-Few notes about this chapter. With permission from GypsyWitchBaby, I mentioned her character Lupa. Aya belongs to me but everything else is the wonderful creation of Marvel.

Logan sighed and blew smoke at the foggy window. He glanced back to the bed, and scratched his forehead with his thumb. What if she really wouldn't recover? What if Aya was truly dead? No. He forced the thought out of his head. She could heal. She wasn't dead.

He'd driven all through the night. A piece of property he owned just outside of Boston on a nice, quiet acre in the woods. He'd had a few women there but they weren't important. It'd been years since he'd been back. It never had really felt like home. And now that he had someone to share it, she was dead. It was his fault too.

He stubbed his cigar out on the window sill and replaced the end in his mouth. He walked over and sat down in the chair next to her bed. He'd covered her in multiple blankets, knowing all too well the icy chill that would've settled into her bones. Rigor never seemed to set in, which he hoped was a good sign. He slowly reached for her hand. He pulled it up to his cheek. His scratchy stubble would've probably pissed her off. She would've told him he needed to shave before he looked like a true wolverine.

Wolverine, he thought. Sabertooth. It was the two of us. The man on the motorcycle in my dream.

"Yea, Jim, that's me." The coy voice he'd adjusted to hearing seemed to have been summoned. He didn't know who the voice belonged to but he was certain it was Sabertooth. But who was Sabertooth? He scoffed and dropped her hand, throwing back the flimsy chair. He stomped his foot and held his forehead again. Why the fuck couldn't he remember anything? He paced angrily, feeling like Aya must've in that cage he'd found her in. Pure rage bubbled up inside him again at his stupidity and lack of control. "Kinda refreshin' Jim. Ya always were a wimp," the voice chuckled.

"Bastard," he hissed, not sure who he was talking to. Aya was dead and it was his fault. He sighed and picked up the chair. He couldn't wait around forever. He had to keep moving, keep searching for something, someone to help him remember. But he couldn't leave her. He loved her. The feeling hit him hard. He sat back down in the chair and reached for her hand again. Sabertooth would've laughed at him. He would've called him weak and stupid for not having her sooner. But he wasn't Sabertooth. He was the gentler of the two. The more humane one. The tame one. He couldn't explain how he knew it, he just did. The thought brought some comfort.

His advanced hearing caught something over the roar in his brain. She had rustled the sheets. The lack of central heating in the house confirmed that it was her movement. He walked back over and squeezed her bony fingers gently and looked to her face. She coughed suddenly, her chest jerking full of air so quickly it rose from the bed. She grunted and contorted as life snapped back into her muscles and bones. He dropped her hand as his mate seized and twitched. Finally she stopped and he approached the bed. Her teeth were chattering and her eyes were darting everywhere.

"Aya, Aya, it's me. Do you know who I am?" he asked. Too often he'd woken up from what would have been a hangover or suicide attempt and not known his own name for a few hours. "Aya. Look at me. Who am I?"

"Mate," she chattered. Her eyes were dancing a mystical violet. His heart swelled. It felt unused and old. "L—Logan."

"Good. Do ya remember wha' happened?" he asked. The subject would be a sensitive one but he needed to get it over with. He needed to find out as much as he could from her. He'd run this situation over and over in his head. What to ask, what to avoid. And too often he got a witty, snide remark from the mysterious voice within.

"I—d—died," she shivered. He tucked her in tighter, running a finger over her chin and neck. She reached up slowly, her arms stiff and awkward. He didn't dare move, unsure of what she was trying to do. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself into his chest. Her hemp bracelets scratched across his shoulders. Her icy skin shocked his. He pulled her close and held her, breathing in her honeysuckle smell. He slid carefully onto the bed and pulled a thick blanket over her. He felt beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip but he didn't care. His baby was cold. "W—where are we—e?"

"My house outside Boston. Ya were gone for a good 10 hours," he said. He slowly reached up and stroked her hair. He didn't want to startle her, cause another relapse. He couldn't contain his inner animal the first time she snapped, what made him think he could the second time around?

"That's the fir—st time," she whispered. She nuzzled into his chest. Was that purring he heard? He smiled. She couldn't see his face. He felt her eyelashes as she slowly blinked. Then, her eyes closed. He didn't want to move and disturb her, but he needed answers.

