Title: The Victor

Chapter I: The Hunter, Part III

Rating: M for foul language, violence, and sexual content.

Summary: This is a rewrite of the Octoberverse (originally published in May 2009). Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of collateral.

Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…

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He ran the streets for a while. It seemed like a week's worth of energy was humming through his bones, waiting to be burned. Eager to be burned. He hadn't realized he was so twitchy, so on-edge. He thought of her while he sprinted across the rooftops, then stalked the streets. He half-hoped she tried to escape while he was gone. There was an allure in thought of hunting her down, preying on her, making her pay. He tried to imagine how he would do it—let the idea of it filter through his head—but they stalled and sputtered soon after he thought about catching her. He would start to imagine slicing into her belly, but inevitably his thoughts would turn to the line of her legs, the slope of her ribs, the cracking of her joints as she arched and popped. It didn't make sense, and the frustration goaded him into running and stalking for far longer than he'd intended. It seemed to take ages before he'd calmed, and it had taken gutting a couple of Marines behind a bar—stupid fuckers had tried to start a brawl, buzzing on alcohol and the systematically-cultivated sense of hostility they felt toward anyone who was different—before he felt his tension ease.

Afterward, he loaded his credit card with groceries: thick bacon, thick steaks. Porkchops. Lamb. He debated vodka but settled on beer—his regenerative factor kept him from getting drunk anyway, and he was in the mood for the bitterly nostalgic flavor of hops.

He scaled the fire escape outside the Morgan frail's apartment, bags of meat and beer slouching in his arms. There was a hum of anticipation in his chest: would she have tried to escape? Would he get a chance to chase her down, rough her up?

He couldn't say what it was, but something about her smell (almonds, honey, butter, skin) and something about her little bird-boned body (the fragility of it) made him want her running from him, made him want to catch her, made him want her underneath him. That part was normal, to an extent—normal for him, leastwise. But there was something about her that set his teeth on edge, too, in a different way. That pretty little photo of her and her sisters—that had pissed him right off. He couldn't say why, and he didn't want to think about it. Her stupid sleep-addled smile this morning, too: he had wanted to rip it right off her face with his claws. He always liked violence and mayhem, of course, but something in this felt…personal. He'd like her to fuck up so he could gut her—and at the same time, thinking on it too long only made him feel a little tight in his ribs, a little sick.

The unfamiliar queasiness only made him angrier, and when he peered through the open-glass window on the fire-escape door—half-eager for her to be gone so he could hunt her and kill her, and half-resenting it already—he stopped short on seeing her there.

She was sitting on the countertop, smooth legs swinging as she munched on some cereal, her eyes fastened on the idiot box. There was a silver bracelet on her wrist—he realized it was the same one he'd been seeing for days, a piece she never took off—and the bright letters and charms flashed in the light. The table was covered in glossy photos and colored papers—she'd clearly been up to something all day. The TV was blaring, and the windows were swung wide open. And she looked like she'd been made of peaches—her skin blushed at the knees, along her thighs, at the cheekbones. She looked soft. She looked domestic and naïve and she looked like she'd be tight. He hated her. His mouth watered and he acknowledged that he wanted her, too.

He grunted, and she looked up at him, saw the bags of groceries, and looked a little guilty. "Sorry," she said, setting her bowl aside and motioning him in.

As if he needed an invite, Creed thought scornfully, but something about the gesture had set him even more off-kilter. He stepped inside, shifting the bags in his arms, and scowled at her.

"About having crappy food to eat," she went on, as if she'd misunderstood his expression. "I kinda suck at cooking. Last Thanksgiving I set off the fire alarms in the whole building and the fire department had to come, and I did it twice. Just from spilling milk on the stove. The poor volunteer firemen had to leave their families and come do—well, nothing—twice." She hopped down from the counter, her legs gleaming under her shorts, and took one bag from him with nothing but a mild smile. He let her take them, a little baffled, and she drew out the meat and whistled low. For all her protests regarding her cooking, she must have had an idea that they were good cuts. "I hope you know how to make these," she said to him, opening the fridge and crouching to stack the meat on the shelves.

