darted a glance at him.

“Thanks.”

It was a little step, but it was something. He nodded and reached to start up the truck.

“Do you have anything to eat?” She was looking at him, half-scared, half-guilty. “I’m sorry—I just haven’t had anything since…”

Shit. He didn’t have anything; he’d been about to get something at that diner, and the next truck stop was at least an hour away. He reached toward the glove compartment and found the remains of a package of beef jerky. He didn’t want to give her scraps, but this was all he had, so he pulled it out and dropped it in her lap. “Here. I’ll get you some real food at the next stop, okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned over the engine and pulled back onto the road. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her strip the dirty gloves off before tearing into the package, pulling off chunks and cramming them into her mouth. He didn’t speak while she was wolfing down the food and the soda. He stole another glance at her then and saw her wiping her mouth self-consciously. Funny kid—behaving like a little lady, even now. “That a little better?”

He got another quick, darting glance and he knew she was still feeling out the situation, deciding if she could trust him. “Yeah. Thanks.” He saw her brushing at the dirty gloves, trying to clean off—he didn’t want to think about what she was trying to clean off.

“You don’t have to wear those things. Throw ‘em out. I won’t touch your hands.”

“They’re all I’ve got,” she said quietly.

“I got your stuff. It’s in the back.” She looked up at that, then over her shoulder. “Green bag, right?”

“He had it?” Something like hope was blossoming in those too-big eyes.

“Yeah. Up front, behind the seat.”

“How’d you know it was mine?”

“Could smell it. Smelled like you, not him. Part of my mutation.” He spoke briefly; he didn’t like talking about it, but her eyes widened even more.

“Wow. That’s…really cool.” His mouth quirked little at that. “I must smell pretty awful to you, huh?”

Now that was not something he wanted her worrying about. “I’m okay with it. You can get cleaned up later.”

“Sorry,” she offered. Then she started to slip out of his jacket. “Oh god, I shouldn’t be wearing this—it’ll—“

“Leave it. It’s been through worse.” He put a hand on her shoulder to stop her and she winced. “Sorry. Sorry, kid. I forgot.”

“It’s not that. He cut me,” she said, and slipped the jacket down to reveal her shoulder. A patch was torn from the long-sleeved shirt she wore and he could smell the blood, see it tracing a pattern. “He put his initials.” She pulled the jacket back up. Logan ground his teeth together. Stabbing was definitely too good for that prick. She settled back against the seat, resting her forehead against the window, and he thought she might fall asleep—she certainly looked tired enough. He drove on in silence for some time.

“Is that how you knew I was there?” He glanced over and saw her watching him, twisting the dirty gloves between her hands. “The smell?”

All right, he wasn’t having any of that. “I heard you. You made noise. That was smart.”

She looked disbelieving. “You could hear me? I could hardly make a sound.”

“All my senses are stronger than normal. And I could tell something was wrong. I sensed a lot of fear. I could feel your heart, blood pounding. That kinda thing.”

She was silent for several minutes. “What do you sense now?” He gave her a quick look, but she didn’t seem fearful. More—puzzled. He realized she just really didn’t know, couldn’t gauge her own feelings right now.

“You’re not so scared any more,” he told her. “Your heart rate’s back to normal, a little slow even.” She was exhausted, was what it was, and her body knew the emergency was over even if her mind wasn’t sure yet and was trying to rest and recover. “You’re gonna be okay, kid.”

She sighed and closed her eyes, leaning back against the window again, and he accepted her withdrawal. The next time he looked over, her breathing and heartbeat had changed subtly and he knew she was asleep.

The next turn-off had only a single fast-food place, but there were signs saying a stop thirty miles further on had a motel and all-night diner as well. The girl remained deeply asleep, so he drove on, figuring it was just as well to get as much distance as possible between them and the body. It was around three AM when he reached the next stop; she woke as he was parking in the motel’s lot and she sat up with a gasp, her eyes wide and frightened. “Hey! It’s okay. It’s okay.” He put a hand out towards her, then drew back. “Easy, kid.”

Marie turned to the strange man, saw his hand, open, hesitating. He won’t touch you. He won’t hurt you. She took a deep breath and exhaled shakily. The man was looking at her with concern and she tried to smile. “I’m okay. I—forgot.”

“I know.” Logan withdrew his hand. “I’ll be right back. Then you can get cleaned up and I’ll get us some food, all right?” She nodded and he got out of the truck, starting toward the office. He stopped halfway as something occurred to him and he returned to the truck. He grabbed her bag from the truck bed and brought it around to her side. He tapped on the window before opening the door, and her eyes lit up just a little when he handed in her things. “Thought you might want to put on some shoes.”

She hugged the bag to her. “I will. I will. Thank you.” She still had the old gloves in one hand.

“Don’t worry about it. Kid—give me those things. You don’t want them.” She let them slip from her fingers as he tugged at them. He closed the door and moved off, tossing the gloves into a trash can he passed on the way.

For the first moment after the man left, Marie just sat still, clutching her duffel bag against her body. Being rescued was hard enough to believe, but to have her possessions returned to her as well—she seriously thought she was dreaming. Finally she opened the bag; on top was her coat and she stroked the familiar woolen cloth. She felt around until she found a battered pair of tennis shoes. She peeled off her socks before pulling on the shoes, stuffing them into the back pocket of her jeans. Then she glanced over her shoulder, towards the “Vacancy” sign over the office; she didn’t see the man returning yet. He’d told her his name, if she could only remember it. Then he reappeared and she turned around quickly, her breath coming faster.

Logan.

He returned to the truck; the girl was sitting where he’d left her, and until he saw her he didn’t realize he’d been afraid she’d run. But she got out, still clutching her bag. Docilely, she followed him to the room and he opened the door, letting her inside. He closed the door and the blinds and then turned to find her standing still, holding her bag, his jacket still hanging from her shoulders. Gently, he took the duffel bag from her and set it down on one of the beds. She slipped out of his jacket and held it out to him; for the first time he could really see her, and she looked like she’d been through hell. Bruises covered her face and neck and her lips were cracked and cut at the corners from the gag. He could see the angry red marks circling each wrist. She looked like she might pass out at any second. “Hey, are you all right?” She nodded, but she swayed on her feet. He came over her and took one arm as gently as he could, careful to touch her only over her shirt, and led her to a chair. He knelt down next to her. “Kid—you look really hurt. You sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” Mutely she shook her head.

He came to a decision. He didn’t want to order her around, but she needed to take care of herself. “Listen. This is what I want you to do. I’m gonna leave for a while, okay? I want you to go take a bath or a shower, whatever, take care of those cuts and stuff. Just dump what you’ve got on outside, I’ll get rid of it when I come back. You got more stuff to wear in your bag, right?” He didn’t want any misunderstanding here. She nodded. “Okay. So you get cleaned up, get dressed, and get into bed. That’s yours.” He pointed. “That’s mine. Or whichever. You pick.” That got just the ghost of a smile and he felt ridiculously elated. “I’ll bring back food. Anything you can’t eat?” She shook her head. “All right.” He rose to his feet and grabbed his jacket from the table, leaving quickly so she wouldn’t feel awkward about undressing with him in the next room.

Marie sat still for a long moment after the door closed. I could run. I have my stuff—I could—I could— But she knew, somehow, that she didn’t have to. Everything he’d said without saying it out loud—she understood what he’d been telling her. He was taking care of her. He wouldn’t do that and then—

Slowly she got up and crossed the room to her bag. She opened it, pulling out her coat and laying it down on the bed, then digging further to find underwear, a soft shirt and pajama bottoms, another pair of gloves. She stepped out of the tennis shoes she’d put on in the truck. As she reached for the hem of her torn shirt, a cruel voice echoed in her mind.

Strip, princess.

She shivered and her hands fell away. Then the sensible, strong voice in her mind, the one that had kept her sane these last days, spoke instead.

Logan didn’t say that. He doesn’t want you naked. He wants you to take a shower and get dressed, and he won’t come back until you are. The inner voice was stern, and suddenly she was able to rip off the filthy clothing. She made a bundle of it and threw it into a corner, then gathered up her fresh things and went into the bathroom. She leaned over to turn on the shower and saw herself in the mirror.

Oh, god. She barely recognized herself. Bruises and cuts covered her arms, her body. Her wrists and ankles were raw. She leaned forward, wincing as she brought a finger to her split lips, and then she saw the letters carved into her upper arm. She turned away and stepped into the shower. The water stung her cuts but she turned it up as hot as she could stand and stood under the spray, letting it wash away the dirt and at least a little of the pain.

Logan took his time over a burger and fries, and didn’t order another round to go until he’d finished. He was a little worried about leaving her alone—she’d looked ready to collapse—but he wasn’t going to let her think he wanted to look at her. When he figured it had been long enough he returned to the room.

A small pile of clothing lay outside the door. He scooped it up, wrinkling his nose at the smell, and took it a few feet to the trash. Then he let himself back into the room.

She was sitting on one of the beds, cross-legged, combing out her still-damp hair. She put the comb down and looked up at him. With the dirt gone her bruises were even more evident, and the shirt she wore now had short sleeves, so he could see that they extended up her arms. Still, she looked less dazed, slightly more normal. She had a blanket wrapped around her and wore a different pair of gloves. “Hey. You look better.”

“I bet I smell better,” she said, and he laughed. He closed the door and came over to hand her the takeout bag.

“Burger and fries. It ain’t exactly hospital food, but that’s what they had.” She took the bag. “Go on. You need to eat something. You must be starving.”

