He was drowning in the sudden rush of anger, unable to do much of anything except seethe and growl and watch Marie transform before his eyes into the Rogue he knew, whimpering and ducking her head in submission. He had the fleeting—and disturbingly satisfying—thought that if she’d had a tail, it would’ve been tucked between her legs.
A second knock, three brief raps of knuckles on wood, finally diverted his attention.
Logan managed to grab control of himself. Or more aptly, control of Wolverine, who had gotten completely out of hand the past couple of days, and Logan was damn sick of it. His usual willingness to share his mind was rapidly turning into downright hostility towards his other half. The feral in him blamed Marie for their current predicament, refused to believe that his precious Rogue would have anything to do with inviting another male into their home. He wished distant, cold, defiant Marie had never come out at all, wished he had his sweet, submissive, affectionate mate back.
And Logan couldn’t seem to convince him that the current ‘predicament’ was neither Rogue nor Marie’s fault, that in fact there would be no predicament at all if the stupid animal would just trust him and stop trying to force its instincts on him.
He hadn’t felt this far gone since the hazy, barely-remembered days when he’d wandered the Canadian wilderness as little more than a beast. In the decade since, he’d fought for every shred of humanity he possessed. Logan struggled against the Wolverine’s complaints and taunts and urges, moved through the angry haze, determined never to let it take full control of his mind again. There had been a knock at the door. He should answer it. That was what humans did. He put one foot in front of the other.
Then the Wolverine’s myriad complaints and urges all fell away, replaced by a single utterly baffled question: Why is Logan keeping our claws inside, as he shoves our mate behind him and welcomes an intruder to our den?
Logan looked down at the kid in the pressed khakis, polo, and jacket with the resort insignia. He appeared to be just out of his teens, clean-shaven and lanky. His aftershave was cheap and liberally applied, all but masking his natural scent. Nonthreatening. Good.
Logan gamely managed to hold back the urge to rip the poor kid apart and to stake his claim on Marie in a number of crude ways she probably wouldn’t appreciate very much. He had a feeling something was going to give, but he held onto his control as tightly as he could, because he figured that was really all he could do. Just try. His voice came out rough, barely human, the words absurdly mismatched to his tone: “Can I help ya, bub?”
The guy smiled—thankfully without baring his teeth—and stepped back to gesture at the golf cart he had parked in front of the porch. “Good afternoon, uh . . . Mr. D’Ancanto. Laryngitis, sir? I’m so sorry; that sounds awful. Can I take your bags for you?”
--------------------------------
Marie felt a little woozy. The scent of the rival male—the bellman, she told herself distractedly—was faint but still recognizable under the chemicals he covered himself in. Something about it rubbed her the wrong way. Something about this whole situation felt wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
The alpha—no, Logan—was clearly angry at her, but he still shoved her behind him protectively as he opened the door. His big hand was tight on her hip, an inaudibly low growl vibrating his entire body.
She felt a strange nagging that she had betrayed him in some way. So when Logan tensed and tightened his hand on her even more as he stepped backwards to let the bellman in, she unthinkingly pressed her body into his back and rubbed her cheek on his shoulder, gripping his arm in a display of affection. Of loyalty.
He softened a little at the gesture, rubbed his palm up and down her hip a couple of times before loosening his grip on her.
The bellman smiled awkwardly, probably a little uncomfortable with the public display of affection. He cast a searching glance around the room, then jerked his thumb towards the hall. “Ahh . . . shall I um, get the bags from your bedroom?”
The alpha’s—Logan’s—voice was still very rough, “No. Stay here.” And with that, he grabbed Marie by the arm and tugged her down the hall to his room.
Marie was still a little fuzzy-headed when Logan flung the door shut and pinned her to it, his gloved hands suddenly rough and hot all over her body. Hips, stomach, breasts, neck—breasts once more. Oh. His breathing was shallow and quick, warm puffs of air ghosting over her skin, eyes wild and stormy as those hands finally came up to cradle her head . . . almost tenderly for a moment, and then his fingers dug into her flesh, holding her still for him.
