Title: The Victor
Chapter II: The Animal, Part I
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…
Little Prince is quoted both directly as well as paraphrased here; author mentioned in the text. Consider it suitably disclaimed.
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
The rest of the morning and afternoon passed uneventfully. He listened to the water running as she showered. He imagined her soaping up that pretty body of hers. He tucked into a couple of steaks in the afternoon while she munched on cereal and stared out the window, then leafed through a stack of files that she must have brought home from work the week before.
It was so…fucking…boring.
The apartment building had roof-access; he went up briefly while she was engrossed in her files, eager for a little fresh air and space to move. When he came back down, she was perched cross-legged on the couch, hunched over a book.
"Are you still going to be here on Sunday?" she asked without looking up.
It was too much for a wild animal to bear. He'd been locked up in this fucking house all day, and here she was, not even afraid…hell, it was the first time she'd spoken since her hasty departure that morning. Now she had a sweet little pair of glasses on her nose, making her look like the kind of secretary he'd have liked to fuck brutally and unforgivingly.
She might want him—and he liked that. She might be fun to play with; he liked that too.
But he still hated her.
He leaned against the wall across from her, watching her. "Oh, yeah," he said after a moment, his voice deceptively mild. "I plan on being here for a few weeks, at least. That is," he added, smirking, "unless the job wraps up more quickly than I expect."
She knew what he meant. Unless I kill you first.
Her heart tremored for a moment before she took a deep breath, turning her eyes back toward her book. He hated that, too. "The library expects me on Sunday," she said mildly, "and I don't have a phone to call and cancel."
He moved behind her and tilted his head at her, scowling. "Why, you manipulative little bitch," he rumbled, impressed in spite of himself. He clapped his clawed hands over her shoulders, making her flinch. His hot fingers rested on the bareskin above her neckline. He pressed, feeling the skin yield under the warm pads of his fingers and his claws. He leaned low and let his breath ghost over her neck, the shell of her ear. "I guess I'll just have to go with you." His grin widened, baring sharp incisors. "Of course, if you fuck anything up, there's thirty cubs who can pay for your mistake."
Her lips tightened but she said nothing. However, the scent curling off her skin was almost entirely arousal and a remarkable lack of fear—relatively speaking—so he guessed that she hadn't been planning on stabbing him in the back. The thought was gratifying—for all her smartass remarks, maybe he had her under control after all.
He liked the image that conjured up—her on her back beneath him, or maybe on her hands and knees. Under control. He'd grip her pretty hips, dig his claws in and puncture her skin, make the blood run while he fucked her brutally. Make her scream for him. Make her beg. He'd let her go for a moment, let her try to crawl away. Give her hope.
Then he'd laugh and drag her back by her thighs and drill into her again—
"Will you help me?" she asked. Her words jarred him and his claws tightened on her shoulders. He pierced her flesh without thinking, which offered up to him the sweet, sweet scent of her blood. Still, when she winced and turned those utterly guileless, wide dark eyes up to him, he slowly retracted his nails.
"Mr Creed?"
Instinctively, he opened his mouth to snarl a refusal, but then paused. He couldn't remember the last time someone had asked him for help. It was probably Jimmy, decades ago when they were fighting through the savage wilderness, two brothers banded together forever.
So what if he offered to help her with—whatever. He could taunt her with the knowledge. Toy with her a bit. Hurt her. Or maybe he could see if it made her wet for him again.
"What do you need help with?" he demanded, leaning low again to purr in her ear.
She licked her lips. Her throat was rosy and flushed, and she smelled damp and musky. "Um, I'm…"
He nipped her earlobe sharply, cutting her off, and she gasped. He could read her confusion clearly: she didn't know whether to be afraid or turned on. Adrenaline coursed his veins and he barked a sharp laugh at her. "Spit it out, frail."
"I'm thinking of reading The Little Prince by Saint Exupéry to the kids on Sunday," she spilled out in a rush, twisting to look up at him. "But it's so long. I have to find the right chapters. They wanted tigers, and a flower. I think I have the right bit, but I'm not sure if it's too—I'm not sure if they'll like it. Will you let me read to you?"
