Chapter 5: Jealousy
Scott was a little surprised when Remy came down for breakfast the next morning. "I thought you would have stayed at your girlfriend's last night," he commented.
"De p'tite ain't my girlfriend," Remy said grimly. "She keepin' secrets from me, an' Remy don' like dat."
"Ya two must be a match made in heaven," Rogue said from the kitchen where she was pouring a cup of coffee. "She keepin' secrets, an God knows you got 'em too, sugah."
Gambit shot her a dirty look, and sat down. He didn't say anything else until after the breakfast, when he checked the chore schedule Scott and Jean had come up with so they didn't have to do all the dishes all the time, and he found himself, Logan, and Storm doing dishes in the kitchen.
"You are not in the best of moods, Remy," Storm pointed out to him. "Perhaps if you were to tell us what is wrong we could help you find a solution."
"Not'in' goin' to help me, 'Ro," he said. "De p'tite won' tell me what happen to her." He slipped a plate into the dishrack with a thump that nearly broke it.
"Careful, Cajun," Logan said. "If we break another dish Jean'll have our hides fer it."
"What happened last night, Remy?" Storm asked. "If I recall correctly you came home at one this morning and slammed every door between your room and the front door."
Gambit told them about the wounds on Cat's wrists, her avoidance of the topic, and their dinner. His eyes softened a bit when he told them about the restaurant, her singing, and their duet. Then he told them about his discovery when they got back to her apartment. By the time he finished Logan looked grim and Ororo was frowning.
"The poor child," she said. "She wouldn't tell you what happened? Remy, I think you should corner her about it. If the previous scarring is as bad as you say, she may need to be protected from whoever or whatever did it."
Logan said, "I agree with 'Ro. You gotta get her ta tell ya what happened before something really bad happens that she can't handle. She sounds like she knows who it is that did that ta her, an' if she does whoever it is could easily do it ta her again."
Remy sighed. "I know. I tried to promise her dat I wouldn' press, but I been t'inkin dat I'm gonna haveta."
He thought about it and thought about it. He wanted to give her her privacy, let her keep her secrets, but was the price of her pain really worth it? He finally gave up and went to consult Xavier about it.
Xavier was in his office when he heard the tap at the door and heard his name called. "Charles?"
"Come on in, Remy," he said, trying not to look eager. He'd woken up to the sound of slamming doors that morning and a stream of invectives in French as Gambit stomped off to his room, and had wondered what had happened. It wasn't every woman he went out with that could cause him to lose his temper like that. "Sit down, please. Tell me what happened."
He listened as Gambit spoke, then sat for a long time, thinking. What an enigmatic young woman she was; there had to be more to the story than what Remy had so far seen. How could such a lovely young girl be such an accomplished assassin, and why? What had happened to her that she would turn to a life of killing? And who was the mysterious person who had hurt her, and why would she keep it a secret?
"Remy," he asked soberly, "did you get any indication at all that the wounds may have been self-inflicted, or inflicted with her cooperation?"
Gambit thought for a moment, and shook his head vehemently. "Non, Charles. She know who it is dat done it to her, but she don' like it. And she's ashamed o' it, or o' herself, an' she don' wan' nobody to know." He shook his head again. "She talk in her sleep, Charles. She say she 'don' wan' do dis no more, she wan' out,' but when I ask, she wouldn' tell me what she meant. I t'ink she in trouble, Charles, but she wan' handle it herself, an' I don' t'ink she can."
"She may need help," Xavier said. "Would you bring her here sometime soon, Remy? Normally I wouldn't advocate entering someone's mind without permission, but I think in this case I would be justified in doing so."
Gambit let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. He had hoped Xavier would have a solution to his dilemma, and as usual, the X-Men's founder had come up with something. Now he wouldn't have to ask her, and break his promise. "I can do dat," he nodded.
He left Xavier's office with a lighter heart, and went to the kitchen. He picked up the phone and dialed her number.
Cat picked up the phone when it rang, suppressing a yawn. "Hello?" she said.
Remy's voice came over the receiver. "Good morning, p'tite." She sat down in one of her kitchen chairs and smiled.
"Good morning to you, too," she chuckled. "I had a lovely time last night, Remy, thank you."
She could hear the smile in his voice as he said, "So did I, chere."
She giggled wickedly. "You're very good in bed."
He spluttered for a moment, and she giggled harder. "T'ank you, p'tite."
She grew serious. "I'm sorry for rushing you out like that. The note was from…an old…friend..(oh, she hated referring to the Master as a friend!) and I kinda wanted some privacy to read it. Thank you for not being mad at me."
He said, "I ain' gon' lie to you, chere, it hurt. But you got your secrets, an' I'm willin' to let you tell me in your own time."
"Thank you, Remy," she was touched.