Her gloved hands closed over the bag. “I am. I just—“ Suddenly, to Logan’s complete consternation, she burst into tears.

“Hey—“ He looked around frantically, but there was nothing in the room that was going to help. Finally he sat down on the bed behind her and hesitantly put his hands on her shoulders. She was literally shaking with the force of her tears; he took the bag from her and set it on the nightstand so it wouldn’t spill before wrapping his arms around her, enclosing her in the blanket. “It’s okay. It’s okay, kid.” He rocked her a little, cradling her against his body. “I know, you were scared. It’s okay now. Take it easy.” She turned in his arms, hiding her face against his chest, and he felt her fingers tighten on his shirt. “Ssh. It’s all right. I gotcha. You cry if you need to.”

He held her, murmuring reassuring nonsense he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of, until she finally quieted. Even then she just clung to him, her face pressed into his now-damp shirt, for a long time. Finally she sat up, turning her face away from him.

“I’m sorry,” she hiccupped.

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” She tried to move away, but he held her still. “Stay here.” He got up and went to the bathroom; he found a clean washcloth and soaked it with cold water. He came back and knelt in front of her, holding it up. “Can I? I’ll be careful.” She sniffled and nodded. Cautiously, he bathed her face with the cold cloth, and she closed her eyes as he cleaned her up. Finally he handed her the cloth. “You finish up.” She took it with a watery smile and blew her nose.

“Thanks. You’re really sweet.”

That took him aback as much as anything else that had happened that night. ‘Sweet’?
Nonplussed, he got up, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. I don’t know about that.” To cover his embarrassment, he retrieved her food. “Let’s try this again.” He went to sit on his own bed and turned on the TV as she opened the bag. He noticed that she stripped off her gloves again before eating, and even though she must have been starving, she ate daintily. She finished everything, nonetheless, with impressive speed.

“You still hungry?” He looked up from ESPN.

She shook her head. She put the trash into the takeout bag and got up to put it in the garbage can. Then she went to her bag and looked for something; she got out a toothbrush and toothpaste and went into the bathroom for a minute. When she came out she put her things away and climbed back onto her bed. “I’m going to lie down now,” she said. “You can leave the TV on—it won’t bother me.”

“You sure?” She nodded and crawled under the covers; he could see she was already half asleep. He turned down the sound and reached over to turn the light off anyway.

“Logan?”

He hadn’t even been sure she’d heard that, or taken it in. “What?”

“Marie.” He looked over at her; he could just see one eye peeking up from under the blankets. “I’m Marie.”

He nodded. “Okay. Good to meet you. Marie.” She closed her eyes and was almost instantly asleep. He lay for a while, watching the flickering screen and listening to her breathing, before switching off the set and dozing off himself.

Logan woke a few hours later and glanced over at the other bed. She was still out, curled into a tight ball under the blankets. He leaned over to pull on his shoes and stood up. He didn’t want to turn on the TV, but there was a paper shoved under the door of the room. He went over to get it. Presumably there would be some sort of a sports section.

An hour later he got up, stretched, and remembered the cigar he’d left in his jacket pocket. It was still there, so he took it and stepped outside the room, leaning up against the wall, smoking and disinterestedly watching the cars come and go at the diner across the street.

Marie woke with a start, and for a second she was completely disoriented. She sat up, feeling for her gloves where she’d tucked them under the pillow. The other bed didn’t look like it had been slept in and she didn’t, in her sudden panic, see Logan’s jacket still lying on the table. She got out of bed and padded towards the door, feeling her heart start to pound again. She opened the door. A truck stood nearby, but she realized she had no idea what the truck she’d been in last night looked like.

“Hey.” She turned her head and saw him, leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigar. Then his expression changed. “What’s wrong?”

“I—I woke up,” she said inanely. She felt silly now, and she could feel her cheeks flushing.

“Hey, kid.” Logan threw down the cigar. “You didn’t think I left you here, did you?” It was completely obvious that that was exactly what she’d thought, and he was annoyed with himself. He should’ve realized she’d be scared again when she woke up. He took a step towards her. “I wouldn’t do that, kid. I’m sorry.”

She looked down. “I didn’t think—I didn’t think,” she murmured.

“Hey. C’mere.” He’d told himself that touching her was probably a bad thing, would only frighten her, but it was impossible not to try to comfort her when she looked like that. And she came to him, not shrinking back. He pulled her against his side and her arms went around his waist trustingly. She was taller than she’d seemed and her head almost reached his shoulder. He put his arms around her and rubbed her back gently. “This all right?” She nodded, her face pressed against his shoulder. He held her for a few minutes, careful not to let his hands wander anywhere sensitive. Finally she raised her head and he let his arms fall, but she didn’t move away. She just turned her head to squint up at the sun.

“What time is it?”

“Around eleven.”

She took a deep breath, turning her face upwards and closing her eyes, feeling the sun on her skin. “I never thought I’d be in the sun again,” she whispered. “He only let me out at night, or blindfolded. I didn’t know if it was day or night.”

Logan felt that like a kick to the stomach. He tightened his arm around her shoulders again, and she sighed and nestled her head against him. “Christ, kid.” He shook his head. “How long—“ He broke off.

“What day is it?” She looked up at him.

“It’s—“ He had to think about it, it wasn’t something he usually worried about, but he’d just been reading the paper. “Friday. February twelfth.”

She shivered. “Ten days. I was in Detroit when—February second.”

Ten days. Ten days that prick had had her, abused her—it was enough to make him want to put his fist straight through a wall. “Okay—well, it’s over. It’s over. No one’s gonna hurt you again. I promise.” They’d have to go through me.

She shivered again and this time he didn’t think it was from emotion. “Jeez—come on, let’s go in. You’re not even wearin’ shoes.”

“I’m okay.” But she let him lead her back inside. He put her down on the end of the bed and grabbed a blanket to wrap around her. She was thin, almost painfully so—she probably hadn’t been any too well-fed even before her ordeal.

“You hungry?” She nodded. “Okay.” He reached for his jacket. “I’ll be right back.”

She started to stand up. “I can get dressed—“

“No.” He saw her stricken expression and rushed to reassure her. “Marie—it ain’t your fault. But you go out there, looking like that—“ One gloved hand went to her bruised cheek and he grabbed it and pulled it down gently. “They’ll think I did that to you. Someone’ll call the cops.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked miserable.

“You listen to me. You got nothin’ to be sorry about.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry you had that happen to you, but it isn’t your fault.” She didn’t seem to believe him. “You’re just a kid, for chrissakes. Someone shoulda been watching out for you. What was goin’ on? You were running away?” She nodded, tears forming in her eyes. “Why?” And then he knew. “Your mutation.”

“I almost killed David. My boyfriend.” Twin tears spilled over and rolled down her cheeks. “My mama wanted to keep me, but my daddy—he said everyone knew, that it wasn’t safe. I can’t control it. He was gonna put me in a hospital.” Her face crumpled and she started to cry in earnest, and he cursed himself for pushing her. He gathered her into his arms again the way he’d held her the night before, wrapped in the blanket to make her feel safe.

“I’m sorry. They were wrong, kid. They shouldn’t’ve done that, made you run. They shoulda been taking care of you.”

“I hate it,” she sniffled. “I’m just a freak now.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just different.”

“Everyone’s scared of me.”

“Hey.” He gave her hands a little shake where they lay in her lap. “I ain’t scared of you.” He got a weak smile at that. “Lots of people won’t be. There’s lots of us, you know.”

“Yeah?” She raised her head.

“Yeah.” He ruffled her hair. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh.” She started to pull away, then impulsively she reached up and brushed a kiss, feather-light, on his cheek, over his beard. Then she got up and went into the bathroom; he heard the water running. He got up and stood awkwardly until she came out, pulling her gloves back on.

“I’m gonna go get breakfast.” She nodded, looking a little bashful. “What do you want?”

Her eyes opened a little wider. “Pancakes?”

“You got it.” He took the room key off the table. “I’ll be right back.”

Half an hour later, he was sprawled on his bed, watching Marie digging into a large stack of pancakes. She was sitting cross-legged on a chair at the small motel table, two open takeout containers in front of her; he’d added hashbrowns and sausages to the order. He’d finished his own sandwich quickly and now he just watched; she still ate like she hadn’t seen food in a month, but she somehow managed to look ladylike. She caught his eye and swallowed a mouthful, checking her chin for spilled syrup. “What?”

“Nothing. Drink your juice.” She was adorable. He’d never liked kids, but this one had something about her.

“That one’s yours,” she protested.

“Yeah, right. I drink coffee.” He raised his cup from the nightstand. “Coffee in the morning, beer at night. That’s it.”

She smiled, the first real smile he’d seen from her, and he thought it made her look a thousand times better. “So you only drink stuff that’s not good for you?”

“Don’t need advice on nutrition, kid.” But he softened his words with a raised eyebrow. She picked up the second cup of juice.

“Okay, but you don’t know what you’re missing.” He got up, crossed the room and took the cup from her. He picked up a straw, stuck it into the top of the cup and took a sip. He made a face.

“You happy?”

“It’s good.” She held out her hand and he gave her back the cup. He expected her to replace the straw with a fresh one, but she just rotated it around and took a sip of her own. “Mmm. See? Good.”

“Okay, you drink it.” He returned to his place on the bed. She went back to her food and he let her finish in silence. When she was done, she stacked everything neatly and started to bring it to the trash. He raised a hand.

“Leave it. That’s what maids get paid for.” She looked like she might protest, but she left the things. She sat back down on her chair, pulling her knees up to her chest.

”Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“What’re you gonna do with me?”

He jerked his head back. Jesus, she didn’t still think— “Christ, Marie. I’m not—“

“No, I mean—you must have a job or something. You can’t just sit around a motel room waiting for me to get better.” She looked a little distressed. “I don’t even know where we are.”

“We’re outside Toronto.” Damn, the kid came up with the strangest thoughts. “And I don’t really have anyplace I need to be. So don’t worry about it.” She started to say something and he held up a hand definitively. “Cut it out, kid. You worry about getting better, not about me.” She opened her mouth and he sat up. “Seriously, Marie.”

She chewed on her lower lip for a second. “Okay.” She got up, unconsciously shifting her shirt over her cut shoulder.

“That bothering you?” It bothered him, just knowing it was there.

“It’s not too bad.” She crossed to her bed and sat down. “Maybe—I could get some Bactine or something? It’s a little infected.”

“Shit. Let me see.” Reluctantly, she pushed up the sleeve of her t-shirt. The marks were scabbed over, but the area was red and inflamed. “Damn.” He must have looked absolutely feral, because her eyes went wide and frightened. He forced his fury back down. “You need to take care of that.” He got up, reaching for his jacket again. Then he stopped and took a breath. “I gotta ask, kid. Are you—I mean—“ He couldn’t smell anything really bad on her, no serious bleeding or infection, but it might not have set in yet. “It’s okay, kid. Just tell me if there’s anything else.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He sat down next to her. “I know. I don’t mean you have to—just tell me if you’re hurt.” After a second she leaned against him.

“I know what you think. But he didn’t—not that. It’s just cuts and bruises where he chained me, and he hit me—but only my shoulder is really bad. He tried, but my skin—“

He didn’t—not that. The warring feelings of protectiveness and relief churned in his chest. “That—sick bastard.” The idea that anyone would do that, could do what he had done to her, made him physically ill. He only wished he’d made the fucker really suffer. Ten days? I shoulda let you bleed for ten weeks.

“He kept saying he’d find a way—that there were things he could buy—“

“It doesn’t matter what he told you. It didn’t happen. It’s not gonna happen.” He took her hands. “Believe me.”

“I do.” She took a deep breath. “I know. I know it’s over.” The small, silk-covered hands tightened over his. “I just can’t—quite believe it.”

“You will.” He didn’t have the first fucking clue why it mattered so much to him, but it did. Damn, this kid had gotten under his skin. “I’m gonna go get some stuff for your arm. You all right?”

“Yeah.” A shadow passed over her face. “How far did we go from—where you found me?”

“About a hundred miles.” He saw the look of relief and it took him a second to understand. “Marie—“

He could have told her why she didn’t have to worry any more. He told himself he didn’t because it would only terrify her to know she was in the room with a murderer. But he knew, really, it was selfish. He didn’t want to see the way she looked at him change, watch the growing trust in her eyes turn to fear. He’d known her twelve hours, but he already knew that seeing that would rip him apart. She’d have to find out eventually, he supposed. Just not right now. Not yet.

“I’m okay.” She gave him a brave smile. “You go ahead. I’ll wait here.”

“Watch some TV or something. Don’t go back to sleep.” He didn’t want her waking up alone again. She seemed to understand.

“Okay.” She watched as he pulled on his jacket and headed for the door.

He returned an hour later to find her curled up on her bed, blanket still wrapped around her, but with the remote in one hand. He tossed a bag on the bed beside her. “Here you go.” She got to her knees and opened the bag. He’d gotten peroxide, some antibiotic cream, bandages, a large bottle of Tylenol. “Tried to get some penicillin, but it turns out they want a prescription around here. If that’s not better in a couple of days, we gotta get you some.” He reached out and snagged the remote. “Go on—take care of that.”

She got up and padded towards the bathroom. When she returned, he could see the bandage circling her arm, peeking out from under her shirtsleeve. He’d found some semblance of a hockey game to replace the godawful sitcom she’d had on.

She got back onto her bed. “Thanks.” He answered with a jerk of the head. “What’re you watching? Hockey?”

Good, at least she recognized it. “Best game there is. These aren’t the pros, though.”

“Oh, they’re like—college players?”

“These guy’s’d beat the hell out of college boys. They’re semi-pro.” There was a fast break and he watched intently for a minute.

“I’m gonna root for the blue team.”

He glanced over. “Why? You know ‘em?”

“No, but it makes it more fun. And I like blue.” She started to settle herself in to watch.

He just stared straight ahead. For christ’s sake. She likes blue. Then he held out a hand. “Hey. C’mere.” She got up and came over to him. He hitched over. “You can see better from here.” She gave him that wide-eyed look and then a shy smile. She lay down on her stomach next to him, stretching out like a little cat, and rested her chin on her arms to watch the game.

The blue team won, much to her delight. He let her pick the next show and didn’t protest beyond a raised eyebrow when she chose a romantic comedy on some premium channel. He ordered a pizza for dinner and she put away four slices. When her eyelids started to droop over Late Night with David Letterman, he made her get into her own bed. She fell asleep again in a matter of minutes and he watched bad movies and reruns until late, just putting in time and watching her sleep.

He finally fell asleep around three. At five, he woke up to a strange noise. He sat bolt upright, almost popping the claws, and then he realized it was her. She was twisting in her covers, making strangled sounds, obviously in the grip of a bad nightmare. She was tossing her head from side to side and he could just make out an occasional word as he leaned over her. “No—I won’t—don’t make me—please—“

“Marie!” He didn’t want to wake her too suddenly; that was supposed to be bad. He also didn’t want to put his hands on her—from what it sounded like, she’d just think it was her kidnapper. “Hey, kid, wake up. Come on now.” He reached to turn on the bedside light, still leaning over her.

Her eyes opened and she sat up, her hands flying out to protect herself. She caught at his arms to hold him away from her—and then Logan saw her gloves lying on the nightstand.

It was the strangest feeling. Something was pulling at him, sucking at his mind and his heart, slowing both. He tried to pull back, but he couldn’t move. He saw her eyes change as she realized what was happening and his last conscious thought was, It’s okay. Don’t be scared. Then he felt himself falling, heard her scream his name, and then—darkness.

Marie felt dizzy. Logan’s body lay, twitching slightly, on the floor beside her bed, and she was being pounded by the onslaught of his thoughts to the point where she couldn’t even move. It was different from the other times she’d absorbed people—there had always been fear, hatred, terror in their minds. Now there was only surprise, and underneath that a barrage of protectiveness.

She’s gotta be all right. Gotta take care of her. She’s just a kid.

Over and over, his concern for her rode in waves through her consciousness. It gave her the strength to move, get her gloves and kneel beside him. His body had stopped its strange twitching, and now he was just still—too still. She managed to roll him onto his back, leaning over to feel for a breath, a pulse. “Oh, god, Logan, please—“ His feelings were still racing through her and she caught up one of his hands. “Logan, please be all right. I’m so sorry. I was dreaming. Please wake up. Please.” She leaned close to his face and thought she could just feel a breath, warm on her cheek. Her fingertips found the pulse beating slowly under his jaw. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.” She took a deep breath. He’s alive. I didn’t hold on too long. He’ll wake up. He just had to. She pulled at an arm, ineffectually trying to lift him. Finally she gave up and pulled a pillow and blanket from her bed; she got the pillow under his head and spread the blanket over him. Then she settled herself by his head, stroking his face with her gloved fingers.

Over the hours she sat there that night, she explored the thoughts and feelings she’d absorbed. His insistence that she had to be all right predominated everything. He’d realized what was happening to him and his one concern was that he didn’t scare her. All the kindness he’d shown her so far paled in comparison to what she’d seen in his mind. It made her feel strong again.

Mid-morning, he was still out cold, but his pulse and breathing were steady and strong; he really just seemed to be asleep, though she couldn’t wake him. Stiffly, Marie got to her feet and went into the bathroom. She stripped off her gloves, used the facilities and then bent over the sink to splash water on her face. She reached for a hand towel to blot her face dry, then dropped it tiredly to one side. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she was reaching for her gloves and started to turn away in disgust. Then she froze. One hand went to her face.

The bruises, the cuts, the blood clotting in the corners of her mouth—they were all gone. Not just faded—gone. She held up her arms; there were no signs of bruises there either, or of the red, raw marks that had circled her wrists. She lifted her shirt to expose her stomach; nothing. Her hand trembled as she reached for the bandage that covered her left shoulder and she stripped it away.

The bandage itself showed marks of blood in the reverse shape of those initials. But her arm was smooth and unmarked. She turned her back to the mirror, breathing hard. Then she looked again.

There was nothing there. She was completely healed—not even a scar remained. Blood pounded in her ears. How? What just happened to me? She caught at the edge of the sink so she wouldn’t fall to the floor; her head was spinning. Then something swirled up within the confusion, another memory of Logan’s, one he had tried to hide. Oh, sweet jesus.

That’s what you get for rapin’ little girls.

Logan was aware of a pounding headache before anything else, and that was unusual enough to bring him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes briefly and the room spinning around him convinced him to take another minute to rest. Then he felt a gentle hand touch his face.

“Logan?” The voice was familiar; he didn’t know why, but he knew it wasn’t threatening. “Logan, are you awake?”

Marie. It came rushing back to him. The kid was having a nightmare, and she’d touched him. He tried opening his eyes again. This time the world stayed still. He felt her hand move from his face and then she was lifting one of his hands.