Dammit. No. What a stupid—
"Why would I wanna listen to you read a fucking kid's book?" He paused, then gave her the most lascivious leer he could manage—which was pretty damn lascivious, even by his standards. "Maybe I'll help you—if you'll help me with a little somethin' sometime."
She twisted her lips, looking vaguely offended, and began to turn away. He thought, suddenly, of the times when Jimmy was sick and they still had their respective homes, and how he would read to his little brother sometimes by the light of the fire. It had been Jimmy who taught him to read in the first place—back before they knew they were brothers, but still had a bond.
The serving boy and the sick kid from the big house.
Of course, Jimmy had been content with his lot in life. Even sick, he'd only wanted the basics. Wasn't till they'd gone on the run and he'd been without home and family that the runt realized he might not always have those things.
Victor, on the other hand, had always wanted more: more knowledge, more strength, more money, more women. He'd never been satisfied with peace and simplicity. He preferred war. He had a higher threshhold of stimulation. If he had any addiction, it was to adrenaline. To power.
So when Jimmy and taught him how to read—which he'd picked up shockingly quickly—Victor had devoured book after book, reveling—as a boy—in the characters' adventures and yearning to have his own.
Well, he had them now.
Creed rolled his eyes and moved back, scraping his claws lingerly over her shoulders as he left, feel her flush in the wake of his touch. He sneered to himself and strode to the kitchen to pluck a beer from the fridge, cracking it open with a claw. Lazily crossing his long legs at the ankle, Creed leaned against the counter, waiting with deliberate indifference. "Well, frail? You gonna start?"
The mildly disgusted look on her face melted. She smiled broadly, just for him, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to find the trick in it. The fear. The plea.
"Chapter Eight," she said quietly.
"She chose her colors with the greatest care. She dressed herself slowly. She adjusted her petals one by one. She did not wish to go out into the world all rumpled, like the field poppies. It was only in the full radiance of her beauty that she wished to appear. Oh, yes! She was a coquettish creature! And her mysterious adornment lasted for days and days.
"Then one morning, exactly at sunrise, she suddenly showed herself. And, after working with all this painstaking precision, she yawned and said: Ah! I am scarcely awake. I beg that you will excuse me. My petals are still all disarranged . . .
But the little prince could not restrain his admiration. Oh! How beautiful you are!
Am I not? the flower responded, sweetly. And I was born at the same moment as the sun . . ."
October glanced up at him, smiling as though personally amused by this flower and expecting him to join in her humor. The Stargazer lilies behind her, framed by the window, seemed like a reflection of the book she was reading.
He thought the story was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. A fucking flower? Really? But her voice washed over him nonetheless, warm and liquid. Unconsciously, he relaxed a little, his big shoulders rolling downward.
"I think it is time for breakfast, she added an instant later. If you would have the kindness to think of my needs—And the little prince, completely abashed, went to look for a sprinkling-can of fresh water. So, he tended the flower."
Creed stood silently, pensively, lifting the beer to his mouth and taking a long pull as he watched her. She was still sitting cross-legged, turned toward him now, her limbs neatly folded and bare, her tangle of bronze hair falling over her face. She pushed it back distractedly. The silver bracelet shimmered on her wrist.
"One day, when she was speaking of her four thorns, she said to the little prince: Let the tigers come with their claws!"
A grim smile curled the corner of his mouth. Speaking of women not afraid of tigers. He thought of her mouthy sass, how scared she was in the face of his threats—and yet she never cowered.
"There are no tigers on my planet, the little prince objected. And, anyway, tigers do not eat weeds.
"I am not a weed, the flower replied, sweetly. And I am not at all afraid of tigers."
Creed thought with a kind of savage, grim gloating that he'd give the Morgan frail plenty to be afraid of before he was done. If she survived it, she'd have nightmares for years. He liked to imagine her waking up at night in the cold sweat of fear, her limbs still feeling weighted down by the remembered heaviness of him, her body sore and aching with phantom bruises. At least, he liked to imagine it for a little bit, but sometimes when he thought of the expression her face would wear—haunted, hurt—
He growled low in his throat, shaking his head viciously, trying to dislodge the strange thoughts that came with it.
She looked up at him, expectantly, and he realized abruptly she was done. Her voice was so smooth, so lulling, he hadn't realized the story was finished.