Wordlessly, he handed her the next bag, and she laughed at the sight of more meat before tucking it away too. She moved aside when she saw the size of the crate of beer he'd purchased, currently tucked under one arm: there was no way she was going to be able to lift that. He thrust it unceremoniously inside, then stood and towered over her. The fridge was still open, the cool air curled around them both lingeringly. He leaned in, expecting his height and width to intimidate her.

Her scent did that strange thing again, growing a little richer and warmer, a little heavier and wetter. He heard the spike in her pulse that he assumed meant anxiety. Still, she only raised her eyebrows and smiled. "I take it Dean is being a good boy?" she said lightly.

He thought of the bottle sailing past his head and growled slightly. "Not entirely," he said shortly, looking her up and down. She flushed a little under his gaze and ducked under his arm. He let her, and she backed up from him before hoisting herself back on the counter. He recognized the movement as born of nervousness—she was trying to make herself taller, and to look nonchalant. The realization eased the tension in his belly and he stifled a grin, lowering his lids to eye her lazily.

"I'm supposed to punish you," Creed drawled, moving toward her slowly. Her defensive posturing on the countertop put her at a disadvantage, in spite of her intentions—he had her trapped, and could lean between her thighs. Her heart jumped suddenly and then took off at a gallop, and he recognized again that deeper, spiced fragrance he'd noticed at the library, lacing through her sudden, sharp apprehension. He tilted his head and stared at her, curious. What was that?

"What did you have in mind?" she asked carelessly, looking at the TV again. A blush had curled into her throat, though, and he could feel the extra heat coming off her face. He didn't bother to hold back a grin, then—for all her pretense, she was scared, and she was something else, too.

"I thought, since you're such a smartass, that a whipping might be in order," he growled, still sneering. If this was a challenge, he'd take her up on it. She was inviting terror, after all, with her attempts at a cavalier attitude. He let his nails lengthen, digging into the formica countertop. She looked down at his claws and frowned.

"You're determined to fuck with my security deposit, aren't you?" she asked mildly. He blinked at the obscenity falling so easily from her pretty mouth, then let his eyes harden again.

"Do you know what a whipping from me would do to you?" he demanded silkily, his eyes dark and implacable with both amusement and quiet rage. He lifted one hand and rested it against her thigh. It was bigger than a dinner-plate, and the claws were sharp and, now, as long as her fingers. He squeezed a little, kneading her flesh. She winced when his claws pricked her skin through her clothes. Blood wafted into the air. Fear. Real fear, sharper this time, and so bittersweet. His grin grew wider.

"It'll take the flesh right off your ass," he ground out between smiling canines.

She swallowed, her eyes flicking to his claws. The musky scent faded a little bit, leaving just the bitterness. It was good—he was used to bitterness, had grown to like it. Savor it. She turned her gaze up at him slowly, eyes wide and dark as sloes. She took in the tight sleeveless shirt, stretched over his abdomen and pectorals—the thick arms, the glinting dogtags on his chest. His fierce eyes, eager for bloodshed. The way he was grinning: sharp, uncompromising. His narrow hips, wedged between her thighs.

With one hand, she reached out and touched the short, dark 'chops that furred his jawline.

He lurched back from her touch as though burned, hissing out a flurry of obscenities she couldn't even identify. He nearly stumbled, though he was too quick and graceful for her to notice. Nevertheless, she immediately looked apologetic. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just—I wasn't thinking."

He rushed her, then, crowding into her space so quickly she reared back, smashing the back of her head on the cupboards. He arms were boxing her in; he was leaning so close that she was almost pressed flush against him, and his teeth filled the field of her vision.

"Touch me again like that, frail," he snarled, "and I swear I'll bite those goddam fingers right off yer pretty little hands."