“Logan, please, if you’re awake, try to open your eyes.” He thought he had, but apparently they’d closed again. He tried to focus and this time he could see her, leaning over him. He tried to sit up and her hands went to his shoulders.

“Don’t try to move too fast.” Yeah, that was probably a good idea. He lay still for a minute. What the hell had happened again?

“I’m so sorry,” she was saying. “I shouldn’t have taken off my gloves.”

Right. Nightmare. She touched me. He remembered. Again. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “Jesus, kid.” His voice sounded like he hadn’t spoken in days. “That’s some punch you’re packin’.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She sounded like she was about to cry again, and he hated that.

“’S’okay. I’m all right.” Groggily, he managed to get himself up onto his elbows. He was on the floor, covered with a blanket, and she must have put the pillow under his head as well. He didn’t remember when he’d felt this weak, but he could feel the healing factor kicking in now. “Just give me a minute.” He felt her hands on his shoulders, rubbing gently. It felt good. “How long was I out?”

“Almost two days. I must not’ve held on all that long—David was out for three weeks.”

David? Oh, right, the boyfriend. He sat up, shifting around so he could lean back against the side of the bed. Two days—he hadn’t been down for that long since—“What about you? You all right?” He suddenly remembered that she’d said using her mutation hurt her.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” There was a more assured note in her voice than he’d heard before. “It didn’t hurt. I think because you weren’t afraid of me. Usually all I get is fear, and you were just worried about me. It didn’t hurt at all.”

“Good.” He reached out and found one of those gloved hands, tugging her a little closer when she tried to draw back. “It’s okay. Thanks for the pillow.”

“I couldn’t lift you,” she said a little shyly. “I wanted you to be comfortable.” The idea of this little slip of a girl trying to lift him—after knocking him out, of course—was enough to make him laugh. Logan gave her hand a squeeze and then got to his feet; she stood up quickly as well, but his strength was returning rapidly. He went into the small bathroom for a minute and throwing some cold water on his face did a lot to restore him. He became aware of a welcome and familiar scent.

Coffee. When he opened the door, he saw that she’d made coffee in the little countertop maker, and she was pouring some as he emerged. She held out a cup. “Here. It’s after five, but I couldn’t get any beer.” A little smile appeared.

Logan sat down on his bed, a little heavily, and took a long swallow. The brew was dark and fairly strong, unusual for motel coffee. He noticed she was pouring herself a cup as well.

“You have to use like, three of these things,” she said, and held up some foil packets. “Why don’t they just put enough into one?”

Logan took another sip. “Most people don’t like strong coffee. Since when do you drink it, anyway?”

“Since two days ago.” Her eyes were actually twinkling at him. “It’s a side effect. It’ll probably fade in a week or so.”

That was the weirdest thing he’d ever heard. Thoughts, okay, but she absorbed his taste for coffee? Something occurred to him. “Hey—I was out two days? Did you eat?” He put the coffee down.

“Yes,” she reassured him hastily. “I had to take some money out of your jacket—the man came around from the office and said we owed more money, so I had to pay him. And the diner delivers, so I didn’t have to leave you. I didn’t think you’d want me to call a doctor for you, so I just stayed.” It had all come out in a rush and he blinked, sorting it out in his mind.

Okay. I was knocked out and she took care of both of us. That was what it boiled down to. “You did exactly right,” he said out loud. “No one bothered you, right?” She shook her head. He was just a little worried about her having been seen; they should probably think about—

He took a closer look at her. Something was different. And then he realized the bruises and marks on her face were gone. “Hey, kid. You wearing makeup or something?”

Her eyes lit up and it transformed her face even more. “I’m all better,” she said. She came over to sit beside him. “It’s gone. All of it—no bruises—“ She pushed up her left sleeve and showed him her arm, smooth pale skin where the angry red marks had been. “It’s all gone. I don’t know why—my mutation never worked like that before.”

He knew why. “It’s not your mutation. It’s mine.” He took hold of her arm where it was safely gloved and pulled her a little closer, examining her.

“I—what?”

“My mutation. I heal real fast, from anything. Almost,” he conceded. “When you touched me, you must’ve absorbed that too, for a while.”

“That’s how you always win the fights,” she blurted, and it took him a second to realize what her words implied. His hand tightened on her wrist.

“How do you know that?” he growled at her, and was surprised when she didn’t flinch. “You absorb that too?”

“Some—I get flashes of things, bits and pieces.” Her eyes were serious now. “I saw what you did.”

A jolt went through him. “What?”

“You have—“ Her other hand came up and rested on his knuckles, on the hand still gripping her wrist. “They just come out?”

The claws. She knows about the claws. She ‘saw what he’d done’? Christ, why was she even in the room with him? “Yeah,” he managed.

“Can I see?”

He was completely floored by the soft request. “You don’t want to see that, kid.”

“I’m not scared,” she insisted. “Please?”

Something had really changed with her. Slowly he raised his left hand, the one that wasn’t on her wrist. He held it away from her and let the claws extend, not popping them out, watching her carefully. Her eyes widened, but there was no fear on her, no disgust or horror. That was unusual, to say the least. Even more unusual, she reached her free hand towards his and ran her finger along the back of one blade.

“Careful. They’re sharp.”

“I know.” She withdrew her hand and he retracted the claws.

“What did that mean, you saw what I did?” He almost didn’t want to ask, but he had to know.

That’s what you get… The words were crystal clear in her mind, as though she’d heard them spoken. The rest was in flashes of sense, not words: the feel of those claws sinking into viscera, the crunch of windpipe under bone, pure feral satisfaction at completing the kill.

She didn’t know how to explain any of it. She didn’t know how to explain to him how she knew what he’d done, why he’d done it—and why he was wrong about her needing to be protected from that knowledge. But he’d asked her a question, and he was waiting for an answer, a worried expression in those hazel eyes. “You were right,” she whispered. “He deserved it.”

“You shouldn’t—shit.” His brow furrowed. “What else did you see?” Christ, she already knew he was a barroom brawler and a killer. What else was there?

“I told you, I only get bits and pieces. Mostly whatever you were thinking at the time, but some of the other stuff is kind of—underneath.” He was intensely private about his life, she knew that much, and she didn’t know how he’d react to knowing how much she’d really gotten. It was a lot, maybe because he hadn’t fought the pull.

“What was I thinking?” Slow, almost dragged out of him.

“That you didn’t want to hurt me.” She leaned forward. “That was most of it. Just all these waves of wanting me to be all right, wanting to help me get better.” She smiled. “And you did.”

“The rest of that stuff—it doesn’t scare you?” She shook her head. “How’s that?”

“I already knew you wouldn’t hurt me.” Her voice was low, but assured. “And the claws—you used those to protect me. To save my life.” Her small hand tightened a little on his arm. “It made me feel safe, not scared. Like when you hold me—only from inside my head.”

It took his breath away. He didn’t believe people like her existed. They certainly didn’t exist in any world he’d ever lived in. She’d looked into his head and what she came out with was she felt safe?

Hell, he didn’t feel safe in his head. He didn’t want to talk any more. He took her hand, the one that rested so trustingly on his arm, and tugged her towards him.

“Be careful,” she warned, but she let him settle her against him, curled warm against his side.

Safe. Yeah, he’d keep her safe.

I’m Rogue.

I live at Professor Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, otherwise known as Mutant High. (Yes, I’m a mutant. I suck the life energy out of people if I touch them. Hence the gloves.) It’s where I ended up eight months, three weeks and a few odd days after I ran away from home. Meridian, Mississippi, if you’re interested. Eight months on buses and hitchhiking around the United States—twenty-two states in eight months, I was counting. Then I was in Detroit, looking to hitch north—I figured it was time to change countries, and I was planning to make Alaska number twenty-three eventually—and a very bad man got hold of me.

I spent ten days mostly tied up in the back of his van before I was rescued by a very good man.

He’s the one who found this place. He saved my life, healed my injuries when I accidentally touched him, thereby discovering that my mutation extends to absorbing other mutants’ powers—his includes super-fast healing. As a bonus, the echoes of his voice in my head gave me a deep and abiding sense that I am a good person. Worth protecting. Worth cherishing. Worth loving.

Helps with the pangs of adolescence, let me tell you. So Logan brought me here, and he hung around while I got acclimated, even joined up with the team for a mission or two, despite his deep and abiding sense that teams are bullshit. (This I didn’t have to get by mutant machinations. Believe me, he makes it perfectly clear.) To say nothing of the shit he took from Scott Summers, the X-Men’s leader. All Mr. Summers ever saw in Logan was the renegade, a loose cannon that might go off in his ruby-quartz-covered face.

I’ve never quite warmed up to Scooter.

Okay, so here’s the thing. When I met Logan, even before the evil bastard who kidnapped me, I was pretty shattered. Finding out you’re a mutant is scary. Being a mutant with uncontrollable poisonous skin is worse. Being a mutant with poison skin whose parents want to lock you up in an insane asylum—that’s enough to send a sixteen-year-old out on the road alone.

Believe me, being held captive and terrorized for ten days straight didn’t help. I was a mess. And then suddenly I was in Logan’s truck instead, with someone who treated me like gold, who made sure no one would ever hurt me again. In the almost three weeks I was on the road with him, he made it perfectly clear that anyone who even looked at me sideways would wind up on a spit.

Like my kidnapper. Logan still feels guilty that I found out about that, by the way. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to see it. I don’t think I had the blood-lust urges before I touched Logan, but I’m not sure. I’d’ve stuck a knife into that bastard’s guts if I’d gotten the chance, I promise you.