"It is—a little girlish," he said roughly after a moment, taking a swig of his beer. "But I like the bit at the end about the tiger and the girl."
"Flower," she corrected lightly, a small smile playing at her mouth.
He glowered at her. "It's clearly a metaphor," he returned shortly.
Her eyes widened and she looked pleased. She raised her eyebrows. "For?"
"For little blond girls who aren't afraid of things they should be," he ground out, glaring. This conversation was fast becoming more of a hassle than he'd expected. "Other than the girlishness, it's fine." He was in a foul mood again. He'd been lulled by her stupid voice and put off his game, and now he couldn't properly taunt her. "I'm sure you can tell all the little brats about the rewards of bravery and all that shit."
She closed the book slowly and looked at him with serious, dark eyes. "She isn't rewarded."
He looked up from his beer, his brows furrowed a little in confusion. "What?" Weren't all these books supposed to laud strength of character and fortitude and courage, even when it bordered on stupidity?
She smiled. "The prince leaves the flower all alone. It's in the next chapter. He says—"
She paused, screwing her face up thoughtfully, and slowly recited from memory:
"I did not know how to take pleasure in all her grace. I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her. This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity.
"So instead of staying with her, he leaves her all alone. He talks about her throughout the book, but we never know if he returns to her."
He chuckled darkly and toasted her with his bottle. "There's the reward of the righteous," he sneered. "Thank God I'm not one of 'em." He thought of his own bank account, his unlimited credit, how he could get away with anything. "So, do the tigers get 'er?" He imagined huge, heavy-boned cats ripping their claws through pink lilies. He imagined October's skin flaring open in gouges of red under his own hands. The thought made him hard, then made him angry, and he thought he was going to go crazy. He needed to get out of here. Or fuck her. Or kill her.
Maybe fuck her and kill her.
Maybe fuck her and take her with him.
She laughed, moving from the couch and coming toward him, pouring herself a glass of water from the faucet. "We don't know," she confessed lightly. "Maybe they do. Maybe they tear her apart."
His grin was feral.
"But some people," she added with a sideways smile, "don't do things because of some perceived 'reward for the righteous'."
"And that's how you end up on the bottom of the food chain," he mocked, watching her move. Her throat rippled as she downed the water and set her glass on the counter. "With the tigers chewing your throat out."
"Mm," she conceded. "Probably true." Wiping the stray drops of water from her lips, she looked up at him. "I still say the flower's fate is better than the tiger's."
He raised an eyebrow derisively. "Oh, do ya now?" he scoffed. "Color me surprised."
She only nodded, and her eyes went soft.
The little bitch was looking at him, and her eyes were so. Soft.
"The flower had, however briefly, someone to love and take care of her," she said quietly. "And, as weak as she seemed, she took care of the prince too. I don't think tigers get that very often." Her little hand curled toward his face again, and, under her breath and almost bemused, she asked, "Has anyone taken care of you, Mr Creed?"
He was still. In these moments, there was a silent strength about her that frustrated him, that infuriated him and turned him on all at once. What woman raised her hand to Victor Creed's mouth, as though she could possibly give him anything?
He was very still. He had promised to chew her fingers off if she touched him again but just right now, he didn't know. Didn't know what he would do if she stroked his jaw again like she had before. His skin had been burning for hours.
Her fingers stopped just a hair's breadth from his jaw, and she dropped it after a moment, an uncertain little smile curling the corner of her mouth. She dropped her gaze almost as quickly, almost shyly, which his predator's instincts immediately picked up on as submission and vulnerability. He wanted to lunge at her throat, sink his teeth in. Throw her down on the floor and rut her till she begged for mercy, yanking a handful of her tangled blond hair back so he could keep his teeth clamped on her jugular the entire time. For a moment, with her lashes against her cheeks, it was all he could think of: fucking her. Wanting her. Hurting her.
Then lapping at her wounds.
"I think I'd rather have a tiger destroy me than never experience that."
His hands flew to the sides of her head and she started, gasping, when he dragged her face up to his. "You're so close to getting your wish," he purred, feeling furious and overheated and hating her, again, because of her soft eyes and soft voice and her eagerness to touch, her damp smell which he wanted more of and knew he would never get, not fully, not the way he wanted to.