The color leeched from her face and he swung away, stalking back to the far room, infuriated at her, at McQuay, at himself. When had he lost control of the situation? How had it happened? He'd thought he'd had her—all bitter fear, feigned carelessness, that hint of something musky and deep—he'd thought she was at his mercy, that his threats were working.

And then she'd reached out—and, Christ, what the hell had that been? Who in the hell reached for the Sabertooth, the Butcher, the one and only Victor Creed?

Only someone who didn't know their fucking place. Only someone who thought they were better than him, who thought they were in control.

He paced the room, enraged, fuming. He was ready to crush her into pieces, and as much as he wanted to work her over good—leave that fine-boned face permanently disfigured—he held back. He would beat the snot out of her after he'd calmed down enough to be a little more in control—enough to enjoy it.

This was the problem with collateral that breathed. Targets always got so fucking sentimental about it. If he killed her now, McQuay would be twice as hard to control as he would have been in the first place, if the stupid frail had never entered the goddamn picture.

Fuck.

He paced, trying to figure out exactly how he was going to go about this. He knew how to slaughter people easily, or maim. Anything short of that was a wild card: he didn't know how to make sure he didn't kill her. And he wanted to—fuck, but he wanted to end her, in whatever most-horrible way he could. Something about her light touch had fucked with his damn head, and he was going to make her pay for it, the little bitch.

For the second time that day, he didn't realize how much time had passed till there was a soft, hesitant knock on the door. He realized, suddenly, that it was dusk, and he yanked the door open with a growl, nearly pulling it off the hinges. He loomed over October Morgan, ready to bludgeon her with one solid fist to the side of her skull. Knock her out for a few hours and give her one fucker of a headache, just to keep her out of his goddamn way.

Just so long as he didn't split her skull. Yet.

She was looking down though, a couple beers in her hands, and said in a whisper, "Can I come in?"

He grew still. Had she been watching, she might have been unsettled: every quivering muscle, every twitching tendon, slowly stopped its movement. The silence was long, and dangerous.

Then he moved away from the door, leaving her just enough space to squeeze by. Eyes locked on her, Creed loped back over to the bed, moving in an arc around the Morgan frail like a circling predator. As stupid as she seemed in terms of proper instincts, the sight gave her pause. He practically filled the room, and she realized that with his immense size, his feet were probably dangling off the edge of the bed when he slept.

She bit her lip. That sucks.

She then realized that this was probably the last man on the planet she should be feeling sorry for, and if he had known her sympathetic sentiments, she had a feeling she wouldn't be breathing for long.

"I thought—it's been a while and you must be getting hungry. I didn't want to touch the meat—I don't know how you like it, and didn't want to risk burning the place down. But I thought I could bring you something to drink," she added, and knelt on the floor in front of him, pulling a bottle-opener from her pocket and preparing to open the beverage, bracing it between her knees.

He reached out quickly and snagged it from her, using one claw to expertly pop the lid. She watched, her mouth an "o" of surprise, and he glowered at her. His fury had not lessened. "Close that mouth, or we'll have to find something to put in it," he sneered. "Damned if I don't like the sight of you on yer knees, little Miss Morgan."

She flushed and snapped her mouth shut, and then—without thinking—snorted delicately. Her eyes strained in the gathering dusk, catching his narrow-eyed look of rising rage once more. "You're clever," she conceded lightly, by way of explanation. A sardonic half-smile curled her lip. "Mean as hell," she added mildly, almost admiringly, "but smart. Your words are sharp."

He stared, then downed the beer and scowled at her. "I need to beat the hell out of you," he said after a moment. "Since ya seem to think I'm a joke." He lengthened his claws and cracked his knuckles: let her try to take that so lightly.

Her jaw dropped once more. "What?" She seemed shocked by his interpretation. "No! You're scary as hell!" she insisted, and indeed, he smelled the sudden rush of anxiety that had come over her. "For chrissake, I just said you were smart. It was not an insult. If you're going to hurt me, at least do it for a real reason, and not because you think I'm oblivious to how utterly terrifying you are!"