"Aya, who were those men?" he asked. She sighed and he felt her body tense.

"Ya always knew how to pick 'em," the voice teased. He inwardly huffed. He couldn't set her off. Shut up! he he snapped. The voice chuckled. He could almost imagine a pair of gleaming white fangs peeking out of a mouth supported by a strong chin. But the rest of the face was a blur. The glint of the eyes unseen, the size of the sadistic man was still a mystery. She sighed. She was no longer freezing cold. He rubbed his arm over hers slowly. Her slender fingers gripped his chest in fear. Was it his touch? Or the impending explanation?

"When I tried to explain the firs' time, an' they weren't there, I really thought they'd left me alone," she started. Her voice was raspy from the short period of disuse. He thought about getting her a glass of water but thought better. If he moved, she might not get the courage to continue. "I don' know what to call myself, except different. I heal," she said as if he didn't already know. "Have for a long while too. I'm old Logan. Real old. An' I've lived through a lot o' shit. More shit than ya probably seen. But that's the firs' time I died.

"My family died in '54 of yella fever*. Killed a whole lotta people then, 'cept me. I was 13. So I did what I could to survive. Moved to a different city, tried to make a livin' bein' a maid, or a cook, stupid jobs here and there. It worked fer years too. Then, around '68, I was workin' late an' there was a robbery. I got shot an' someone saw. He asked me how long I'd been healin'. Of course I lied. But that din't stop 'im. He wanted to know everythin', so I told him some of the truth. He ate it up. Then, he took me with him. Destroyed my paper trail so it looked like I never existed. Ya see, he promised me all kinds o' stuff. An explanation, a job, a house, more people like me. Normally, I wouldn' a gone but I had ta, I'd been searchin' fer others fer so long!" she blurted. She was trying to justify her dangerous mistake. He could relate but didn't understand how. He'd never met a dangerous man that promised him asylum in an unforgiving world. Had he? "Then," her voice broke. He stroked her hair, trying hard not to let his physical yearning get the better of him right then. He wanted—needed her to continue. "He did stuff to me. A lotta crazy shit. I lost all my freedom so firs' chance I got, I escaped. Been runnin' ever since," she whispered. There was more. A small fire stoked up in his chest. Why was she holding back? Why did she feel so ashamed of her past that she couldn't share it with him, her mate? He stroked her hair a few more minutes before asking his multitude of questions.

"'54, as in 1954? Don't remember yella fever then," he said. He knew he was taking a risk by revealing his own age but he had to. They both knew the other was different and for days they'd tentatively avoided it. Now it was time to tell the truth. She shook her head.

"Not 1954. 1854. I told ya Logan, I'm old. The man approached me in 1968. I'd been doin' jus' fine before that. Never suspected, traveled a lot, it was great. Then, I slipped up. Biggest mistake o' my life too," she said, looking up at him. He slowly reached up and brushed his hand against her cheek. She sighed and closed her eyes at his touch. She didn't run though, like she suspected he would. "But the man, he promised he'd help me!"

"Ya don't have ta justify yerself. He said he'd help ya, and he took advantage of ya instead. That's not yer fault," he chided. "But I need ta know what he did to ya. There's a reason he's followin' ya all of a sudden. 'Snot like he randomly decided to reconnect lost ties." Aya sniffled softly. He felt her tears leaking through his shirt and wrapped his arms around her once again. He slowly rocked back and forth. This wasn't easy for either of them. She didn't like talking about her past, he could tell. But he needed to figure out why they were being hunted so they could end it once and for all. He unraveled her arms and gripped her shoulders. He brought himself to her eye level and stared deep into their mesmerizing depths. "I need ta know. I promise ya, no matter what it takes, I will make them stop. They won' ever hurt ya again. But I have to know what they did first." She sniffled once more and then was silent. Her eyes switched from that intense violet to a rich coffee brown.

"At first, it wasn' so bad. I got 3 square meals a day an' clean clothes. I din't have ta do much o' anything. Run, lift weights, exercise. Then, it changed. I guess they got the uh, control samples. I heard a few of 'em talkin' once an' that's what they called it. They weren't satisfied with my speed, my strength, my healin'. So they started probin' and cuttin'. They would slice me up an' as soon as it healed they'd do it again.