He flung her away so hard that she hit the cabinetry hard and bounced off, stumbling and nearly dropping to one knee. He didn't think about the fact that he could've pushed her harder, should've pushed her harder.
Without looking back, he stalked out the door, with murder on his mind.
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
He strolled for hours. Wreaked havoc. Ran. Dared anyone to cross him wrongly. He ducked in a bar when it started raining, and a waitress with hard-looking fake tits rubbed up against him and asked for his order. He demanded a fifth of whiskey—the whole thing—and picked a fight with some muscle-bound asshole who wanted to "take him out back and teach him a lesson." The man smelled like five days with no shower, and stale booze, and stale condoms. Creed gauged him to be an abusive motherfucker, most likely a rapist. He probably had a wife at home who only hoped he'd come back so that she knew where he was and didn't have to worry he'd pop up from behind the fucking furniture somewhere. She'd probably be pleased to find him dead, and no-one would miss this jackass.
Not that Creed had any room to judge.
When the two of them were alone in the rain and shadows of the alley behind the bar, Creed waited till the bastard lunge. It was too easy—and incredibly dissatisfying-to step left and sock the guy with a handful of kidney-hits that brought the dickwad to his knees. The strikes had probably ruptured a couple his organs.
Coldly, methodically, and with great precision, Creed then proceeded to smash the man's face in with fists like pistons or lead weights, moving them with great deliberation. It was emotionless. Precise. The man fell; Creed followed. He continued plowing his fists into the fucker with alternating blows, till the skull looked more like a bloody, misshapen potato than a human head.
Covered in blood and booze, and bits of brain and bone most likely, Creed thought about banging the waitress as well. One fatality was enough for tonight, though—at least, since he was trying to stay low-profile. Plus, after his fingers had been pressed so tightly into October's soft skin today, and ever since he'd smelled her arousal and fear, he thought that this woman—with her rock-hard tits—probably wouldn't do it for him.
Not till he'd sunk his teeth into the Morgan frail, anyway.
When he got back to the apartment, soaked in rain and blood, she was sitting on the couch with her back to him. It was nearly dark in the apartment—just a little lamp, and the flickering blue of the TV.
"What are you doing?" he snarled, still in a savage mood.
She looked up, and immediately her popcorn was forgotten. She jumped to her feet and moved toward him, her brows knitted and her mouth an "o."
"Mr Creed—my God, what happened?"
Before he could register the movement, she was fluttering around him like some goddamn little bird: touching his coat, poking at the lapels, trying to find the source of the blood.
"S'not mine," he growled, baring his teeth in an angry, hard grin when she paused and looked up at him.
"Mr Creed," she whispered after a long moment. "You're soaked. We need to get you out of—well, I mean, you should go change. Please. Please change and I'll put those in the dryer, okay? And come sit with me. Please."
Please.
"Begging already, frail?" he rumbled. He felt hot and itchy under the layer of drying blood. Edgy. Twitchy. He hated her—except when he didn't. He wanted her scared. He wanted her wanting him. He wanted her, and he'd never been ashamed of his wants but they were fucking with him royally now. He hated her—yes. He bared his teeth. "I haven't even started hurting you yet."
He stalked down the hall to his room and stripped out of his clothes, throwing on another pair of pants before turning to the door again. To his surprise, she was waiting there—her eyes wide at the brief glimpse of his nakedness—and he whipped the wet, heavy clothing at her as hard as he could. She actually yelped and stumbled back, catching herself against the opposite wall. The only reason she didn't fall was because of the narrowness of the hall.
He paced the kitchen while she opened the dryer, which had been tucked tightly into a hall closet. She looked at the clothes and realized just how much blood and—
With a barely-perceptible shudder, she kicked the dryer shut and opened the tiny washing machine instead, tossing his wet clothes in and adding detergent. He watched darkly as she moved. He drank another beer. He washed his hands. He got in her space, trying to intimidate her. When she turned and startled again at his nearness, he lifted her with one arm and sat her on the washing machine, leaning into her so deeply that that she had to tilt back.
He glared.
"Mr Creed?" She sat quietly on the washer, very still. He glowered at her as she shifted, his eyes tracking her. "Come on—why don't you come sit with me on the couch? I'm watching a movie."