She barely had time to register what had just happened before she was overtaken by absolute terror: He was leaning in as if to kiss her—but he turned his head to the side at the last second, nuzzled his cheek against hers instead, shielded from her skin by his coarse whiskers. The terror that had clenched her heart loosened its grip slightly.
His grip, however, was still almost painfully strong as he turned her head a little, buried her nose in his hair. She drew in his scent—
Whoa. Her legs gave out from under her. If his entire body hadn’t quickly leaned into hers, pressing her firmly into the door, she would have fallen.
And she wouldn’t have cared one bit, as long as he followed her down.
Marie reeled with the sensations as his hands pulled at her hair and he ground roughly into her lower belly a couple of times. Somehow, she was aware that the gesture had more to do with dominance, with territoriality than sexuality. He was . . . claiming her.
She heard whimpering. She seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
Logan’s whisper was harsh: “Sorry, M’rie.” Then he snarled, bit down on her ear, and ground into her again.
The world spun. Somewhere inside, Marie knew she had the physical strength to push him away, but for some reason she couldn’t summon the willpower to even raise her arms. This felt . . . too right.
Which was ridiculous, she told herself, because this was all kinds of wrong.
Logan regained control before she could, tore himself away from her and turned his back as she slid down the door.
Just the memory of his hands on her was enough to keep her in that dazed stupor. Was this how it felt to be high? Euphoria flooded her brain, and a dozen exclamations rose up in her thoughts, from her and the old Rogue and the new Rogue and even some of her mind’s other occupants, a ridiculous chorus of approval: HmmHMMMM, Good Lordy, Fuck Yes, Wow, Shiiiiiiitbuoy.
She shook her head to clear it, rather ineffectually, and looked up to find Logan clamping an uncut parejo between his teeth, then shutting the cigar box and shoving it into his duffle on top of the rest of his already-neatly-packed possessions.
Whoa. How long had she been sitting there?
She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh my . . . th—that . . . glory be.” A sinking feeling settled over her, cutting through the fog. “Good grief, I can’t go back to the mansion like this. We’re . . . I’m . . . this is outta control.”
Logan seemed firmly in control, however, all business as he slung his duffle over his shoulder, crossed the room, and gripped her arm to pull her up from the floor. “I’m sorry for the uh,” he gestured casually over her form, not looking sorry at all, “for, you know, that.”
Marie managed to get her legs to support her. More or less. Her voice was a distracted mumble. “Maybe I can stay in the med lab, in one of the observation rooms or somethin’. I feel . . . maybe outta my mind. More crazy than usual.” She took a breath to calm herself, but it backfired, his scent sending another wave of that strange dreamy bliss through her, and she swayed on her feet again.
His grip tightened on her arm. “You’re not crazy. Feels good, doesn’t it? I mean, no, shouldn’t have done that to you. Sorry. But you’ll be fine. This is the worst it gets. You’ll see. It’s just during this time . . . of the month . . . know what I mean?”
Huh? “Um, no.”
“Sometimes certain, uh, instincts are stronger, kinda goes on a cycle. Should be better by tomorrow, maybe the day after. This’ll get a lot easier.” He nodded once, though whether to reassure her or himself she wasn’t sure.
A cycle? Really? How strange. Marie blinked. “Is it . . . but why? Does it have to do with the moon or somethin’?”
Logan let out a bark of laughter. “Yeah, darlin’. Somethin’ like that.”
----------------------------
Logan felt much calmer and more in control after their little . . . encounter. Like the pressure building up in him had finally been given some outlet. He even had the presence of mind to grab their coats from the back of the door before they forgot them.
Perhaps because the Wolverine was too busy reveling in his display of dominance and replaying it in his head to be pestering Logan.
Marie, on the other hand, still seemed to be reeling. Her scent was thicker with arousal than it had ever been. She could barely keep a clear enough head to make it down the porch steps without his steadying hand on her arm.
