Logan took his time out by the lake. He let the cigar’s taste and aroma thoroughly permeate him. That, combined with the harsh ammonia smell, ought to help. The truth was, he had an ulterior motive for finally allowing the maids to come in and clean.
To put it somewhat clinically, Rogue was approaching the most fertile time in her monthly cycle.
To put it not so clinically, she was in heat, and the Wolverine wanted to fuck her into oblivion. Repeatedly. Until he either sated himself or collapsed from sheer exhaustion, which, given his mutation, could take an awfully long time either way.
It wasn’t about who she was or what she meant to him. It was the simple fact that they were locked together in close quarters. Musk. Pure instinct. Nose to hindbrain, without a detour to his higher faculties in between. Logan felt the lustful haze settle over him every time he breathed in her vicinity. It was getting stronger by the day, by the hour. It was unpleasant, like a thirst that couldn’t be quenched, but it was manageable.
Logan had no doubt that he could keep his feral side from forcing itself on her. That wasn’t even a concern. It was a flat-out no, a line drawn in the sand, and he was one stubborn son of a bitch when he put his foot down—even the Wolverine knew better than to push him.
No, the real problem was the dozen or so other instincts that came along with lust—ones that very much had to do with who she was and what she meant to him. Those instincts were all heightened at this time, too.
It was a lucky break that Rogue had tried to attack Cyclops, had made her rejection of him clear. Otherwise, Wolverine probably would have attacked him, and that would have been far more difficult to explain. He knew Rogue was only being territorial, but his feral side saw the attack as a display of loyalty to her mate. Hell, maybe it was. And wouldn’t that be charming, if they were both vicious animals.
As if he needed more evidence of said vicious animal, there was the desire to mark her, which was even stronger than the desire for actual sex, oddly enough. The Wolverine could handle not having her—as long as he was absolutely certain no one else was having her, either.
Much as it bothered Logan to admit it, a part of him hated that the mark he put on her arm had disappeared. There was revulsion that he’d caused her pain, yet pride and pleasure that everyone would know he had touched her—it was enough to make him nauseous again. He felt a need to leave his scent on her, but more than that, some visual sign that she was taken. To warn even his olfactory-challenged competitors: Mine. You touch her, you die.
Though he was pretty sure she had the touching and dying thing down all by herself.
Stupid animal. They were alone in a fucking cabin in Vermont. It wasn’t as though virile males were beating down the door to get at her. So why did he feel this way? Why did he so desperately need to show his claim and bind her to him? Logan wasn’t sure what to do about that need. Rogue seemed content to wear his shirt, and that helped a little.
The marking was about others. But the most bothersome instinct was focused on Rogue herself. It was his desire to dominate. Possess. Own. Control. He had to get a grip on it. It felt so ridiculously good to see her submit. Like a natural high. Every time she dropped her gaze at his growl, or obeyed a terse command, it was an admission: You’re stronger than me. You can make me do what you want. Logan felt himself harden at the thought. Yes. Damn right.
He shook himself. No. Damn wrong. He stubbed the cigar on his forearm until the pain made the hardness go away. He loved Rogue. He didn’t want to dominate her; he wanted her to love him back, freely. He didn’t care if every instinct screamed that he was the alpha and had the right to treat her however he wished. He was more than an animal now. If the Wolverine wanted to think of Rogue as his mate, fine. But he would treat her on Logan’s terms.
That meant absolutely no hitting, biting, grabbing, or hurting. No scaring her. No intimidation or coercion. And no pinning her up to the wall and dry-humping her, for fucksakes.
Those rules lined out, Logan felt confident he could get through the afternoon without making a complete ass of himself. He brushed the cigar ash off his already-healed arm, rolled down his sleeve, and headed inside.
-----------------------------
Rogue went to the alpha’s bed after her bath, but it no longer smelled like him. She stripped away the covers, lifted the pillows, ran her fingers over the sheets, but all she could detect was noxious chlorine. Bleach. She sneezed.
“Bless you.” Rogue turned to see Logan leaning against the doorframe. Well, that would work. Even better, actually. She walked over to him and dropped her towel, pressing herself into his body and rubbing her damp skin against him.
He stilled her movements. His voice was very hoarse. Not growly, just scratchy. “Rogue, honey, I need you to do somethin’ for me.”
She missed the confident sound he had earlier, but nonetheless nodded to show she understood.
“I need you to stay dressed, okay?”
Rogue made a face. She didn’t like clothes. They were stupid. And scratchy. The alpha was dressed, so she didn’t need to be, right? She was perfectly warm. And she liked the way the alpha’s scent changed when she was naked.
He smiled a little. “I love seein’ you, but just for the next few days, we both gotta be . . . careful. It’s real important. Got it?”