Ahem. Okay, so Logan found out about this place and talked me into trying it out. I didn’t want to go at first, but when I got here—well, Xavier’s is amazing. It’s beautiful, and everyone here is a mutant so you don’t have to explain things like gloves and scarves. The education is unmatched—I definitely had some catching up to do after my half-assed Mississippi high school. And my two roommates, Jubilee and Kitty, they’re my best friends. Jubes, especially, helped me adjust. Kitty’s from some suburban town in Illinois—she doesn’t have a clue about some things, even if she is a genius. (Got me through calculus and physics through sheer force of intellect, I swear.) But Jubes spent three years on the street before she wound up here, and she gave me some real insight on what I was here to do.

I’d been here about three days. I was homesick for both home and the road. The more normal kids like Kitty made me long for the time when I was a regular kid with parents who loved me, and then it was easier just being with Logan, who accepted me unconditionally no matter what. I didn’t want to deal with all these other people, and I especially didn’t want to deal with Jubilee. She was loud and raunchy and she wore way too much yellow. I didn’t know anything about her background, and I just thought she was another of these clueless teenagers that made me feel old beyond my years. Then one night I was in our room and she came in. I was reading a book and I buried my nose in it, hoping she’d just change into another yellow outfit and leave. Instead, she came over and sat down on the bed next to me.

“Hey, chica.” I glanced up reluctantly, and something was different. She’d dropped the tough teenager act. “Gotta have a word with you.”

“What do you want?” I wasn’t real friendly. And she didn’t care.

“From what I hear, you went through some rough shit on the road.” And then she told me about herself, about what happened to her parents and how she survived on the street—it was horrible. She didn’t ask what had happened to me, but I found myself telling her anyway. We both cried a little and then she explained life at the Mansion in a couple of sentences.

“We get to be kids again here, Rogue. So enjoy it.”

Jubes became my second guardian angel. She hauled me to movies and parties and all kinds of teenage stuff. And Logan stepped back. I didn’t know it at the time, but he didn’t like Jubes either at first. Apparently he cornered her in the rec room or something and tried to growl at her about what he’d do if she kept trying to get me drunk. She pulled the same weird transformation on him and read him the riot act, said he didn’t need to think he was the only person on the planet who had my best interests at heart.

Yes, she actually used the phrase “best interests”. I did notice that Logan’s attitude towards her changed. I just didn’t know why until after he left this last time.

He did that, left and came back, which was to be expected. I mean, it’s Logan we’re talking about. Like I said, he stayed a month or so when I first got here, but he never really liked it here. We’d hang out a lot when he was here, and then he’d have a fight with Scooter—sorry, Mr. Summers—or the Professor would find something for him to go off and investigate and he’d go for a few weeks. He always made sure I knew where he was going and more or less when he’d be back. He even called from the road. Everyone thought it was just so sweet—big bad Wolverine and his little puppy-dog. And that’s exactly what I was, and I loved that. I loved being allowed to curl up with him on the rec room sofa watching hockey, to sit and watch him tinkering with the motorcycle he co-opted from the Mansion fleet. (It was one that Scott had tricked out specially, so there were ownership issues involved, and I can only imagine what the Professor went through smoothing that one over.) I was his little sister, his best friend, and it felt incredibly safe and special.

I just didn’t quite know why I minded so much when he flirted with Jean—Dr. Grey, I mean, Scott’s wife. I ignored all the rustlings in my head that were left over from his past conquests—quite firmly. I wanted nothing to do with any of that. And I kind of knew he flirted so obviously mostly to annoy Scooter—

I have got to stop calling him that.

Anyway, so it went. Until the Christmas party last year.

Two years I’d been at the Mansion. Jubilee had joined the main team and she was more often grown-up Jubilation Lee than Jubes, but she could always switch back with me and Kitty and whenever we were in the Mansion together we were still roomies. Kitty was doing undergrad at Princeton, but it wasn’t that far away and she came home lots of weekends. I’d been feeling kind of restless and I wasn’t sure why. None of my usual escapes was working, not drawing or writing or going to the movies. Then Jubes called from her latest mission and said she was coming home for Christmas and I was thrilled. Kitty was coming back for winter break too and surely the three of us could find some trouble to get into.

But Kitty called off. She’d met a guy in her integral calculus class and she was going to New York with him for the weekend. I was sulking like a five-year-old when Jubes got home, and the second she walked in I knew she was in grown-up mode too. I told her she wasn’t any fun any more and she put her hands on her hips and gave me a look. Then she changed my life again with two more sentences.

“Wolverine just got back with me. Want to find a dress for tonight?”

You would think anyone with as many personalities as I’ve had running around in my head would be a little more self-aware than that. Jubes just raised an eyebrow at me while it was still spinning around in my head, and then she took me to the Vera Wang boutique in Westchester and got me this amazing black dress with lots of sheer fabric along the neckline and the back. And shoes. And black lingerie, with stockings.

Jubes knows clothes.

I didn’t see Logan till that night at the party. Jubes and I got there late—she was teaching me to walk in those heels—and I saw him standing off to one side, holding a bottle of beer and looking uncomfortable. He hates parties. I was about to run up to him like I always did when he came back, and then I felt Jubes’ hand on my wrist.

She spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Walk. Do not run. And breathe!”

Oh. Good advice. I made my way slowly across the room. I saw Logan’s gaze sweep the room, going completely past me.

Then I saw his eyes stop, and come back to me. And then he just watched as I closed the remaining few yards between us, and he set the beer down on the table beside him. “Hey, kid.” It was his standard greeting, but it came out funny. “Look at you. You look great.”

“Thanks.” I reached up to brush my lips against his cheek, where the mutton-chops protect him, and that too was standard procedure, except it felt different. I didn’t have to reach up as much as I usually did because of those heels, and—it just felt different. I left my hand on his arm. “How was your trip?”

“Soon as I saw One-eye I thought it was too short.” It was our usual banter, and it felt nice and normal.

I didn’t want normal. Jubes had woken me up a little bit, but it wasn’t until just then that it really hit me.

I knew I loved Logan. I just didn’t know I was in love with Logan.

And now I didn’t know what to do. I had a healthy dose of Logan’s thoughts once, but that was two years past, and even though I knew how much he cared about me, he sure didn’t think of me that way then. In point of fact, his basic attitude at that time was that anyone who looked at me as a sexual object should be gutted, strangled and shot—in whatever order caused the most pain.

“Get me a drink?”

“You’re too—“ But he cut off his usual response to that. “What the hell. What do you want?”

“Wild Turkey and coke.” He gave me a strange look and I shrugged. Maybe I should’ve aske for Champagne, but what can I tell you? You can take the girl out of the South…

“Okay.” And he went across to the bar, and while I watched him going I couldn’t believe I’d never…I mean, I’d seen him a thousand times. I’d just never noticed…

Jubilee sauntered up casually. “So?”

“He’s getting me a drink,” I hissed. “Go. Please.” She gave me a patented mysterious-Asian look and melted back into the crowd.

“Here.” Logan was back, holding out a glass to me. I took it and he picked up his beer, tapping it against my glass. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. And welcome home.” There was a little stirrer straw in the glass and I closed my lips around it so I wouldn’t leave all my carefully-applied lipstick on the glass. I peeked up through my eyelashes and Logan was watching.

Intently.

I lowered the glass and tried not to squeak. “Want to find someplace less crowded?” He nodded and put a hand on my back to guide me out of the room, like he’d done a thousand times before. But now I was aware of the heat of his body behind mine, aware of his fingers on me, aware of the way he moved, aware of everything. I wanted to relive every time he’d ever put his arms around me, only now I didn’t just want to feel safe in them.

He led me into one of the lounges and I sat down on a couch—it actually felt good to get off those heels. I remembered to cross my legs like Jubes said. The dress split up above my knee and I saw Logan’s eyes follow it.

“What’s goin’ on, Marie?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look—different.” He was standing there, staring, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m just dressed up. Is that so strange? This is a party. Not everyone lives in blue jeans.” I took another sip of my drink.

“When’d you start drinking?”

As if he didn’t know. “Two weeks after you left the first time. I had this uncontrollable urge for Molson.” His eyebrow went up at that. “You could sit down, you know. You don’t have to stand there lookin’ like the Colossus of Rhodes.”

“What the hell’s that?” But he moved across the room and sat down in one of the armchairs.

“One of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It was a big statue.” This was our old teasing behavior, but it had an edge on it.

“So what’ve you been up to?” He seemed to want to change the subject.

“Just the usual. Art classes, writing. Hanging around.” I was working privately with the Professor, but I didn’t want to talk about that, even with Logan.

“What about college?”

“Maybe next year.” Logan’s really hung up on the idea of higher education. For me, that is. I’d really, really wanted to take a year off after the calc-and-physics nightmare that comprised senior year, and he never lost an opportunity to nag me about it.

“You should go.” He’d only told me that, oh, six or seven million times.

“I’m going to, Logan. I just needed this year off.” I’d never answered that as directly before, and he nodded, regarding me curiously.

“Fair enough.” He took a sip of his drink, and I suddenly felt that intense desire for Canadian beer again. I got up and went across to him; he looked up at me. “What?”

“I want a sip.” I snagged the bottle before he could protest, and took a swallow. “Mmm. That’s good.” I handed the beer back to him and sat down on the arm of his chair. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Mixing beer and bourbon now?”

I laughed. “I’ve had three sips of bourbon, Logan. It ain’t gonna knock me on my ass.”

He grinned then, that strange little half-reluctant smile of his that I love so much. And I guess it was that, seeing that little-boy smile of his, that made me do something stupid. I was sitting there, so close to him, and I leaned over and just brushed my lips over his.