He gauged her stonily for a moment, then permitted a slight smirk to curl his lip. She was clever herself; he'd give her that. Blending a compliment with a plea.

Of course, he'd heard others try to pull that shit before.

"I don't need a reason," he said nastily. He snagged the other beer from her, drinking that too, before rising and staring down at her. After a moment, he unbuckled his belt and pulled it from the waist of his pants, letting the thick leather trap drop heavily to the floor. The buckle jarred when it hit the wood. He hooked his thumb in the front of the waistband, letting his hand rest there for a moment, and heard her heat skip a beat in sudden terror. "I would fuck you up just because I can. And I enjoy it."

"Look," she said after a moment, her voice wavering a little. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted to apologize for—for touching you earlier, and doing something you didn't like—"

"Do you understand," he interrupted, "how completely I own you right now?"

He could see her tremble in the gloom.

"I can do anything I want to you, and the more you fight it, the more I'll enjoy it." Her fear peaked, and his grin widened till his incisors dented his lower lip. "I hold your life in my hand, and I can snuff it out without a thought—though I tell ya what, I prefer to take my time." He ran his hand over the zipper of his pants. "Do you think I could choke you on my cock?" he asked speculatively after a moment.

She was almost waxen in the twilight.

His eyes sharpened, dropping the façade of whimsy, and her glowered down at her again. "Do. You. Understand?" he repeated, looking down at her scornfully.

She nodded, and he lunged down faster than she could think, snagging a fistful of her hair and dragging her to her feet by it. She choked out a gasp of pain. In the growing dark, he could see the purple smudges on her chin from where he'd grabbed her earlier. She clutched at his wrist, trying to hoist herself along with him, trying to ease the burn in her scalp. He let her, even as he lifted her feet clean off the ground.

"The only reason I don't redecorate every room of this apartment with your severed limbs is because you're my collateral against McQuay," he said fiercely, his mouth inches from hers. "The only reason I don't simply kill him and do whatever I want with you is because my employer wants him discredited." He grinned, drawing closer, his gleaming teeth just a breath from her own lips. She could feel the heat of them. "But I run by my own rules, frail," he purred, his voice dangerously soft. "And if you touch me again without permission, I will tear you apart."

She opened her mouth to say something—probably some smartass comment, Creed thought—then thought better of it. Her pretty lips snapped shot and she just nodded mutely. He eased her down to her feet, his claws still buried in her hair, and found himself leaning with her. His lips ghosted threateningly over hers.

"What?" he growled.

She tilted her head in his hand, perplexed and reluctant. Her hair—he hadn't realized—it felt glossy and soft in his hand, heavy ropes of silk. "If I answer that, you're going to hurt me," she whispered.

His eyes narrowed. "One free pass, frail."

She chewed at her lip. He wanted to chew on it as well. Leave blood dripping down her chin, maybe. Except the image went from being delicious to vaguely disquieting, too quickly for him to figure out why.

"I just don't think that's very fair," she said lightly. "I mean, here you are, putting your hands all over me without permission—"

The fuck? Who says shit like that? To me, no less?

"—and besides, what if I do get permission?"

Never mind. He would chew her bloody. "You won't," he ground out. "And that's how it'll stay. Because I have the power. I'm bigger than you, and stronger than you, and I'm the most dangerous thing out here."

She licked her lips again, and was silent. He leaned in closer, his hand tightening, and her smell was all wrong, or too wrong—the bitterness of the fear was there, for sure, but that sweet, spicy musk was back, and he didn't—he couldn't—

"I'll put my hands all over you any time I like," he growled. "But don't you ever imagine I'll let you touch me and keep all yer fingers."

He released her roughly. She stumbled and dropped to a crouch, keeping herself small, and stayed put while he moved to the kitchen, muttering under his breath about girls who didn't know what was good for them. For a moment she was very still, her fingers creeping over her collarbone and her palm anchored to her hammering heart. Her abdomen was tight and coiled, her thighs pressed tightly together. She breathed out softly, raggedly, trying to calm herself. Everything tingled. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, trying to will away the extra warmth.