"No anesthesia, no drugs, nothin'. Not even bandages ta wipe up the blood. We did that for a while, then I couldn' take it anymore. I knew someone else had managed ta escape so I figured I could do it too**. I ran. Made it pretty far, ran into 'em a few times but ultimately, I been free ever since," she finished. He let go of her shoulders and rose from the bed. Everything about her story had the fuzzy edges like a dream from long ago. It all sounded so familiar. He raked a hand through his hair and sighed.

"Aw, come on Runt, ya gotta remember. That's us! She's talkin' 'bout us! We escaped!" the voice exclaimed. He turned suddenly and she started.

"Do ya know who escaped? Where ya were?" he asked her. She thought a moment.

"It must a been my friend there. They were doin' the same shit to her but she was older than me. Russian or somethin'. Cloudy eyes," his love replied. She stared over his shoulder as if remembering. Then, she rose from the bed. Her knees trembled and she pointed a shaky finger at him. He stared at her, wide-eyed. What the hell was she doing? Did she know something about him? His gut burned with anticipation.

"Jim, I think-," the voice started. It's thought was drowned out by a sudden shout from her.

"You! You were there! That's why ya smelled so familiar! That's why I though' ya were one of them! Oh my God! Yer here fer me! Yer workin' fer them!" she screamed. Her voice shook with fear and frustration. Her eyes glowed red then brown, red then brown. She was torn between the two emotions and he could plainly see. His heart pounded in his chest.

"Where was I? Aya, ya gotta believe me, I don' remember nothin'! Please, I'm not workin' fer nobody! Yer, yer ma mate! Why would I double-cross ya? I already had the chance ta kill ya! Aya, please," he begged. He dropped to his knees, then fell forward onto his hands. His eyes burned with tears. She knew something about his past. How could this girl know so much about him? How could they be so connected yet have only just met? His head seemed to weigh a thousand pounds as he looked up at her. Her arm was now at her side and silent tears were streaming down her face.

"Ya left me. But ya din't know. How can ya not remember?"

"I—I don't know. I've been travelin' fer eight years, tryin' ta remember somethin', anythin' from before now. And—I can't," his voice broke as he finally said aloud the thing he'd been running from for eight years. He looked up at her. She had to believe him. They sat in silence, locked in the other's gaze for what felt like an eternity. "I wouldn' a left ya there. If I'd a known, I woulda never left ya there," he whispered. She bent down and placed a hand on his back. She grabbed his chin and pulled him into a soft kiss.

"I know. I—I believe ya." She kissed him again. The floor felt like it was melting away. She was so strong, so sweet and so soft. He wanted to stay lip-locked forever but she pulled away. "Lupa. Her name was Lupa. An' before she made it out, she told me about a guy she met," she chuckled at the memory. "How could ya meet a guy in a place like that? But she had. An' he promised to take 'er away."

"Come on, Jim! She's handin' it ta ya!" the voice shouted.

"Lupa," he whispered. He closed his eyes. A beautiful, sad face with long scars on her cheeks. Cloudy, silver eyes. "Like the moon." Aya dropped to her knees in front of him and held his face. His heart was pounding in his chest. She stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. He could imagine Lupa in the woods, spending endless hours with him in a house. Had she been his woman? No, but he had wished she was. But someone else had claimed her. But who? He opened his eyes. A small smile was on Aya's lips.

"Do ya remember 'er?"

"Yes."

"Ya loved 'er, din't ya?" she asked. He could hear the slight pain in her voice.

"Yes. But I couldn' have 'er. She belonged ta someone else. She was 'is mate, not mine," he admitted bitterly. Aya stroked his cheeks again as another tear escaped.

"Her mate, Logan, his name was Victor."

*In 1853, an outbreak of yellow fever in New Orleans killed 8,100 people. Although I haven't made references to Aya's true home, she was at least living in New Orleans at the time of the outbreak. This is the link for my information if you want to read more (.?t=7147)

**Check out The Feral and its sequel, The Dreaming Animal by GypsyWitchBaby. The references to Aya's captive friend are her character, Lupa.