He slammed down his hands on either side of her, denting the top of the washer. She yelped, oozing fear, but just bit her lip and met his eyes, not backing down. "It's called 10,000 BC. Have some corn," she added, gesturing with her chin down the hall and toward the couch, where a bowl was sitting.
His gaze didn't flicker. Shouldn't she be crying? Or shivering? Or trying to get away? Pleading at some point? Would she ever plead? What the hell was wrong with her? He slid his hands up over her thighs, and gripped them, opening her wide and dragging her to the edge of the machine so that her crotch was flush against his abdomen.
He could feel her through her sweatpants and looked down at wear she was pressed against him. She hadn't been aroused before, but she was now: hot, damp, buttery. He'd be able to smell her musk on him later.
"Hey," she whispered, and he dragged his eyes to her face. He could tell from her voice that her throat had gone dry. Nervously, she licked her lips. "I don't know what's wrong, but I promise watching a good movie and eating some popcorn helps." She straightened cautiously, and he let her, pulling back slowly when she shifted to try to get down. He could have kept her there—she knew it—but he allowed her to slide to the lip of the washing machine instead, let her slip down. He growled low in his throat when every curve pressed tightly against him.
"Come on. You need to calm down. It'll be fun. Promise."
She ducked under his arm and moved slowly toward the couch, looking back at him as if to beckon, one hand extended toward him. When he didn't move, she sat down on the couch, still meeting his eyes, and took a couple fluffy kernels of popcorn in her hand. Popped them in her mouth.
Held her bowl out to him.
It smelled like styrofoam and chemicals and grease—revolting—but something in the gesture made a little wedge of him want. It was the the part of him that was still a kid in the Canadian tundra, a part that he'd thought he'd killed.
He eyed the buttery kernels disdainfully and she shrugged while he loomed over her.
"You can sit, you know," she said, joking—but cautious, too. "Have you seen this movie before?"
He snorted, growled, paced like a caged lion. "I don't usually watch movies."
She shot him a sideways pout. "You deprived child."
He turned his eyes to her sharply before realizing she was teasing. The playful look on her face dissipated immediately and she turned apologetic. "I didn't mean—"
He cut her off with a grunt and sat heavily on the couch beside her. She yelped as his weight crushed in the old, overly-soft cushions and she rolled on her hip toward him.
He didn't comment when her shoulder fell into his, or when she pressed her cool little hands frantically against his upper arm to try to prop herself upright and away from him. He stared at the TV instead, still stoic but then feeling himself slowly grin—sharp and wide—at the smell and feel of her. "I don't watch movies because they don't do anything for me," he said.
She had resituated herself at the far end of the couch, a tendril of fear still wafting through the air. He guessed she was remembering his words from before: touch me again, frail, and I will bite your fingers off. Her fear made him feel more in-control. It reminded him that he was in power. And the smell of it went a long way to calming his rage, which was no longer spiking—but still a long way from being assuaged.
"Not even action movies with lots of explosions?" she asked, sounding baffled. "Or movies with blood and violence?"
He did turn toward her then, baring his teeth. "Why watch it on a screen when you can enjoy the real thing?"
She whitened, then blushed, then laughed. "Oh, please. There are plenty of other things to get out of the movies."
Creed tilted his head, staring at the caveman on the screen as he wooed some sexy blue-eyed woman. He doubted the ladies were that pretty and clean in prehistoric times. They weren't even that clean a hundred years ago.
"What else is there to get?" he scoffed. "They don't even look real. S'obviously not real blood, real wounds. Seen too much of the real thing to be fooled by some red syrup and flashy spray."
She laughed again, and he shot an irritated glance at her. "You're telling me—when you were younger—you never took some pretty little thing to a horror movie?" she teased, her voice light and disbelieving.
Something about it eased him—just a little. He leaned back, hands tucked behind his head, and raised an eyebrow at her. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"
She was grinning. "Come on; it's classic. The adolescent high-school guy takes his girlfriend to a scary movie full of gore, and she squeals and hides her face in his chest, and it's a perfect opportunity for some adolescent cuddlage."
"Do I seem like the cuddly type to you?" he asked. The mildness of his tone indicated that she was treading dangerous ground, but his muscles had loosened and the corner of his mouth twitched in spite of himself.