Eventually, October climbed to shaky feet and slid down the hallway and toward the kitchen. Creed was cooking—for one—and she plucked a hot pocket from the freezer and stuck it in the microwave. He leaned against the counter top and eyed her as she moved about the kitchen—pouring herself some milk, sipping it quickly, setting it down when the microwave beeped. He tended to his steak, watching her. She nibbled on the edge of the flaky crust at the counter, and when he reached down delicately with his claws to seize the steak straight from the pan without tongs, she winced.

He smirked. "I have a high pain tolerance," he mocked, slapping the steak onto a plate.

She couldn't hold back the slight twitch of a grin—"Did you even really cook that thing at all?" she asked smartly, almost laughing, before moving to the table and clearing the photos and papers away.

"I like it juicy," he purred suggestively, menacingly, and sidled close to her as she moved her crap to make room for him at the table. When he dropped into the chair beside her, his eyes were level with hers, even though she was still standing. She shied away suddenly, and he smirked.

"Mm," was all she said in acknowledgement before lifting herself back onto the ledge of the counter. Her scent had grown rich and damp again, and her heart tripped nervously.

"Why don't you come sit over here?" he suggested mockingly, gesturing to the other chair across the table as she nibbled on her hot pocket.

She shrugged and swung her legs. "I feel tall up here." She grinned impishly, casting him a downward glance out of the corner of her eye.

He grinned back—less impishly—and, without blinking or shifting his gaze, shoved the stacks of papers to the floor. "Sit," he said, still smiling, but it was clearly a warning.

She sighed and hopped down, sitting across from him.

He took a mouthful of his bloody steak and chewed thoughtfully. "What is all this shit, anyway?" he asked, gesturing to the fallen files and photos.

She hesitated, the corner of her mouth curling up in a self-deprecating smile as she lifted a sheaf of papers from the floor. "This is what I do," she said mildly, and lay a handful of the papers out for him one at a time. They were posters and flyers and newspaper articles, each depicting the face of a different missing child. "Some of these are runaways. Some—no-one knows. I work as an advocate and—well, a kind of activist, I guess. I'm not as—public as I used to be. But I talk to parents and make sure they know their rights and resources when a kid goes missing. I'll go with them to court hearings if I have to or if they want me to. I try to help them find them. But I also work with children's rights so sometimes when a school has a kid they think is being abused, I'll get called in to talk with the student. I do training sessions with the teachers at the beginning of the year and we do a refresher course at some schools in the winter. I work with the kids sometimes and advocate for them at court hearings, and do work at some of the juvenile shelters in town. I used to work closely with Rheuse & Caruthers, too—they helped pay for some of my schooling and certifications after I'd been with them a while. But yes—my job is to make sure strong, good people don't get taken advantage of, and to make sure lost kids find their way home, no matter what that looks like."

He chewed slowly, almost distractedly. Her words somehow dredged up memories that he'd thought he'd forgotten, that he'd thought he'd buried. He knew what it was like to be a lost kid, after all.

But then, no-one had given two shits if he'd had a place to call home, had they? In fact, they'd kicked him out of their barns, more often than not. Him and Jimmy If he'd been the fuckin' sentimental type, he might've said—once—that Jimmy was home. But then, even that had been taken from him.

Fuck, he hated her.

He sneered. "Isn't that cute? You find people, and I make 'em disappear."

Her face whitened, and she bit her lip before shuffling the papers back together and dropping them on the floor with the rest. It was maybe the first time he thought she really understood what he was about, what kind of monster he was. He chuckled at her expression, turning his attention back toward his steak. God, he really hoped McQuay would fuck up so he could take her, pound into her from behind, make her scream and cry and beg.

He really hoped.

Maybe, at the end, he would take her with him anyway. He could picture her, naked, trying to crawl away as he looped an arm around her hips and dragged her wriggling body back to him.

Not done with you yet, little Miss Morgan.

