An Old-Fashioned Girl

Chapter One: "Blood On The Handle."

Words: 2,335

Synopsis: A girl escapes from an evil religious sect and, injured, stumbles upon Victor Creed's cabin while he's away. Intent on demanding she explain how she got to his remote cabin, he takes her in and helps her. When she wakes up though, she's anything but what he expected. How will Victor Creed, murderer extraordinaire handle a sweet, slightly religious female walking around his sanctuary like she owns the place? And how will she handle Victor Creed? H.E.A. Guaranteed. Victor/OC.

A/N: Okay, so this is definitely an M-rated fic, for the language obviously, and the mature content, both now and in later chapters.

This is actually a really difficult fic to write, one because, hey, it's Victor Creed; he's not exactly the easiest guy in the world to keep in character. Two, the cussing and sexual stuff is totally out of my comfort zone, but I can't write a Victor-fic without it, so… If I mess up, please be patient with me. Haha.

Thanks. Reviews make me happy; just letting you know.

P.S.

H.E.A. stands for Happily Ever After. I don't believe in unhappy endings. They don't exist with me.

~ Jane McBrennen/Ashleigh Knight

Rebecca ran faster than she ever had in her life, her bare feet painfully numb from the snow. She didn't know how long she ran, only that the man behind her wasn't letting up. She didn't know where she was getting the energy from; perhaps she'd been saving it up during her time in the Salvation Hole. Her legs and stomach were cramping, and she felt so weak, but the knowledge of what waited for her if she stopped forced her to keep going.

Horror clutched her heart when she lurched forward, her toes caught on her dress. A full second hadn't even passed after she hit the ground before her tormentor pounced on her, grabbing the back of her neck and pushing her face into the snow.

"Can't run now, can you, daughter of Satan?" the man whispered viscously in her ear, his rank breath gagging her. "I'll get the Devil out of you yet."

He started hiking her skirt up, ripping it because it had caught under his knee. She flailed around, whipping snow up around her. Dear God, she prayed, please help me. Please don't let me die like this. If You're with me, then I beg You, please help me…

Her hand struck something hard, and she felt for it as the man pressed her harder into the ground while he unbuckled his trousers with one hand. It was a rock, a fist-sized rock with a sharp edge. She closed her hand around it and went very still. He became distracted by the difficulty he was having with pulling his pants down and his hand loosened around the back of her neck for a slit second.

It was more than enough.

She tightened her hand around the rock and struck at him…

Victor Creed walked out of the small general store, his purchases in hand. The cold wind hit his face, pelting him with large but delicate snowflakes. It didn't really bother him, not like it did the frails, who scurried around, in a hurry to seek shelter from the coming storm. The news said it was going to be the worst storm on record in over a century. Victor was glad he had decided not to take any more assignments for the next few months so he could take a much needed vacation. He enjoyed work and the weather didn't really bother him but tracking an assignment with all this snow would be a fucking nightmare, and that was putting it nicely.

He walked over to his black Hummer and stepped in, a surge of pride filling his black heart. He'd just bought it – for a great price, thanks to his expertise in the art of 'negotiation' – and he loved it. It was so fucking big that unlike with every other car he'd ever driven he didn't feel like he was getting into a cage every time he stepped into it. Long trips weren't quite the hell they'd once been, thanks to this baby.

He shifted it into gear, backed up and headed out of town toward his cabin. It was about an hour drive from town, at least for safe drivers when the weather wasn't bad. He ignored posted speed limits and drove dangerously fast on the on the icy road. He didn't have to worry about cops; they wouldn't be too concerned with a road that led up to only one cabin. Even if they were watching the road they generally had the good sense not to bother him. He had a reputation, after all.

Everyone in town knew he was a mutant. They both feared and hated him, though none of them dared show the latter emotion. Not since that store clerk refused him service and ended up in pieces, strewn across his entire store, the very next day. Now, half the people didn't even charge him for what he wanted. The rest gave him steep discounts.

He enjoyed his power, his animal prowess in the art of making people afraid. He was good at it and it was easy.

Sadly, he remembered a time when Jimmy would've reminded him that the easy things in life weren't always the best, that sometimes the best things took a little effort and work. He shook it off though, well accustomed to doing so. He had been a long time without his brother, but his voice never seemed to have left.

He didn't enjoy the long drive up to his cabin; he wasn't really able to relax the way he usually did. He didn't like being out in this kind of weather. He much preferred being at home during blizzards. They brought up too many memories of the times when he'd had to shelter Jimmy from the cold before he got his healing factor.

It seemed like forever before he saw the tree he parked his vehicle under; he would have to walk the rest of the way as the road didn't go any farther toward his cabin.

He parked, grabbed his purchases and locked up, throwing a tarp over the large car before trudging toward his cabin. As he walked he caught a strange scent, the scent of another person. Several people. Blood.

He stopped and smelled the air. One female, one male. The blood belonged to both of them. He started forward again, following the scents toward his cabin. It wasn't long before he came across the male's body, shredded up from wild animals and frozen to the ground by the cold. Victor stepped into a puddle of blood and heard the distinct cracking of ice under his feet. The man would've had to be there for at least a two or three hours for the blood to be that frozen.

He bent over the corpse and took a closer look at the clothing. It appeared to be something out of the mid-nineteenth century, hand-stitched and the material woven by hand.