He was up and across the room so fast I almost fell. I stood up shakily and brought a hand to my mouth. “Did I—hurt you?”

He was breathing hard. “No. No, you didn’t—Marie, what the hell are you doing?”

I wanted to cry. I wanted to turn back into that little girl who could turn on the waterworks and have him comfort me. But I was dressed all wrong for that role, so I improvised. “I was trying to kiss you. What did you think I was doing?”

He stared at me so hard I thought his eyes would burn holes right through me. Then he turned on his heel and left the room.

Jubilee found me an hour later. I still don’t know how she got me upstairs. She held me and I sobbed in her arms on the floor of the bathroom, my mascara making black streaks down my face. She gave me aspirin, put a cold towel on my head, made me get undressed and into bed.

In the morning Logan was gone. He didn’t leave a note, and he didn’t tell anyone when he’d be back.

Jubilee said two things on the subject. First she said, “That jackass.” Then she said, “He’ll be back.”

I want to believe that she’s right. But that was almost six months ago. No one’s heard from Logan since then. And the thing is—if there is one thing I know with all my heart and soul, it’s that Logan would never willingly hurt me. What I don’t know is, did he leave because he thought it would hurt me to show that he wanted me, because he still thinks that bastard he killed made it impossible for any man to ever want me without hurting me?

Or did he leave because he didn’t want me—and he knew that would hurt me most of all?

Jubes says, Curtain number one, chica, and he’ll be back as soon as he gets his head out of his ass. But I’m not so sure. I know what Logan thought then, remember. He saw me as this pure little angel being defiled. He heard that man call me ‘princess’ and he’d never, ever use that word in connection with me, but he had me up on a pedestal, all right. And he might be in my head, but I’m not in his. He’s never quite believed that he didn’t take something away from me by touching me, letting his thoughts and feelings into me. I tried to tell him at the time, and I’ve tried since, to make him understand that what I’d gotten from him paid me back a thousand times over for any scrap of innocence I’d had stripped away. But he never believed me. Not really.

So he’s been gone, who knows where, since that night. And about half the time I believe Jubes when she says he’s going to come back and everything will work out. And the other half, I’m planning how to track him down and beat the shit out of him.

Jubes says if he’s not back by the Fourth of July, she’ll help.

So let’s get something straight.

I’m a sick, twisted bastard. I get that, all by myself. Don’t need any shrinks or telepaths or ol’ One-eye to explain it to me. But that ain’t even really the problem.

The problem is I’m a sick bastard with no goddamn self-control. Look, when I first found Marie, and I brought her here, I was actually pretty fucking impressed with my self-control. Not because of her, but because I didn’t drag Scott Summers out of the house and put the claws through something that wouldn’t grow back for thinking what he so obviously thought. I had a couple of advantages there, though. First and foremost: Scooter was dead wrong. He was convinced that a low-life like me wasn’t capable of being around a pretty young girl for ten minutes, let alone three weeks or so on the road, without doin’ her. I have to admit, it gave me a sense of superiority to be able to glare at him, and push his buttons by flirting with Jeannie, all the while knowing how completely wrong he was.

Shows what I know.

But I would’ve done something about it, no question, when I heard him ‘talking’ to Marie. It was maybe a month after we got here and I was in the habit of picking her up after class once or twice a week. Usually she went off with her roommates after school, which I thought was a good thing, but two afternoons a week she had an art class that kept her there a little later than them, so I’d go wait for her and hang around, spend a little time with her before she went off to do teenager stuff. So I got to the classroom and heard them talking. My hearing’s pretty good, as you know. The first thing I heard was, “It doesn’t seem like a healthy relationship to me, Rogue.” ‘Rogue’—I’m still gettin’ used to that one. She picked the name when we got here. Don’t know why, but everyone here has some dumb nickname. Hell, who am I to talk?

“Mr. Summers, all due respect, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That was Marie’s voice, and she sounded mad.

“Look, Rogue, it’s simply inappropriate behavior—“

I was about to go in there and set things straight, but before I got to the door Marie interrupted him.

“Okay, I know what ‘inappropriate behavior’ means. You’ve got a sick mind, you know that?” And I stopped, because if Marie was up for fighting this battle on her own, I wasn’t going to get in her way. “You want to give me advice, open up that eye of yours and make sure you know what you’re talkin’ about.” Well, good for her. Even if she was ruining my excuse to make Scooter bleed.

“Rogue—“ Yeah, he was sinking fast.

“Don’t ‘Rogue’ me, mister. You need it spelled out for you? There was no ‘inappropriate behavior’. Not here, not on the road, not ever. You got that? Logan never laid a finger on me. Not like that, not ever, not once. He would never—“ She made a noise that was half a laugh, half a snort. “You know what? Till now, I really didn’t understand why he doesn’t like you. Thanks for clearing that up.” I heard her grabbing her bag and I stepped back, out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” Summers told her, and he did sound subdued. “If I was wrong. I was only trying to help.”

She sounded calmer. “You owe Logan the apology, not me. As for helping—it’s just none of your business.” And she walked out. I was so goddamn proud of her—she’s one tough kid when she needs to be—and as long as she and I both knew the truth, I could give a shit about what the rest of them thought. Seeing Scooter’s reaction every time we were in the same room together was another little thrill. He always looked like someone had just slipped him a lemon, and no, I never did get that apology.

Not that it matters now.

We fell into a pattern of sorts, me and Marie. I came and went now and then—I stuck around for a solid month or so when we first got there, makin’ sure she was all right. That scrawny yellow roommate of hers was worrying me, until the little wasp showed up in the garage one afternoon and talked to me like a human being. More than Scooter ever bothered to do, let me tell you. She made it clear that the ditzy teenager thing was an act, and that I could back off and let Marie have some fun. We came to an understanding, and even when she graduated and was sometimes my teammate, there was still a special kind of communication between us.

I don’t even want to think about what Jubilation Lee would say about me right now.

Because I fucked up. I fucked up royally and I’ve probably lost the only decent thing I ever had in my life. Turns out Summers was right after all.

I don’t know what happened. There wasn’t anything really different about that day. I’d been coming and going for well over a year, Marie had had her eighteenth birthday party and then I had to go do some undercover work for Chuck. I was gone longer than usual—almost two months. Maybe that was it. Not seein’ her every day, not bein’ around her all the time—that’s all I can figure. I guess that was it. Because when I came back, and she ran up to me like she always did and threw her arms around my waist—that’s when I realized what a sick fuckin’ bastard I was. Because all of a sudden she wasn’t just my Marie any more. She was a woman in my arms, and I wanted to—

I wanted her, all right? Every animal instinct I’ve got was screaming at me to take her, right then and there. She’s so young still, a baby really—no decent man would have a reaction like that to holding a child, especially one who’s been through what she has. That piece of shit that kidnapped her—he was out-and-out crazy, at least he had that excuse. I’m worse than he was in some ways, because I knew how wrong this was, and it didn’t matter. It just clicked over, and that was it.

I was going to hell for this, no question.

So much for feelin’ superior.

I didn’t do anything. I’m not that fucked up. Marie trusted me, and even though I always knew I wasn’t the hero she made up in her head, I wasn’t about to drag her into my little personal hell. I managed to get up to my room alone—it wasn’t easy, she was used to unpacking for me whenever I got back—and I made damn sure that we were never alone anyplace during the week I stuck around. That wasn’t easy either. It wasn’t our usual pattern. All my energy was going into at least not letting her know what was going on in my mind. I dropped a firm hint to Jubilee and she kinda made sure there were lots of group activities planned, but just bein’ in the same room with her, watching a movie or eating lunch—it was pure fuckin’ torture.

Like I said, I lasted a week. Then I went to Chuck and told him I was gonna take off for a while. I told him I wanted to go up to Canada, spend some time checking out a couple of leads he had about where I might have come from. Truthfully, I didn’t give a shit any more, but I had to say something. Goddamn telepaths, give ‘em any reason to pry…

There was one thing I couldn’t get out of, not without Marie knowing something was wrong. We’d developed this little ritual when I leave, ever since the first time. I come see her, tell her where I’m going and for how long, and I give her my dogtag to hold on to until I get back. I don’t know, it’s stupid, but it seemed to make her happy. This time I waited until I was about to walk out the door, and I found her playing video games in the rec room. She was surprised—usually I gave her more warning when I was gonna take off—but she took the tag and looked sad and said to be careful, like she always does. Then she hugged me, to say goodbye, and I put my arms around her and held her and just for a second, I pretended. I pretended that she was mine, and that it was okay that I felt these waves of possession and lust for her, and that she knew how I felt and wanted it too.

Yeah, I’m fucked up. No goddamn control at all. I let myself pretend that for a full thirty seconds and then I pressed my lips against the top of her head and I got the hell out of there.

I went back to Canada, but I didn’t follow up any fuckin’ dead-end leads. I went back on the fight circuit, because all I really wanted to do was to beat the shit out of people. Correction: what I really wanted was to have the shit beat out of me, but unfortunately there really aren’t too many people capable of doing it. Scooter’s probably one of them, but the only possible thing that could make me feel any worse would be that little prick finding out he was right about me after all.

I did my best, though. I could end any fight within two or three punches, but that doesn’t mean I have to. I spent three months on the road, letting various scumbags get in their licks. Didn’t help much. Goddamn healing factor kicks in too fast for it to last. Must’ve drunk half the whiskey in the provinces, but that never lasted either. Really, I quit trying to get drunk after the first week—the fantasies were just way too much. And the calls home—don’t get me started. I had to do it or she’d have known something was wrong, but I kept ‘em short and after the first couple I just told her I wasn’t going to be where they had cell phone coverage.