She rolled her own eyes and popped a piece of corn into her mouth. "Please," she said again, sarcastically. "You so strike me as the type to cop a few good feels at the theatre when you were a kid."
He found himself surprisingly amused. Somehow, over the course of a few sentences, his rage had dissipated. Not all of it—but enough. He didn't have to hold himself back from tearing out her throat now.
He thought—maybe he'd come close to fucking up. He wasn't sure what that looked like—what "fucking up" meant here, when he had no investment in her well-being at all—but he was happy enough with the way things were turning out instead.
"Exactly how old do you think I am?" he asked, allowing an amused smirk.
She shrugged. "Thirty-five? I'm a shitty judge of age, though."
He grinned ferally, enjoying her ignorance. "Have you ever heard of a regenerative factor, little girl?"
Her eyes widened. "Of course," she said after a moment. "You heal?"
"'M older than your great-grandma." He bent his head and sank his fangs into the meat of his own palm, right at the heel of his hand. She stared, transfixed, as the wounds bled and closed before her eyes.
He expected it to scare her. It was proof he was invincible, that there was no way she could hurt him or kill him in order to get away. He expected to see some version of the familiar, sweet hopelessness in her eyes.
Instead, she rocked to her knees beside him, the movie forgotten.
"Oh," she breathed. Her hand raised and moved toward his palm, stilling just a fraction of an inch away. There was that faint bitterness of apprehension again. "Can I?" she asked, her eyes flicking up to him.
Face expressionless, he lifted his chin in consent. He told himself he was just made curious by her fascination, the look of awe on her face. He was used to frightening people—and here she was, fucking everything up…again. He wanted to know what she'd do.
He didn't expect her to move so carefully, though, or to cradle his massive paw in her palms and run her thumbs lightly over the callused skin. She pulled his hand to her lap, smoothing gentle fingers over the unblemished skin.
He didn't think a woman had ever pulled his hand closer, much less toward that dark juncture of her thighs. For a second he allowed himself the pleasure of picturing her naked, pulling his hand beggingly toward her slick, buttery folds.
Of course, it would never happen. But for just a second, he let himself imagine it.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered. Her touch was light and cool and lingering, like snowflakes. The thin silver charm bracelet, dotted with letters, clinked lightly on her wrist as she moved her hands over him.
He stared at the top of her golden head as she bent over his hand like a prayer, then shrugged nonchalantly and looked away. "Having a healing trait doesn't dull your nerves. 'F anything, it means you lack scar tissue that could protect you, keep you from pain."
"That sounds—horrible."
And before he could process that, he felt a soft, hot pressure on his hand.
His head snapped back around and he stared at her. She lifted her head, a smudge of his blood glistening on her mouth. Her eyes and her scent were full of fear. At the sight, his cock immediately swelled in his jeans. He grunted at the suddenness of his raging hard-on.
"I used to kiss my sisters when they were hurt," she whispered defensively, sounding uncertain and more than a little afraid. "It was just instinctive."
He was still staring, utterly still. The sight of her blood-smeared mouth and fearful gaze made his skin feel hot, his bones and abdomen tighten and knot. His cock twitched, trapped against the seam of his jeans. It was almost painful. He briefly contemplated lunging at her, tearing her sweatpants away and plunging in to her. She'd be tight and dry, and it would hurt her. She'd struggle, and he'd lick his own blood from her mouth.
"It doesn't dull your nerves," he clarified after a moment. "But I've gotten used to it. It doesn't bother me anymore." His voice was expressionless and measured—but his eyes were ferocious, focused on her bloody mouth. He could see the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat as she examined his unmarred palm once more, her fingers sliding lightly over it—still hesitant, each fingertip seeking permission.
Someone should teach her. This kind of—this, whatever it was—it would be her undoing. He could see it clearly.
Her fine eyebrows furrowed, and she looked thoughtful and more—sad—than he'd ever seen her. "I know what that's like," she told him gently.
He raised an eyebrow, sneering, but his gaze was still fastened on her lips and it, at least, was not mocking. "Oh, do you?" he asked. His voice was so low.
She flushed, chewed her lip. He thought she might be completely unaware of the fact that he was a second away from screwing her silly.