Rogue heaved a massive sigh, wrinkling her nose in distaste. This was the weak Logan, not the alpha. She could disobey him if she wanted. She squeezed around him and traipsed off towards the kitchen, naked as a jay bird.
His growl froze her in her tracks. “You do as I say.”
There was that voice. The one that sent a shiver down her back and tied her stomach up in knots. She turned to look at him, but the way he stood was already changing. His chest and shoulders came down, and the ferocity in his features softened. “Don’t listen to him. I want you to do this for me, Rogue. I’m askin’. It’s not a command.”
Rogue came to stand before him, studying his face. He wasn’t fierce and proud like the alpha. But he was still good. Still strong, even if he didn’t use his strength. Logan. The gentle one, who held her and rocked her and made the sound like leaves rustling.
She could do this for him. Even though she didn’t like clothes, it felt good to think of pleasing him. It felt right to not just let him take what he wanted from her, but to give it by her own choice. It felt not-wolf, but that was okay. She nodded.
“Thanks,” he said, hugging her and pressing a kiss to her head. “Look at us. Two feral mutants taming each other. That’s funny, ain’t it?”
She smiled up at him. It was funny, in a way she didn’t really understand just yet. But she was beginning to, a little more each day.
----------------------------------
Logan looked down at her stunning smile, finding it hard to believe that it was directed at him. It made him warm, in a completely wholesome way. But then he breathed a little too deeply, and his thoughts took an abrupt drop into the gutter. Those pouty lips curving up to reveal an impossibly wide row of perfect white teeth. God, even her teeth were sexy. Was that possible?
His gaze dipped to the curve of her neck, the damp tendrils of hair tickling her skin. He could almost feel it himself, that silky softness. Could feel what it would be like for her when he finally touched her, when he found places inside her that he hoped no one else had ever found. He would make it good, so good for them both. Her pulse beat visibly against her pale skin. He felt the urge to close his mouth over that spot, to mark her again. He had to stop thinking about it. It wasn’t worth the frustration. Even if he tried, it wouldn’t show on her skin, not with Carol’s invulnerability.
She put her hand over his chest, no doubt hearing the increase in his heart rate. Her hand brushed the dog tags underneath his shirt, and an idea struck him. Perfect.
He stepped back, noting with some pride her disappointment at that act. He grabbed the chain and pulled the tags over his head. He held them up for her to see. His voice was his own, but it held a rough edge he couldn’t quite smooth out—the Wolverine was close to the surface. He looked down at her, tilting her chin back up when she lowered her gaze. “Would you like to wear these, baby?”
She studied the metal chain, then brought her eyes back to his. She licked her lips, nodded slowly. Her hand came up to take the tags from him, but he moved them out of her reach, shaking his head.
“Nuh uh. First you need to understand. These aren’t a gift for you. You wear them for me. You understand that?”
The scent of her arousal grew thicker. Her eyes were dark on his as she nodded again.
Logan felt his adam’s apple bob when he swallowed. He settled the chain around her neck and gently moved her hair out of the way. He knew his heart was pounding like a jackhammer now, a tremble going through his muscles as he took in the sight of her, flushed for him, wearing nothing but his tags and the sexiest smile he’d ever seen. God, but her body was fine. A fuckin’ work of art.
He bent to whisper in her ear, words so raw he couldn’t let them out into the air, for fear that he’d think better of sharing them, “I don’t want you to take those off. Never, baby, never. Whenever you see’em in the mirror, think about me. About how I’m makin’ you feel right now.”
She whimpered, and he smelled another spike in her arousal. His whisper grew husky. “Yeah, like that. And whenever you feel that metal move against your skin, just imagine . . .” Before he could stop himself, one finger slipped under the chain and traced a path down from her neck to where the tags were nestled between her breasts. She stopped breathing, her heart nearly beating its way out of her chest, her skin flushed pink with heat, yet erupting in gooseflesh. A shiver ran through her whole body.
Yes. His claim was made. She was marked. So beautiful. All mine. A low growl rumbled out of him, the sound jolting him back to awareness. He pulled his hand away and stepped back. “Get dressed,” he murmured. “Please.”
---------------------------------
Is it possible to be jealous of yourself? Marie wondered. It seemed ridiculous. But as Logan’s whispered words slid through her mind, and she felt, as if through a curtain, the arousal tingling up and down her body, she longed to be Rogue. To be the one feeling—unfiltered—that heady surge of lust and affection.
More importantly, she longed to be the one Logan was pinning with that intense stare, his eyes darkening from their usual hazel to a deep stormy color that brought out every little fleck of gold in his irises. The way he was looking at her . . . she felt so . . . wanted. For a moment, just one beautiful moment, she forgot that she was untouchable.