The dead man appeared to be holding something in his right hand so Victor took hold of it and pried it loose from the ground, ripping it off in the process. He broke off the frozen fingers, the crunch of breaking bones echoing in the silent woods. It was a bonnet. An old-fashioned lady's bonnet made of a hideous green material. He hadn't seen anything like it since the Civil War.

His curiosity now peaked, he stepped over the body and forward, into the clearing where his cabin stood. The female had left a trail of dark blood frozen to the snow, leading him to his cabin. The door was open a crack and had blood smeared on the bottom like someone had clawed at it to get in. There was blood on the handle as well.

He pushed the door open but it caught on something halfway. Normally he would've just shoved it open but he didn't really want to have to fix it if he ended up breaking it, which was pretty likely if he used force. Instead, he sidestepped in, shutting the door behind him.

What had been blocking the door was the body of a small, half-starved, fragile girl. It was hard to tell how old she was because of her small size but if he had to guess he'd say teens. She was wearing a frock that matched the hideous bonnet he still held in his hand. She was crumpled up and it looked like her arm was broken.

Her chest rose fractionally and he realized she was still breathing. He rolled his eyes in irritation. Why the fuck did she have to stumble into his cabin? He contemplated throwing her outside for the wolves to tear apart. She groaned and the arm that wasn't broken moved. She held something in her hand that had been hidden by her skirts before. He leaned down on his haunches and saw that it was a bloody rock. He took it out of her hand and smelled it; the blood was the same that had come from the dead man in the woods.

He looked at her again, summing her up. It was hard to believe she'd taken down a man that size with just a rock; she didn't even look like she could lift the rock, let alone hit a man with it. He had to admit though that it seemed she had, and he was a little impressed that a frail like her had the fight in her to survive what had obviously been several months of hell and still beat the shit out of a guy three times her size, in weight and strength.

He made a snap decision and gently picked her up, strangely compelled to not cause her any unnecessary pain. He figured if she didn't live or he got tired of her he could always throw her out. The wolves would still be hungry, and he'd be no worse off. Besides, he still didn't have any idea how she and her 'friend' got to his cabin anyway; he figured he'd have her explain if she woke up.

He laid her down on the massive sofa in the living room, watching as she was made to seem even smaller than she was by the size of the couch. He'd had it custom made, like most of the furniture in his cabin and other houses. The frail shit just didn't cut it for him; made him feel clumsy and he ended up breaking most of it. His claws didn't really help any, but it wasn't like he could do anything about it.

He grabbed a blanket and wrapped her up in it before turning up the thermostat. He turned back to look at her, unsure of what to do. He'd never doctored up a frail before and it seemed like a daunting task, one that made him rethink his decision to try saving her.

Not one to knuckle under though, he walked over to her and peeled the blanket away from her body. She'd taken a hell of a beating. Her eyes were swollen shut from purple and black welts, her jaw was swollen, and her nose broken. But she was shivering now, which meant that at least she was functioning better. She was deathly pale and looked feverish. There was a large, ugly gash on the back of her head and blood had dried and matted her dark brown hair.

He took his nail and sliced through the material of her dress, careful not to let his claws touch her skin. He peeled it off of her, leaving her in thin, old-fashioned undergarments. He lifted her, careful of her bad arm, and carried her into the bathroom. He sat her on the edge of the tub, propped up by one of his arms, and started filling the tub with hot water. He cut the undergarments away and gently placed her in the tub. She hadn't been wearing shoes.

He lifted her arm, which turned out to be fractured rather than completely broken. He'd been through enough wars and broken enough bones to be able to tell the difference. Her ribs were broken though, and she'd be lucky if she didn't die from marrow seeping into her blood or the ribs puncturing a major organ. The truth was, she probably wouldn't survive no matter what he did.

He felt irritated about that, frustrated by his helplessness. He'd never been helpless a day in his life, now a frail walks into his damn house, sick and hurt, and he doesn't know what the fucking hell to do with himself. Damn frails, always fucked everything up.

He watched her naked chest rise over the water, her breathing getting deeper. Her breasts were pretty damn small, but he had other things to worry about at the moment than her rack. Like how she seemed intent on sliding down into the tub and drowning herself, forcing him to pull her up every few minutes.

He sat on the edge of the tub and watched her, thinking about what he'd do with her. He'd leave her in the living room for the night but he'd rather keep her in sight, just in case she decided to live and make more trouble for him. He could keep her on his bed with him but he'd never had a woman in it before, let alone a frail, and the idea seemed invasive to him somehow. The idea of having a frail in his house at all was invasive to him; having one in his bed was flat out uncomfortable. And Victor Creed didn't like to be uncomfortable.

He'd have to go out later and do something about that body. If the ice cube's friends decided to come looking for him he didn't want them finding him on his property. He had enough trouble with one frail.

Color was returning to her face naturally pale face and she wasn't shivering anymore. He touched her forehead with the back of his hand and found that although she was still warm her fever had lessened significantly.

He got a small towel and dipped it in the water before lifting her head and washing the gash on her head. Her face contorted in pain, and he forced himself to be a little more gentle with her. He found half a dozen or so more deep cuts and scratches on her body. He washed her with soap as best as he could, careful around her wounds. When he was done he rinsed her off and wrapped her up in his towel. He grabbed another and dried her off quickly before taking her into his bedroom and putting her under the comforter on his bed. He figured he could put up with the frail being in here until she either died or recovered enough to be tied up so she couldn't run away until he was done with her.

He laid down next to her and settled in for a helluva long night.