"Don't think," he added after a minute, leaning forward on his forearms, "that because I'm a mutant, I'm gonna to be soft on you because used to work with mutants. Yeah," he drawled when he saw her startled expression, "I know what you used to do. Don't know why you stopped. Don't much care." His mouth was full of sharp, mean teeth. "I've killed my own kind for enough cash before. I'd do it for free if the mood struck." He tightened his fists, and the muscles in his arms grew taut. She shrank back, just a little, but it was enough that he noticed. Quietly, grinning, with his voice dangerous and low, he said, "The only thing more pathetic…and weak…and delicious…than a normal human being? The only easier target?" He licked his teeth. "Is a normal with a bleeding heart."

Her eyes flicked away from his, but he kept eyeing her: a predator's stare. After a moment she cleared her throat awkwardly and stood, holding her hand out for his empty plate. He sat back and watched as she took it to the sink, filling one side halfway with soapy water and adding the pan he'd seared his meat in. She flicked on the little fluorescent light over the sink and it whirred to life, and he watched her sink her hands into the warm water with a barely-audible sigh, rolling her head on her shoulders.

He hated her. He hated her.

But he could probably watch her with half-lidded eyes for hours.

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The next morning found Creed leaning over the back of the couch and staring at October Morgan with a brooding expression, popping a piece of nearly-raw bacon in his mouth. The frail would sleep till noon if he let her. Her brassy curls were a tanglement around her face, and her pretty lips were parted. He watched her still eyelids, fragile and dark-smudged. He didn't know how she could sleep so easily, with a predator like him leaning over her. Couldn't she sense him at all?

She rolled deeper into her blankets, her shoulders hunched, and turned onto her stomach. Her eyelids fluttered; he heard her pulse steadily increase. She stretched, her arms appearing from under the blankets as she crossed her wrists overhead and popped the joints before curling back into herself. She was soft, and barely-muscled, but he liked to watch her tense and flex and relax. He tried to imagine the feel of her body moving like that while she tried to get away from him. He remembered her tight, pale face from the night before—You find people and I make 'em disappear—and the way she'd looked on her knees, trying to open that beer for him.

"Mmm," she murmured from inside her cocoon. The girl had a pile of about five fleece blankets tangled around her, and she was buried deep inside them. "Smells good," she mumbled. She rolled back toward him, opening her eyes and yawning, stretching once more. Her body arched as she did, but unfortunately for him, she was still covered by a shit-ton of fleece and he didn't get a chance to see her soft, pretty breasts again.

Time enough for that later, he thought with a smirk, baring a fang at her.

"'Morning, sunshine," she murmured sleepily—again!—before flopping back over on one side and burrowing into the borrowed warmth of her blankets.

He smirk faded. "Get up," he growled.

She sighed audibly and rolled into a sitting position, her blankets still wrapped tightly around her. She wiped at her eyes and blinked up at him. "'M up," she confirmed mildly. He paused, popping another strip of bacon into his mouth and watching her from the corner of his eye. The bruises on her chin were darker today, and he liked the way they looked on her skin. Sent a nasty little thrill through him, and he reveled in it.

At some point, he promised himself, he'd mark her all over like that.

"Did you dream last night?" she asked after a moment, seemingly out of nowhere. He swung his head to meet her gaze, staring her down.

"No," he said abruptly. What fuckin' business was it of hers, anyway?

She didn't seem to get the hint, or was just too stubborn. "Oh," she said lightly. "I thought I heard—"

He turned, catching her by the throat and slamming her down against the arm of the couch, looming over the back of it to stare down at her. His dog tags tumbled onto her chest, clinking and glinting. She choked, eyes wide, her hands at his wrist—but not squeezing or clawing, just holding him there. It surprised him, but he didn't let it distract him. "What did you hear?" he asked, his voice a snarl.

She twisted a little, arching away from him over the arm of the couch, trying to afford herself a little leeway. Her breasts pressed against his arm.

