In His Skin
Chapter 8
Victor slid out of sight behind the door as the women walked past him. He'd seen her enter the library, and figured it would be a good place to get her alone. Unfortunately, she hadn't been. So he'd tried to wait for her, only to hear the two of them.
Every word she'd spoken about him, played in a loop in his head, painting pictures so vivid he felt it had only been moments before when he'd held her…
Fuck.
This shit was frustrating as all hell.
Why was she being so difficult?
Victor ran a hand through his now short hair and resisted the urge to growl. Instead, he walked into the library. It was still dark, but his eyesight compensated for the lack of light and adjusted to the room around him. The drapes were open, letting moonlight shine through. He glanced around quickly, but stopped when he caught something sparkling on the floor by the far window.
The object held his attention and he walked toward it.
Bending down, he slowly picked up the glittering diamond necklace from the floor and held it gingerly in his hands.
"Can we pay you with a check?"
Did this guy take him for a fool? Irritated and annoyed, Victor reached across the table and lifted the short, fat bald man up by the front of his jacket.
The room was dingy. A basement really, underneath a non-descript brownstone in the middle of upscale Brooklyn.
No one would ever think anything so sinister could happen in THEIR neighborhood.
Right now, there were dozens of cops above them, combing the streets, looking for a suspect they called, "the butcher."
In the past three days, twelve bodies had been found in various forms of dismemberment.
Disemboweled, throats slit…skulls opened…
It made him laugh, watching the evening news as they covered the cases.
If the cops knew how to do their jobs, the first thing they should have known was that all the cases were connected. But of course, the idiotic mass of humanity never looked at the things in front of them
They were so easy. Almost too easy.
Still, he'd done a job. Done it damn good too- and now, this fool had the audacity to insult him—a check?
He growled low in his throat, tightening his grip around the fat man's neck as he brought him closer, letting him get a good look at just how close to death he was.
The familiar, sharp pains in his fingers shot through his body as his claws protracted slowly, splitting the skin of his cuticles so they could unfurl to their full length.
The guys eyes went wide and he began to stutter. " o-o-or...th—th-the u-u-usual w—w-way is fine."
"Good."
He dropped "fat-ass" to the floor.
"You got an hour. Have my money, or I'll have your head. If you run, it'll only make me mad."
With that, he strode out the basement walkway and past the dozens of cop cars on the street, down the sidewalk, and disappeared into the subway station.
Twenty minutes later, he got off the train and walked right into downtown Manhattan with time to burn. Ruth's Chris Steakhouse was the destination. He liked it rare. Still bloody, purple in the middle. Slightly charred on either side. They did them the best.
He turned a corner to head in that direction when he stopped in front of the glass window.
Seeing the object, he went inside.
He didn't bother looking in the lines of glass cases before him. Instead, he went up to a tall slim man dressed in a ridiculously tight suit.
He suppressed a shudder of annoyance.
"I want the necklace in the window."
The man looked at him up and down, his face showing obvious disdain.
"It's VERY expensive…sir. Perhaps somewhere else can better assist you."
He laughed, low and deep, at the attempted insult.
And as he laughed, his lips parted slightly, intentionally, letting the man get a full view of the long incisors. Seeing his face blanch at the sight, he stopped laughing, the point having been made.
"I didn't ask you how much it cost. Go. Get. It."
One hand extended from out of his pocket and began to drum the glass counter tops.
Looking down at the rapidly growing claws, the clerk quickly obliged.
"Right away sir."
Fifteen minutes later, and his bank account about 50-thousand lighter, Victor strode out the store, on his way to a steak, his "business" temporarily set aside. The urge to get back to her was strong. And, fingering the box in his pocket, he was starting to wonder at what point getting back to her, had become a simile for getting "home." He'd never had one before.
He closed his fist around the object twinkling in his hand, and moved to the door.
"Victor."
Fuck.
Xavier.
He saw the man wheel himself through the double doors of the library and head toward his way.
"What do you want?" he attempted to give a hard look at the figure seated in the wheelchair.
"There seems to be a problem with the electricity," the professor said placidly, not buying into the bait.
"Yeah…I noticed," he said evasively.
"Do you, now? You know, you haven't been to my office yet."
And I'm not planning too, he stayed his tongue.
"Perhaps, you might want to come by for a visit. There is still the matter of your missing memories to consider. Whenever you have time, I'll be waiting."
With that, the professor left, leaving him alone.
After a moment, the lights above began to flicker, until they were finally on.
This couldn't go on. This back and forth.
He was done chasing. Tonight, he'd go directly to her. She'd have no choice but to hear him then.
.