And that little fact pleased both Logan and Wolverine to no end, in spite of how the former tried to deny it.
Marked. Claimed.
Rogue. Marie.
Mine.
Mine.
Ours.
Logan sidestepped her progress, keeping his body casually between hers and the bellman’s. Even the little clean-cut pubescent prick heaving their luggage into the golf cart couldn’t ruin his good mood.
The bellman secured their bags and turned, smiling somewhat reluctantly. “Can I offer you a ride to the front office? Your vehicle should be waiting.”
Logan considered that for a moment. He was feeling a little less violently territorial . . . then the punk’s eyes focused somewhere behind Logan and travelled down, and they better fuckin’ not have been travelling down Rogue’s body—he had to shove his hand behind his back to hide the claws threatening to protrude. Nope, nope, better not push it. He pulled the still-uncut cigar from his mouth and stuck it in his coat pocket. “We’ll walk.”
The bellman seemed relieved. But rather than getting into the golf cart, he took a few steps towards Logan, who immediately made with the puffing out his chest and the shoving Marie behind him. He bore his teeth and growled, this time perfectly audible, low and threatening.
The guy paused, standing for a few very awkward, very silent seconds. “Oh. That’s . . . wow, that’s some cough you have there. I hope you two managed to enjoy your stay. Never fun to get sick on vacation . . . heh . . . heh . . .” he laughed uncomfortably, rubbing a hand behind his neck.
Back off, bub,’ less you got a death wish. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said we’ll walk.”
Suddenly, Logan felt Marie’s hand in his back pocket, copping a serious feel. He nearly jumped in shock, but just as quickly that hand was gone, and she was pressing something into his palm. She pushed her chest into his back—oh, nice, very nice—and stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear . . .
“Tip him, you idiot.”
Oh. Right. Logan glanced down into his palm to see a few neatly folded bills. He took a step towards the guy. He couldn’t help putting every last ounce of masculinity and sheer intimidation into the movement. A purely feral grin curved his lips as the bellman took an involuntary step backwards.
Logan passed the bills to him with a crushing handshake, unable to summon any guilt over the small grunt of pain he elicited. A part of him said he was above such immature posturing. He was so obviously the dominant male, it was almost degrading to make a show of it.
But then again, the little fucker had—possibly—stared at Marie. That was enough to warrant some hand-crushing, right?
Right, the Wolverine heartily agreed.
------------------------------------
Marie smiled as soon as she caught sight of her old army-green Jeep Wrangler. Charles always told her she was welcome to use any of the fleet sedans or even the sports cars . . . but this was hers. She had bought it herself with her first couple of paychecks from the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning.
And that meant something to her. She took pride in being self-sufficient, independent. It was important to her not to ask too much of others, not to owe any favors—not to need anyone. She got that from Rogue.
The old Rogue. Not the new one, who was currently playing lapdog and making her quite literally weak in the knees for the gruff, surly, domineering Wolverine. Being pinned to a door and possessively groped wasn’t exactly how she had hoped her first foray to second base would come about.
And yet some treacherous part of her mind said what she was trying not to admit: Felt amazin’, though, didn’t it?
Marie followed at his heels, the instinct so deeply rooted that no amount of effort could bring her to walk by his side without permission. None seemed forthcoming. Which was infuriating, and more than a little embarrassing.
But she could look on the bright side, lemonade from lemons and all that. So she dropped her eyes to his very fine denim-clad ass and at least enjoyed the view as they made their way across the leaf-littered ground towards the Jeep.
Logan tipped the valet, without any nudging this time, and unceremoniously shoved the keys to the cabin at him as well.
The young valet did his best to look unperturbed. “Ah, thank you, sir. I guess I’ll . . . get these turned in for you.”
Logan simply grunted. He gestured to Marie to get in the car—and she obeyed the silent command only because she had been about to get in the car anyway.