"I called to ask if you wanted to come to dinner wit' me tonight," he said. Her eyes widened. "Again? We had dinner last night!"
"Non, chere, non. Dis time Remy wan' show you where he live. Maybe you wan' meet my frien's, no? Maybe have dinner wit' us? Gambit cooking tonight."
He sounded so hopeful; she wanted so terribly to say yes, but the Master had said he wanted to see her that evening. "Uh, could I take a raincheck, Remy? I got some stuff to do tonight."
His voice chilled. "Your 'business,' p'tite?"
She hated that tone. "Sort of."
"Well have fun," he said bitterly, and oh, how she wanted to be able to say yes, to bring that roguish smile back to his face and voice, but she couldn't.
"It's not fun, Remy, I don't enjoy killing," she said desperately. "You don't understand."
"Den make Remy understan', p'tite," he said pleadingly. "Tell me what it is dat I don' understan'."
"I can't," she said, but she wanted to. "I promised, Remy, I can't break my promise…"
"A promise you make to somebody who hurt you like dat was made to be broken, p'tite," he said. "You don't deserve to be hurt like dat."
Cat felt her eyes fill with tears, and she sniffed.
"Don' cry, p'tite," Remy said gently, distressed. "I'm sorry I bring it up. Maybe you come wit' me tomorrow night, den?"
She wiped her eyes. "Okay," she said.
When he hung up the phone Cat sat for a long time. Maybe she should tell him who she was and what she was messed up in. Maybe he could help her get out.
She was tired of it all. Tired of the killing, the meetings, and the Master. Grief had clouded her mind when she had first joined, but that had worn off by now. And now she had met him, and gotten a taste of what real life was like, and suddenly freedom was so tempting.
But how would he react when he found out about all the things she'd done? Would he forgive her? Would he help her? Or would he be so disgusted with the things she'd done that he would hate her? She didn't know how he'd feel; and she wasn't sure she really wanted to find out.
She put on the turquoise dress again that night with very different feelings than she'd had when she'd put on the dress the previous night. Trepidation, anxiety, a feeling like someone were holding a cartoonish anvil over her head and waiting to drop it when she least expected it. As she picked up her purse, her eyes fell on the flowers Remy had given her the night before. They bloomed cheerfully on her kitchen table. She looked at them, and made a decision. She would tell him. She couldn't keep this up.
The Master was waiting for her in the assignment room, wearing a suit. She nearly flinched as he grabbed her arm and hustled her back out to the lot, where his Mercedes was parked, and told her brusquely to get in. She did, and stayed silent as he drove her out to the same restaurant she had been to with Remy.
She suddenly understood. He was going to bring her back there, the night after, wearing the same dress, intending to humiliate her by having the restaurant staff think she was a whore. She wanted so much to get out of the car, and in fact made a move toward the door when they stopped for a red light.
"Do that and you'll regret it," he snarled at her. She sat back in her seat, face flaming and anger starting to roil inside her.
He saw her anger, and it fanned the flames of his own rage. She belonged to him. She had no right to be angry with him for anything. After all, she was the one who had done this. She had brought this down on herself by flirting with one of her marks. Face tight with anger, he snapped at her, "Get out," after he parked.
When they went in he took her to the piano bar. The hostess stepped up with a puzzled but friendly smile, and saw Cat's white, drawn face. "Can I take your order?" she asked, keeping her face carefully pleasant. Something wasn't right between these two; she looked far more comfortable with the handsome man she had been in here yesterday with.
The Master ordered Cat the same thing she had eaten the previous night, and ordered himself the same thing Remy had, and ordered the same champagne she'd drank. When the waitress went away to get thei food, he grabbed her arm and indicated the piano. "Go play," he ordered her. "The same song you played for him."
She went up to the piano platform, thoroughly angry now. Instead of playing the song she had played the night before, she impulsively began to play something different; Pachelbel's Kanon in D. It wasn't one of her favorites, but she played it with angry relish, defying the man sitting stunned in his seat at the table. She finished and returned to her seat as the waitress came up to their table.
When she had deposited the plates and gone, the Master leaned in to her. "You deliberately defied me," he snarled in anger. "How dare you? You belong to me. I own you!"
She dropped her fork on her plate. "You don't 'own' me," she snapped. "I made a mistake six years ago when I chose to sign your contract. I regret that mistake. Tear up the contract, George Randall, because I'm not killing for you anymore." She got up, picked up her purse and walked out, leaving her untouched dinner behind.
It was raining outside, but she set out across the parking lot determinedly to walk home. She wasn't going to let him take her home. She wasn't getting back into that car with him.