"Oh, I like that," he growled lasciviously, tightening his hand. Her fear amplified—already pleasantly singing over his tastebuds—but that strange, musky aroma suddenly flooded through. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and snarled. "What did you hear?"

"You were talking to someone called 'Jimmy,'" she gasped. "You said—"

He extended his claws, letting them cut into the back of her neck, and she gasped, eyes widening and body thrashing as the delightful tang of her blood hit the air. It was laced with fear—pure, unadulterated now by the unidentifiable spice. "That's the sweet stuff, frail," he purred, savoring the scent of it and applying just a bit more pressure. "Tell me again, what did you hear?"

"I—nothing!" she rasped out.

He pulled back. "There we go." He winked at her and half-turned toward his plate, balanced on the back of the couch. "We're gonna get along just fine."

She looked up at him, eyes wide, brows tilted like he'd just killed her puppy.

"Have some breakfast," he added, picking up a piece of bacon—overcooked by his standards—and holding it against her mouth. Obediently, she parted her lips, too scared to do otherwise, and he slid it over her tongue. Her lips brushed his fingers when she closed them, and it sent a jolt down his spine. His eyes flashed to hers, dark and utterly implacable, and she swallowed the bacon nervously. Her scent—still mouthwateringly frightened—grew richer, sweeter, damper.

"Sorry," she murmured, her eyes holding his like she was too frightened to look away. His gaze dropped to her mouth again and he ran the edge of his thumb and claw experimentally over her lower lip, watching as it yielded under his light touch. Her scent grew unbearably warm and wet, still fearful and so, so dense and delicious. He tilted his head, baffled at the smell of her. His eyes were locked on her wide, dark gaze, and the realization hit him suddenly, sharply:

she was aroused.

With terrifying slowness, his lips pulled back in an intensely surprised, intensely savage grin, peeling back leisurely to reveal sharp canines. Her eyes grew impossibly wider and darker, the spicy aroma strengthening even further.

Un.
Be-fuckin'.
Lievable.

She was wet. And her skin—flushed, fragrant. Creed couldn't believe he hadn't figured it out before—but then, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had an aroused woman nearby, either. Usually, their enthusiasm was focused more in fleeing than in staying. Perhaps the last girl who'd wanted him had been the original Frail Mary herself, back when he was just a kid running through Canada with his brother. Even then, she maybe hadn't been old enough to smell—to smell like this. He realized suddenly that he had first scented October's desire in the library, and that she had been wanting him almost from that moment.

It was strange—he had hurt her, threatened her in a hundred ways. The marks on her chin and the blood at the nape of her neck had proven that. And he wasn't stupid—he knew he was a scary motherfucker. He had made grown men wet their pants before. Her fear had always been hard to come by, even when she wasn't all hot n' bothered. He realized now that her arousal was tempered by her terror, and vice versa.

Here was this slip of a girl, and she wanted him.

He leaned in over her and her hands flew to his chest, not pulling him in, but not pushing away either. Her fingers were splayed over his muscles. He wondered how far that want of hers went. He wasn't fool enough to think she'd part those pretty legs of hers willingly, but this could be fun nonetheless. His nose brushed her throat, her hair. He breathed her in, committing the scent of her arousal to his memory. Fuck, he realized suddenly—her panties must be soaked.

For him.

"You are a pretty thing," he murmured, his eyes glinting knowingly. "I could fuck you in ways you've never dreamed."

Her breath caught in her throat and she suddenly curled under his arm and rolled to the side, half-tumbling off the couch. He let her. "I need to brush my teeth!" she squeaked, scurrying around the furniture and trying to dart past him. He rose from his position leaning over the couch and stood languidly in her way, his bulk taking up the entry to the hall. After a fraction of a second of hesitation, she sidled past him, all her curves brushing against his solid muscle as she slid against the wall and fled down the hallway.

Oh, yes. She wanted him.

He grinned thoughtfully and reached for another slice of bacon, lounging against the opposite wall. Well. This had been an interesting morning already.

"Game's changed," he murmured, taking a swig of his breakfast beer.