"Not with physical pain, obviously," she said softly, sounding embarrassed. "But…other stuff. When the hurt doesn't ever go away, or get better." She shrugged helplessly and smiled. It was her good-morning-sunshine smile, her warm and soft and welcoming smile. It was sad, yes, but he could come up with no excuse of sleepiness, or lack of recognition.
It was for him.
"You just…stop being surprised by the pain," she whispered to him.
Her words triggered something, a gut reaction. He reached out without thinking, still fascinated by the red on her mouth, his thumb catching her lower lip and smearing the blood there. He was careful with his claw, not nicking her at all, just letting it linger. He wanted to lunge at the smile she hid there, press his teeth against her, lap at her sweet mouth with his tongue. He wanted it to be only his. It almost hurt, how much he felt it—deep, in his bones. His thumb swept back, and her desire scented the room again, musky and sweet. She looked confused, and uncomfortable.
You wanna keep her alive, you better put a leash on the animal—for now, anyway.
He smirked, but it was strained, his clawed thumb hovering just over her reddened mouth. He did nick her then, lightly, with just the tip of one talon. She startled, her lips trembling.
He could feel the heat and musk and—there it was—fear coming off her in clouds. He shielded her mouth from his claw, using the side of his thumb to graze back against her again.
"You gonna watch this movie or not, frail?" He didn't think she'd heard the unfamiliar brittleness of his own mocking voice.
She coughed to cover her embarrassment and turned away from him. She was blushing so hard he thought she might burst a vein. It made him grin, even if he couldn't shake the tension yet. It made him almost forget the coiled snake in his belly, the desperate knot of wanting something so bad when you knew you couldn't have it. He'd fuck her, yeah. He'd enjoying toying with her, too. Making her cry. Running her through a wringer of pain and fear and lust. But it wasn't—whatever he wanted, with that kind of overwhelming starvation—well, he couldn't name it, but he knew it wasn't for him.
In the meantime, he'd at least take his amusement from her.
A few minutes later and he was scoffing at the screen. For the Morgan frail's part, she was laughing uncontrollably on the other end of the couch.
"This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen," he spat, as though personally offended. "The sabertooth just…what? Walks away? The damn thing's starving and there' a huge cut of fresh meat right there—"
"It's a movie, Mr Creed," October teased. "You're supposed to suspend your disbelief for a couple hours."
"Fucking nonsense," he growled, crossing his arms and looking both furious and disgusted. Except—she'd seen him really furious, hadn't she? Or close to it. This—this was playing. The realization made her slap a hand over her mouth to stifle a snicker.
"You don't tame a predator just by letting it out of its cage," he lectured.
"Don't take it so seriously," she pleaded, and now she was laughing anyway, tugging at his arm. "It's supposed to be a legend. Legends are always—"
"Fucked up?" he asked rudely, flicking a surreptitious glance at her hands on his arm. My, but you're an eager frail, aren't you? He thought about asking her if she knew what happened to the last person who'd laughed at him. He should. He'd let her touch him before—only 'cause she'd asked—and now here she was, thinking she could put her mouth on his hands and her hands on his arms. Taking liberties. He ought to knock her off her feet.
Instead:
"Why do you watch this tripe anyway?"
She was tossing back her almond-scented hair, almost bouncing in her seat, grinning widely. "I first went to see this movie just because I liked big animals. My sisters and I—"
He glanced at the pictures over the TV—the big one was no longer turned down; instead it was missing entirely—
"—we used to watch the Discovery Channel whenever they showed the specials on prehistoric mammals. They're just so huge—I mean, armadillos the size of VW Bugs, you know? How cool is that? I used to take them to the Museum of Natural History when I could, too. I always wanted to see one of them in real life. They're just so powerful. And beautiful." She dropped her voice confidingly. "I kind of wish I could ride one."
And didn't that bring to mind a ton of pretty pictures and nasty remarks? Creed grinned, flashing one fang as he eyed her sideways. "I can think of one big animal you can ride anytime, frail," he purred.
Her eyes grew wide and her mouth clamped shut, and she blushed hotly, moving back toward her end of the couch and staring firmly at the TV. She withdrew so quickly it was like watching a sea anemone in the presence of a predator. He opened his mouth to say something suitably cutting and potentially vulgar, but the sabertooth cat re-entered the frame of the television.