He exploded out the door of the restaurant, and caught her arm. As she turned around, he backhanded her across her cheek, knocking her to the pavement. She crumpled, her head spinning dizzily, and he took advantage of the momentary disadvantage to haul her up, soaked dress and all, and drag her toward his car. She fought back, using every trick she'' ever learned, but he knew all of them, having taught her everything she knew, and blocked it all easily. She couldn't break his vise-like grip on her arm.
He got to his car, dragged her around to the passenger side, and as he got the door open he slammed her face against the side of the car. She screamed and blacked out.
She stirred, moaned. Her head ached unmercifully. She groaned in pain, and tried to rub her head. Her hands wouldn't move. She opened her eyes…well, one of them anyway; the other one was swollen nearly shut. She groaned as she remembered what had happened. There had been a fight in the parking lot, and he had dragged her to his car. Now where was she?
She turned her head. Her arms were pulled up and away from her body, and she caught the gleam of a metal handcuff on her wrist. The other side was wrapped around the Master's bedpost. She checked the other wrist. The same there, too. She could feel fetters around her ankles.
"Well now, I guess we've woken up," said his voice, and she turned to look at him, standing by the bed. He had shed the suit in favor of a pair of black jeans, and had stripped his upper body. She sucked in a breath as she saw the long black whip he held.
"No," she whispered, her throat closing in fear. She licked her dry lips as he circled her, lying there on the bed, tied and helpless. "Please…"
He laughed cruelly. "You should have thought of that before you defied me. I told you to get close to the mark, not roll him in your bed! And the way you behaved in the restaurant…disgraceful! I thought I taught you better than that. I own you, girl, you can't get away from me. I'm not letting you out of your contract. And you're going to learn how angry I am with you!" He grabbed a knife off the table, and she screamed, thinking he was going to kill her. But he just slit her dress open, from throat to knee, and laid her body bare.
Then he raised the whip, and she squeezed her eyes shut as the cruel lash descended. Again and again, over and over, with enough force to tear into her skin and draw blood. Then he untied her hands as she sobbed helplessly, and turned her over on the bloody bed, and lashed at her back.
She was nearly senseless with pain when he finally put the whip down and wiped his sweating brow. He took his branding iron from the closet and thrust it into the heart of a small coal brazier, and came to her. She whimpered as he untied her limbs and flipped her over. "Please, Master," she begged. "Don't hurt me anymore…please…"
"Are you mine?" he hissed, unbuckling his belt and sliding it out of his pants.
"I'm yours," she whimpered, "You own me, I'll do anything you want me to do, just please don't hurt me…"
"Anything?" he said, leaning in, watching her heaving breasts as she struggled to control her agonized sobs.
"Anything," she whispered, closing her eyes.
He lowered himself onto her, and she closed her mind and opened her legs.
A short time later, she sat on the floor at the foot of his bed, watching as he smoked his cigarette and poked at the flames in the brazier. He took out the iron, and she gasped in fear. It was glowing white hot.
He pushed it back into the flames, and stalked over to her, catching her wrists and cuffing them back to the bedpost above her head. He studied her for a second, then took the iron out of the flames. "Now you have to hold still," he said as casually as if this were something he did every day. "I don't want to spoil the brand. You've seen me do it to the guys, right, little cat?"
She nodded, her moth gone dry with terror.
"Excellent. I'm glad you remember," he smirked.
How could she not? Whenever a new assassin was added to the Master's collection, he was required to take the oath and to hold still for the branding. Most of them didn't; it was okay until the brand touched the man's flesh, usually the right shoulder blade. Then he would scream in pain and try to move away, and at that point someone would have to hold him.
But he wasn't going to put that thing on her back, she knew. When he had whipped her he hadn't spared her back. Her pain-fogged mind took a moment to realize the only part of her skin he hadn't marked with the whip was her left breast. She whimpered, struggled. "No! no, please, don't, not there!"
He ignored her frantic cries and moved the brand closer to her skin, and then pressed the iron to her chest. She screamed in agony, writhing frantically in the handcuffs. He held it to her chest for a minute more (though it felt like an eternity to her,) then took it away. Smiling maliciously, he blew on it gently.
She went wild, screaming in animal pain and agony as the air blew over the hypersensitive exposed nerves. It was too much, and she passed out.
She was only half-conscious when he half carried, half-dragged her out of the basement and dumped her into the front seat of his car. He drove back to her apartment complex in the early light of dawn, and when he got there, he opened the passenger door an pushed her out, letting her splash into a filthy puddle just under the fire escape. "Get it through your head," he hissed just before he left her," You're not getting away from me."
She lay there on the pavement for a long time, weeping in anguish as the sun slowly rose over the city. Finally she summoned up all her courage, pulled her torn dress up around her body, and made her way painfully up the escape to her window. She had just enough energy left to crawl in and close the window, and, safe in her apartment, she crumpled to the floor.