“Untouchable, undesirable, unlovable,” a voice recited boredly from the newly reinforced cage in the corner. “Don’t kid yourself, Marie. Rogue was standing in front of him buck naked like some cheap whore, and he put a dog collar around her neck. If it had been my body he was looking at, he’d be down on his knees begging to worship me.”
Marie felt her heart clench. “Shut up, Carol. You’re crazy. You’re just crazy and mean. Ya can’t hurt me.”
Carol laughed. “Oh, but I can, little Marie. Are those tears in your eyes?”
How could Carol take everything beautiful about what Logan did, and just twist it up into something that made her feel like dirt? It wasn’t fair.
Marie spared a fleeting glance for the beautiful blond, and her heart twisted even further. She felt so out of her league. Carol had a way of bringing up every painful memory, every moment in her life that made her feel stupid and inadequate.
Every time one of the kids from school looked pityingly at her secondhand clothes, the stringy hair she never had a mama to teach her how to fix.
Every time she made up excuses not to have friends over, not sure whether she was more ashamed to have them find out she lived in a trailer park, or to have them find out how mean her daddy got when he drank.
The boy who saw past all of that. Who looked at her like she was an angel. She told him all her big hopes and dreams. He told her she was special and, “Gosh, you’re so pretty, Marie. I wantcha to be my girl.” An afternoon by the river. Her first kiss . . . the first beautiful thing that ever happened to her, and she ruined it with her untouchable, undesirable, unlovable body.
And then, she left with her big dreams and her big plans and her big stupid map folded up in her tattered backpack. Didn’t even make it as far as Laughlin City before she was taken in by the first person to offer some food and a room. The compound, where only her awful skin and Mystique’s protection kept her from being married off. Stupid, gullible girl. Even Mystique couldn’t protect her when she offered herself up like a lamb for slaughter.
No. It wasn’t even herself that she offered. She hid inside her mind like the coward she was, and let Rogue take all the pain and fear and suffering.
“STOP IT!” Marie yelled, rattling the pictures on the walls. She swiped angrily at her tears and looked Carol directly in the eyes. “I know what you’re doin’, and it ain’t gonna work. You can’t break me. I’m stronger than you. I’m stronger, ya hear me? I’ll admit that I’m white trash, and yeah I was a dumb girl who made some bad choices, and I hid behind Rogue for too long. But there’s somethin’ ya don’t know about me, Miss Danvers.”
Carol cringed back in her cage a little. Disgust tinged with fear, she spat, “And what’s that, Marie?”
Her voice was flat, emotionless. “I killed you. It was wrong, but I did it. Not Rogue. She wanted to let go, but I made her hold on. I made her do what mama--what Mystique wanted.” The guilt that had been flickering at the edge of her awareness for so long finally consumed her. Yet it was almost freeing to admit what she had done, to accept the blame on her own shoulders. She wasn’t going to let Rogue fight her battles anymore.
Carol looked up through the bars, and her eyes held no anger, no hatred, none of the madness that had haunted them for so long. “I know, Marie. I’ve always known.”
Marie stumbled back. “You—what?”
The cage began to rust, to crumble and disintegrate before her very eyes. Carol stood to her full height, sweeping back the golden curtain of her hair. An air of peace settled over her features, and it brought a sob to Marie’s throat. Carol spoke, “You drove me to insanity, Marie. Your subconscious—you felt such repressed guilt that you tortured yourself through me, for years.” Carol’s voice held only sadness and resignation. “If only you had admitted it sooner, perhaps we could both have been spared these years of torment. I may never forgive you, but knowing you accept the guilt of what you did eases my mind.”
Marie felt that guilt settle over her, heavy and leaden. The self-pity in which she wallowed moments ago was swept away. She had been wronged, had been treated unfairly in life, but she had committed many wrongs as well. “So . . . what now?” she asked, and her voice felt very small.
Carol took a deep breath. “I only want to live out my days in peace. I want the northeast wing of the mansion to myself, including the library. Leave me alone, and keep Magneto away from me.”
“It’s done,” Marie replied. “And Carol, I just want you to know, I’m sor—“
She held up a hand. “Don’t. You were sixteen years old, Marie. We were both victims.” Carol walked to the door, pulling it open with ease. She paused. “Oh, and you have free control of my powers now. I won’t be needing them anymore.”
Then she stepped out and shut the door, leaving Marie alone in her head.
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Chapter End Notes:
Blah. I lied. No action this chapter. Sorry; these scenes just expanded like frickin' marshmallows in the microwave when I transferred them from notebook to computer. Hopefully in a good way, rather than an overly wordy, annoying way. Hrmmm. Anywho, action starts back up next chapter. Thanks for reading!