"Oh, fer Chrissake," he muttered when the tiger responded obediently to the main character's demands.
At the other end of the couch, she chuckled and smiled, but still studiously kept her gaze away from his. He eyed her stealthily, wondering when she had become so playful and just how long he wanted to let her take advantage of it before sending her spiraling into abject terror again.
He didn't have long to wait. She was asleep before the end of the movie, curled up against the arm of the couch. He turned the piece of crap off and looked at her—took in her toes, like pink pearls, and the lean lines of her legs. Her delicate ankles. The completely untameable mass of her hair. Her one visible wrist, which was slim and frail-boned and shining with the silver charm bracelet.
The cool palm and slightly curled fingers that had stroked over his hand tenderly, as though she were truly concerned.
He tilted his head, watching her from the corner of his eye as she breathed, taking in the slow lull of her heartbeat. Her lashes made dark crescent on her cheeks, and the bruises on her chin were still dark and purpled, but getting better. It was just as well—the day before they'd looked almost fake, like inkstains. He knew people didn't normally bruise like that, not when they fell down the stairs or hit their chin on the counter. They were clearly bruises made from a hand like a vice.
He thought of McQuay. He thought of what he'd do when this was over. It was so satisfying to keep her here at his disposal. She was—entertaining, if nothing else. Frustrating, confusing, infuriating…but entertaining, too. Her only consistency was how often she surprised him: with her laughter, her smart-ass remarks, her quiet and watchful eyes. Those moments when she spoke seriously, and every word was layered and measured: as much of a mystery as a gift. The careless way she reached out to touch his face or arm, like it was second-nature to her, regardless of his mutation or his strength or his meanness.
The hurt doesn't ever go away, or get better, she'd said. You just stop being surprised by it.
He noticed suddenly the blue smudges under her eyes—hollow shadows. He tilted his head. Sometimes he forgot people like her needed sleep. Still, he wondered at her apparent exhaustion. He wondered briefly if she were sick, but thought he would have smelled it on her.
He snaked out one hand, wrapping a careful claw around her ankle and tugging gently. She unfolded like a flower, rolling onto her back and sliding toward him sleepily. "Hmm?" she murmured, blinking her eyes. "S'up?"
He snorted. Had it been him in her position, the person waking him would already have been gutted on his claws. He let his hand linger over her fragile foot, the fine arch there, then slide back up to bracelet her ankle. He could close his hand around it with room to spare—almost could make a full fist around it. Her delicacy was remarkable to him.
He could break her in half, if he wanted.
"You're exhausted," he said bluntly. He thought he could have been on top of her and had her clothes cut away, pulling her pretty thighs wide before she was awake enough to fight him.
A sleepy smile twitched her lips upward. "Wait. You woke me up…to tell me I'm tired?"
He scowled. "Just wanna know why." If she was sick, or if there was something going on—well, he wanted to know everything, dammit.
A laugh bubbled up in her throat and she rubbed at her eyes, scooting lower on the couch, too tired or too stupid to take note of the heavy claws encircling her ankle. "Living with you isn't exactly the most relaxing experience I've ever had," she teased. She wiggled her foot—so she had noticed—not so much to get away as to make a point. "Plus, I wake up a lot." She shrugged and didn't say it was because he made so much noise when he was dreaming.
He knew it though.
He leaned in toward her, one forearm on either side of her thighs. He looked down at her face, his eyes sinister with heat, and even though she was half-asleep, a breath caught in her throat. He grinned, letting his eyes course over her throat and down to her pretty breasts. He let his eyes linger there as the spiced scent of her arousal slowly—so slowly—gathered in the air. Her nipples pricked the fabric of her shirt and he could hear her heartrate pick up as she blushed. His gaze moved lower, over her soft stomach and focusing on the place where her thighs joined.
His nostrils flared at the musky fragrance, dipping his head between her thighs and inhaling. Her hips twitched involuntarily, bucking toward him just a little, and his eyebrows flared upward in surprise at the action. He hadn't anticipated that, but he'd place money on the bet that she was drenched.
Best to leave her wanting. More fun.
For now.
Eyes flicking back up to her with a mocking glint, he rose abruptly, releasing her and moving back toward the bedroom. "The movie's over," he said as he left. "You should turn that shit off and get some sleep."