I was in Alberta in December, sitting in the latest bar and waiting for the fights to start, when Jubilee strolled in. She’d been on a mission, picking up a kid in a nearby town, and she’d heard about this fighter who was making the rounds and dropped in on the off chance that it might be me. So I bought her a drink, she hung around and watched the fights, and somehow by the end of the night I’d accepted a ride back to the Mansion with her. Basically she just assumed I’d been about to head home for Christmas anyway, and there wasn’t any good way I could think of to get out of it without explaining more than I wanted to.

Who the fuck am I kidding? Like I needed an excuse. The whole way home Jubilee kept yammering on about the latest gossip from the Mansion and I tried to sit through it without looking overly interested in anything in particular. When she talked about Marie, I ate it up. The rest of it, I could give a shit about. I kept thinking she was gonna catch on, but I don’t think she did. It was really early in the morning when we got in and I managed to escape to my room without seeing anyone—just told Jubilee to say I was tired and I’d see everyone that night at the Christmas party.

I spent the day trying to get some sleep, but there was no way. Her scent was all over my room. It always was—she’d always spent time in there with me, at least before I went nuts this last time, and I knew she used the desk sometimes when I was away and she wanted to do her writing or drawing away from her friends. Whatever, she’d been in there and there wasn’t any way to get away from it.

Then I went to that fuckin’ party, and that was where it all went to hell. She came in wearing this dress—jesus christ. She came right over to me and asked me for a drink and I was just drowning. Then we went into another room—stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life—and she was acting kind of strange. She must’ve known what was going on, because she got up from the sofa where she was sitting, came over and took a drink of my beer, and then she leaned over and—

I was outta that chair and across the room before she knew what hit her. She was afraid her mutation had kicked in, which it hadn’t, and I asked her what she was doing. She said something like, What did it look like I was doing? I looked at her in that dress, all that see-through stuff over her arms and shoulders, and I knew exactly what she was doing. She’d caught on to my sick feelings and she was going to give me what I wanted. Because I’m in her head, because she feels like she owes me, who knows? And I almost took it, too. She had her hand up to her mouth like she’d been burned and all I wanted to do was to go back over there and pull her hand away so I could kiss the living daylights outta her, mutation be damned. She’d have let me. I know her.

Instead, I turned around and walked out. I went upstairs, grabbed my knapsack which I hadn’t even opened, stole Summers’ bike again and left.

It’s been six months. Fighting ain’t doin’ shit for me. Remember what I said about self-control? Mine’s gone. I’m on my way back to the Mansion, and I’m telling myself that it’s because I owe it to her to make sure she knows that this isn’t her fault. It’s all me. I heard her crying as I walked out the door at Christmas, and I can’t stand the idea that she might think she did something wrong. I’ve got to make her understand that the only thing she was wrong about was me—I’m not the good guy she thought I was, because no good guy would take advantage of the trust she had in me, let her think she should play a part in my sick fantasies. She needs to know that—she’s been hurt enough.

Yeah, I’m telling myself that. The truth is, I have to see her again. She’s gonna hate me now—there’s no way she’s not, not after the way I left. That’s the only thing that can give me the strength to do what I’ve got to do. She’ll look at me and her eyes’ll be different, she won’t smile at me like I’m some kind of fuckin’ white knight, and she’ll tell me to leave. And I will. Once I see that—I just have to see for myself what I’ve done, and then I won’t be back. Hell, even that’s a lie. I could call her, do this over the phone, make it easier on her. But I’m a selfish bastard, and I’m goin’ back.

I just want to see her. One more time.

It’s June. June. Six months, for chrissakes.

I’m on vacation. It’s been good to have a couple weeks off, get to hang around the Mansion, not having to worry about ordinary day-to-day crap like cooking and cleaning. I suck at both—you should see my apartment. And my homegirl Rogue needed some serious cheering up.

My fault, partly.

Roguey showed up here a couple of years ago, in the tow of the biggest, baddest semi-X-Man of them all. I took one look at them, cute little Southern belle and her big tough protector, and I thought, Aw, isn’t this just ‘A Portrait of Jenny’ waiting to happen.

What? I read.

I told the big X to put Rogue in with Kitty and me. I spent enough time as a runaway to spot that particular brand of shell-shock. Therapy for mutants is a waste of time, we just gotta deal with what we are, but most of the kids here are really just going to prep school, with extras. I mean, so you can freeze atmospheric water or pop fireworks, so what? No one’s gotta know that. Rogue was a little different. Her mutation’s kind of isolating, her parents couldn’t deal, then this creep she ran into on the road showed her rather forcibly that it wasn’t protective enough to keep her from getting hurt, and when she first got here she was pretty raw. I did the big sister thing, let her get her feet under her, made sure Wolvie knew I’d look out for her while she was sorting out the best way to muddle through the transition.

Big lug. I thought he and I were tighter than this. I probably should have just sat him down and spelled it out for him in black and white. But you know, I never thought he’d let it go this far, and I sorta didn’t want to step on their whole final-scene-of-the-movie thing.

What? I like romance, okay? You don’t know me that well.

After Rogue graduated, she decided to take a year off before college and I thought that was a good idea. She was working pretty intensively with Jean and the Professor on her control issues, and there’s no rush about these things. I wasn’t around as much, being on the team and all, but I knew things were changing with her. She was getting kind of antsy—Kit and me were off doing our own thing and so were most of her friends, and then Wolvie took off for parts unknown for a couple months in the fall. He wasn’t exactly trying to cover his tracks and I kind of kept an ear to the ground so I’d know when he finally made his mind up to do the obvious thing and go tell her how he felt. I was up north in December, picking up a teenager who’d just manifested—she could transmute organic materials, it was pretty cool—and I knew he was doing the fight circuit up there, so I decided to drop in and see how the whole introspection thing was coming along for him.

He actually seemed happy to see me. Me and Wolves get along good. Ever since he found out I was on board for watching out for his girl, he’s been my buddy, and we work together real well in the field, whenever he deigns to join us. He even bought me a drink and invited me to stay and watch. I’d never seen him working civilian, so to speak, and he was showing off a little, probably so I could go back and tell stories. I was a little envious of Rogue that night, let me tell you—watching the Wolverine all sweaty and shirtless, whoo-boy. I guess that’s why I decided to push matters on a little. I thought it was time. You can’t blame me. All night long I’d been catching him up on the skinny back at the Mansion, and most of the time he was barely listening, but anything I said about Rogue—wow. His whole attitude would change and he just soaked up every word. So I did this whole since-you’re-coming-back-for-Christmas-anyway act and got him into the car.

Okay, mea culpa. I thought he was ready. Note to self: any given situation, when a man is involved, even if you don’t think you have to explain, explain. It saves trouble.

So I hauled his clueless ass back to Westchester, and I woke Rogue up at the crack of dawn and took her shopping. Didn’t have to spell anything out for my chica, thank you very much. I thought the Vera Wang touch was pretty slick, personally. You shoulda seen her. I watched when she walked into that party and half the guys in the room practically left their eyeballs on the floor. She did it like a pro—made him get her a drink, cut him right out of the herd and took him off somewhere private. I spent the next hour patting myself on the back, until my curiosity got the better of me and I went to sneak a peek. Got to keep on top of the gossip around here. So I’m nosy. So sue me.

She was curled up on the floor crying her eyes out. Damn it, damn it, damn it. I never thought the son-of-a-bitch could be that clueless. I should have taken precautions with that motorcycle. Apparently the shock treatment was too much for him and he took off like a bat out of hell. Sigh. All the weary work to do again. I picked up the pieces and got Rogue upstairs, but by the time I went looking for him he was long gone. And this time he didn’t leave a trail.

I tell you, that man’s afraid to be happy.

The worst thing is watching Rogue go through it. I’m trying to keep out of it this time—obviously my skills as a matchmaker leave something to be desired. She’s all hung up on this idea that he split because he didn’t want her and didn’t want to hurt her. Bullshit. Anybody with eyes can see how he feels. I swear to God, even Scott Summers, Fearless Leader and the King of All Clueless Men, stopped me after a workout the other day and inquired oh-so-casually if I’d heard from Wolverine lately. Since his pissy attitude towards the whole Rogue-and-Wolverine-are-meant-to-be idea has pretty much been a spoke in the wheel from the get-go, I just gave him a dirty look and left. Let him squirm. Might do him some good.

But if Wolvie doesn’t quit vying for the title in the Clueless Stakes pretty soon, I’m gonna have to pack up Rogue and take a road trip. There are limits to how clueless any one man’s allowed to be.

It was June.

Kitty had finished her freshman year and was back at the Mansion for a couple of weeks before starting an internship with the Hayden Planetarium, and Jubes was teaching a summer course, so us Three Mutant Musketeers were together again. Everything was about pedicures and chick flicks and girl talk. All right, I was still keeping Jubes pretty busy talking me down from the ledge, figuratively speaking, but this afternoon we were just lying around on the lawn. Kitty was reading something by Jared Diamond, Jubes was sunbathing, and I had my sketchbook. Nice quiet afternoon.

I’m not really sure when I became aware that the buzzing in my ear wasn’t a mosquito. It was a motorcycle on its way up the driveway. My heart started pounding and I couldn’t speak.

Jubilee was half-asleep, but she noticed when my pencil dropped from my fingers. She sat up and cocked her head to one side. Then she turned to me with a wicked grin. “Hey, chica.”