She settled into the driver’s seat, the smell of the worn, slightly cracked leather comforting and familiar. And of course much stronger than she remembered. Also, the slam of the door was much louder, making her jump. This feral thing was definitely going to take some getting used to.
She gripped the wheel through her thin black gloves, relishing the feeling of freedom, autonomy, independence that always came with being in her trusty old 4-wheel-drive. She glanced down to find her keys already in the ignition. Perfect.
Logan casually climbed in the passenger side, the weight of him making the vehicle dip sharply. This time, Marie braced herself and managed not to jump as he shut his door, though the sound still rang out a little painfully. She shook it off, pushed in the clutch, held down the brake, and reached down to shift into neutral . . .
And she couldn’t really remember how.
Marie stared blankly at the stick, willing her hand to shift it in the way it had done countless times before. She was drawing a blank. “Oh, you gotta be kiddin’ me . . .”
Logan quirked an eyebrow at her. “What?”
Marie felt the beginnings of a blush and stamped it down furiously. “Rogue was the one who always . . . I mean, I was there, but I didn’t really pay much attention . . .” Finally, she blurted, “I never learned how to drive a standard.”
Logan huffed in amusement. “You dunno how to drive your own car?”
“I had to repress a lot of memories," she said defensively. "I didn’t exactly have time to sift through them all first.” She bit her lip. The thought of sharing her prized possession was extremely unappealing, but what choice did she really have? She felt a growl start to come up in her throat, but managed to turn it into a cough: “Ahem. Uh . . . I don’t s’pose you know how to . . .”
---------------------------------
Logan drove smoothly, one hand flung lazily over the wheel, the other reaching out on occasion to manipulate the gearshift. Marie thought about pulling a map from her glove box, but he seemed to know where he was going.
She glanced over at him, still feeling a bit resentful over the loss of her independence and, if she were being honest, over the fact that she was trapped in a car with a man whose smell did the most frustrating things to her insides every time she breathed it in. She didn’t even complain when he cracked his window and lit up a cigar, even though the heater was on and he was letting all the bought air out. She was just thankful for the peppery aroma, how it seemed to cut through and dull everything else.
That was probably why he smoked them. She’d take that thick spicy smell any day over the disgusting cleaners housekeeping had used on the cabin. Ammonia and bleach and synthetic flowery scents. She suspected the mansion would be just as bad, perhaps worse.
And that was just really unfair. Because she was pretty sure she wouldn’t look sexy with a cigar hanging out of her mouth all the time.
Not that he looked sexy. Because he didn’t. He looked like a rude, uncivilized, arrogant asshole who went by the ridiculously hyper-masculine handle ‘Wolverine.’
And who happened to have a reasonably nice, sometimes sweet guy named Logan hidden in there somewhere.
Not that she cared. About either of them. Because caring about someone meant hurting when you lost them, and that just wasn’t really worth it in her experience.
And even if she did care, the best way to care for him was by not saddling him with her royally screwed up, untouchable, crazy-as-often-as-not self. Even if he did foolishly seem to think he wanted her. Even if being near him felt pretty incredible even without skin-to-skin contact.
She realized she was folding her arms across her chest and pouting. She reached forward and flipped on the radio.
”She’s available, It’s a miracle,
How my heart stumbled into someone
So kissable, huggable, loveable . . .”
She flipped it off in disgust and once again made with the arm-crossing and pouting.
“I kinda missed that,” Logan muttered around his cigar.
Marie spared him a glance. She hadn’t really expected him to break the silence. “Missed what?”
He shrugged. “The music. Y’always put on the radio . . . before . . .”
She loosened her arms some. “Oh. Yeah. I like country.” She felt her lips tug up. Not a smile, but the pout was gone.
“Remind you of home?”
“Not really.” And just like that, the pout was back. She didn’t like to talk about home, and especially didn’t want to share any more of herself with a man who already had much more of her than he should.
He let the conversation drop. The only sound for miles was the hum of the engine and the zip of tires on asphalt.