.
She was tired but could not get to sleep. It had been a trying day. There were only two people in the house who could always read her- Charles and Jean. And while she could always talk with the Professor, he was male. And the extent of his understanding only went so far. There were also things one could only share with another woman.
In the near-silence of the night, Ororo could hear the sounds of the house. The faint tick of the grandfather clock, a floor below. The sounds of a floor board loose somewhere, and someone stepping on it so that it creaked. The rustle of wind against the windows- no matter how well insulated, it always amazed her at the wind's ability to tap out a sound.
And soon, her ears were met with another. A knock at her door, followed by a voice, resonantly male.
"It's Victor."
Instead of responding, she turned around in her bed to face the wall as the knob to the door turned slowly.
Tomorrow, she would have to revise her "open door" policy.
He slipped across the floor almost silently. For someone so large, it always amazed her how light his feet were. Then again, it made sense, considering his lupine mutations. But she wouldn't have heard him enter, had she not been awake. And she wouldn't have seen him moving, had she not watched his shadow on the wall.
Was this the way he approached his victims? The ease at which he moved showed it was as natural to him as breathing. Most likely.
"Ororo."
He was directly beside her bed, and she could feel his eyes looking down at her.
She kept her eyes closed and chose not to respond.
"'Ro…"
The bed shifted under his weight as he sat down beside her.
"Listen to me. I know you ain't sleep. Ro, I didn't mean to leave you -"
He stopped, hesitating uncharacteristically on the words. She heard him mutter a curse, suck in a breath, then exhale.
Her hostility subsided a bit at his obvious discomfort and unease, replaced with an internal laugh. How ironic that the man so many people despised and feared, the same so cocky and defiant, should actually be nervous about something! It was utterly absurd, but would have been endearing if she hadn't been so mad to begin with.
Still, she knew better than to respond.
"I ain't no good at this shit. Look. I wanted to protect you. From me. I didn't want you to know what I was. Who I was. So I left. I…ran."
Silence filled the room and the space between him, and what was left of the strands of anger she was holding on too, were rapidly disappearing under the weight of his confession.
Seeming to realize that she wasn't going to respond to him, the bed shifted again as Victor rose.
She felt the blankets around her hips begin to move and a gentle brush of his forearm against her back as he pulled the blankets about her shoulders made her body tingle.
His hand froze at her shoulder. It had been three weeks since he cut her, but the wound was still healing. Instead of the surgical gauze wrap she'd worn for the first two weeks, there were now two large white bandages, one for the front and one for the back.
It was…different.
The lights were off, and there was darkness around them. She knew he wouldn't do such a thing if the lights were on.
There was a rustle, the sound of fabric moving together as he changed position, and, unseen to her, pulled something shiny from out of his pocket.
The bed shifted once again and this time, she felt a rush of warmth as his body moved over hers. She stayed still- unsure, until she felt the familiar sensation of gentle scratching across the back of her neck- his hands, as he secured the necklace she'd snatched off in anger.
Warm lips met at the place between her shoulder blades that held the clasp, and she couldn't help but exhale at the feel of his lips on her skin.
"I never wanted it to end this way. I want you. I need you."
With that, the bed shifted for the final time that night, and she waited, until she heard the door open and close, and was sure he was gone.
In the darkness, she rolled over and let out a shuddery sigh, tears forming in the corner of her eyes.
.
.
He walked quickly down the grand, spiral staircase of the mansion headed toward the front door of the house. He couldn't stay there that night.
His need was too great.
There was only one objective, and two things that could release the burning in his mind, the buildup- the frustration, the energy. The rush was alive through his body — and since the outlet he preferred was unavailable…there was only one other way to relieve himself.
Victor stepped out the door into the cold, crisp night. Lowering himself into the snow on all fours, he assumed a running stance- and darted off into the shadow of the horizon before him. He'd be back in the morning, but right now, he needed release.
.
A lone figure watched the scene before him silently, his lips curving into a smile. All the pieces were in place. He shook his head. How soft Victor had gotten. It always amazed him how men fell victim to pussy. Now he had not one, but two bargaining chips. Victor had so many flaws it was hard to choose which one to exploit. As he watched from his perch on top of the hill overlooking the mansion, into its windows through the high- powered scopes around his eyes, the exact form of exploitation began to take shape.
Someone was leaving for the night, but he knew from what he'd seen, the cat would go back. All he had to do was wait — and call in a few favors. He needed the beast back. And he'd do whatever it took to get him.
*Author's Note: Edited by Dearland. Thanks everyone for taking the time to read and review. I don't beg for reviews, so each one means a lot to me.