“I know,” I managed. I wanted to get up and run, but first, I knew Jubes wouldn’t let me, and second, it was too late. Logan once told me he could track a given scent through Yankee Stadium—all right, he told me he could track me through Yankee Stadium—and since the motorcycle had now pulled up in front of the Mansion, he wasn’t going to have any trouble finding me.

I must waste a lot of perfectly good worrying time, because event though I’d spent the last six months thinking about not much else, I didn’t have the faintest idea what I was going to do. The one thing that kept going through my mind as I waited for him to appear was just She was right. Jubes was right. I was wrong and she was right. Jubilee herself was still grinning at me.

“Make him sweat a little,” she advised. Then she scooped up her towel and swatted Kitty’s butt. “C’mon, Kit-kat. We gotta go.”

“Huh?” Kitty is totally oblivious when she’s reading. Jubilee whispered to her—I was staring at my sketchpad—and she squealed and then slapped her hands over her mouth. Then she grabbed her book and followed Jubes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw them crossing the lawn—and then I saw him. Jubilee stopped for just a second and said something; she was too far away for me to hear and I didn’t really care. I was too busy trying to get my heartbeat and breathing under control, because they were going to tell him way too much. He glanced back at Jubilee as she left, hesitating for a second, and then he was coming towards me again, looking like he was about to face the firing squad.

************************************************************************

…And Upon Me Proved…

I was determined to get it over with fast. I left my stuff on the bike—there’d be no pretense that I was coming “home” this time. I knew where she was before I was halfway up the driveway, and I headed straight for her.

Jubilee and that other kid—Kitty Pryde, her name is—were heading towards the house and I passed them. Jubilee stopped me by grabbing my arm. She was wearing a yellow bikini. What is up with her and that color, I don’t know and never will.

“Not now,” I growled at her, and she let off a spark. It stung.

“Fuck yes, now.” She growled right back. “I won’t keep you from your mission long. Just wanted to say it’s about time you got back, and try not to do anything too stupid this time.”

She stomped off and I kind of turned to look at her, but I didn’t have a lot of attention to spare to figure out what the hell she meant. Marie was sitting on a bench, holding one of her sketchbooks, and as I went toward her she closed it and set it down beside her. She’d dyed some white streaks into her hair awhile back to emphasize this premature white streak she had, and they were still there. She was wearing a short-sleeved top and her gloves and scarf as usual, even though it was hot, but she had these pants on that didn’t come all the way down her legs and she was barefoot—a pair of sandals lay on the grass beside her. Even with everything going through my head as I walked that last distance, I noticed that, because honestly I don’t think I’d ever seen her feet bare before. Her toenails were painted red and noticing that wasn’t helping my resolve any. Then, just as I’d expected, she looked up at me and her eyes were different. She looked at me like she’d never seen me before and even though I knew it was coming it cut like a knife. Then she gave me a polite little smile. Her voice was flat and calm when she spoke.

“Hi, Logan.”

“I need to talk to you.” I couldn’t make small talk, not with her. This was still Marie, who knew me better than any other person on the planet. I needed this to be quick and brutal, just a clean cut and then I could get out of there. I was even glad she seemed so icy, because when I left she was crying and I can’t take it when she does that. She just looked up at me for another second, probably wondering whether she should call Scotty-boy to be a chaperone, and then she nodded.

“Okay. Come on.” She slid her feet into her sandals, got up and started towards a path that led into the woods.

“What—why?” I just wanted to get this over with, and wandering off alone with her just seemed like a really bad idea.

She turned around and put her hands on her hips. “I’m not havin’ this conversation in full public view, Logan. If you want to talk to me, then come on.” So I followed her. What else could I do? She just turned around and walked away, not even looking to see if I was coming.

She went about two hundred yards, till we were out of sight of the Mansion and we came to a little clearing where there were a couple of picnic tables and a grill set up—people used it in the summer, but no one was around right now. She stopped in the middle of the clearing, turned around and crossed her arms. “Okay. Talk.”

I’d practiced enough. “I’m sorry about what happened at Christmas. I—“

“Why?” She cut off my carefully-rehearsed speech.

“Wh—because it was wrong, that’s why. I know that.” She gave me another look, thoughtful this time, and I didn’t get it. “Look—I just wanted to tell you that. It was a fucked-up thing for me to do, and it wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t my fault,” she echoed, and then she dropped her arms to her sides and took a step towards me. “What wasn’t my fault?” There was something else in those big brown eyes now, something I didn’t recognize, and she wasn’t reacting in any of the ways I’d anticipated. She took another step towards me and it was almost like she was stalking me.

“Marie—“

“Logan,” she shot back. Taunting me. She took one more step and this time I actually backed up. “You’re apologizing for something, I get that much. What I don’t know is what.”

Neither did I, at that moment. She was way too close to me now and I could see the flush of anger on her cheeks, at least that’s what I thought it was. “I shouldn’t have made you think you should—goddamnit, Marie.” She backed me up another step and I almost tripped over a root.

“Finish your sentences,” she ordered. “What the fuck are you sorry for?” She actually shoved me than and I realized my back was up against a tree. She went to shove me again and I automatically grabbed her wrists, which was sort of a mistake because it brought her even closer to me. I looked down at her, and under her white scarf I saw a chain-—the chain of my tags, which I’d never gotten back from her the last time.

She was still wearing them. I must have been in shock, because I totally froze for a second. My brain just couldn’t process what my senses were sending it. She stared up at me, eyes glittering, and then she—very deliberately—pulled her hands free of mine and she put them, palms out, on my chest. I really couldn’t breathe.

“Let me help you out here.” Her hands began to move in slow circles as she spoke. “I’m thinking the whole protective thing got a little out of hand, right?” She slid her hands up to my shoulders. “I was always gonna grow up eventually, Logan. Nothing you did or didn’t do was going to change that. So if you couldn’t deal with that, and that’s why you ran out on me, you should apologize. But if it’s just that you think there’s something wrong with noticing that I’m not a kid any more, well—“ And suddenly she was pressed up against me, her hands on my face, making me look down at her. “There isn’t. I know you, Logan. I know you’d never hurt me. Why would you think I’d be scared of you?”

“Marie, darlin’—you’re way too young. I can’t—“ But a slow smile was spreading over her face at that unconscious endearment I’d let slip in, and I was well and truly fucked. Couldn’t say another word.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Tell me how old I have to be. Twenty? Twenty-one? Do I have to finish college?” Her fingers, in those silk gloves, stroked my face. “Just tell me. Jesus, Logan—you don’t seriously think it would ever be anyone but you.” She was looking up at me, those wide, honest eyes staring into mine, and then—while I was trying to convince myself that she’d really said what I thought she’d said—she pulled my head down to hers and her mouth met mine for the second time, and this time I didn’t pull back. Never said I was a saint, and I wasn’t trying real hard to resist temptation at that point. My arms came up and closed around her waist, pulling her even closer, and it took some time for the not-so-minor point that I wasn’t falling to the ground in a twitching heap to sink in. When it did occur to me, the surprise wasn’t enough to make me stop what I was doing. When I finally did come up for air, her lips were wet and swollen-looking and her eyes were dark with—christ, my senses finally got through to me. I picked her up, feeling her arms tighten around my neck and her legs wrap around my waist, and I carried her a few feet to one of those picnic tables. I set her down on it and kissed her again, very thoroughly. She was breathing hard when I finally raised my head again.

“Marie.” I made myself slow down. “You can control it?”

She nodded, looking more than a little dazed. “For a while, anyway. Although I haven’t really had any major test—“

“Tell me if you’re slipping.” And I dove in for another kiss, feeling her hands running through my hair, her body tight up against mine.

Nothing in my whole fucking life had ever felt that good. And she wasn’t scared, or horrified, or disgusted—it was a goddamn miracle. She slid her tongue into my mouth and she tasted like honey and raspberries and everything clean and good you can imagine. I had to pull back eventually because, no matter what, I wasn’t going to keep going out here on a goddamn picnic table in the middle of the grounds. I took her face between my hands, marveling at that soft skin I could suddenly touch. “You sure about this?” It was gonna kill me if she said no, but I had to ask. “Darlin’—if we do this—I’m not gonna want to let you go.” I was warning her. I’d wait, if that’s what she wanted, while she did the college thing and grew up some more, but I knew already that if I could have her, I wouldn’t be able to let her go again. Not ever.

“You better not.” Her arms tightened around my neck. “Are you sure? Because if you do another disappearing act on me, I’m gonna have to track you down and kill you.”

I kissed her again, and when I finished she was on her back on the table with me on top of her, and I wasn’t even sure how we’d gotten there. “C’mon.” I kissed the tip of her nose, then got up, keeping her hand in mine.

“Where?” she asked, but she followed me.

“If we’re doin’ this, we’re doin’ it right,” I told her. “It doesn’t have to be—we don’t have to rush. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

She stopped and tugged at my hand, and I looked down at her, smoothing back one of those white streaks in her hair. “You promise?” she asked, but her eyes told me she already knew the answer. I looked down at her, still my Marie but different, and I knew she was everything I’d never dared to dream of.

“Yeah. I promise.”

…I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

****************************************************************************

The titles I have had the audacity to usurp are all from Shakespeare, which you probably figured out. The first three are from Marc Antony’s famous speech in Julius Caesar, but the last four are from one of the loveliest sonnets of them all, Number 116, which deserves to be quoted in its entirety:

Let me not the the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixéd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come,
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

William Shakespeare