Title: The Victor

Chapter II: The Animal, 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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"Maybe," said McQuay, delicately setting down his glass of wine, "when this is all over, you can move in at my place."

The place was classy enough, but eclectic: a bizarre blend of cheaply-trendy and snobbishly fancy. The Morgan frail fit right in, in her own way—taking pleasure in the rough, coffee-house aspects of it, and snickering between indulgences in the bits that pretended to be more sophisticated. Creed soaked it all in, and watched through narrowed eyes as October nearly choked on her own drink. Setting it down, she leaned across the table and caught McQuay's gaze earnestly.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" she asked, but the words were gentle. "I'm not leaving my apartment."

McQuay's eyes skittered nervously over to Creed's, then back to Toby. "Sooner or later," the man said carefully, "you're going to have to move. I would think—since we've been friends for so long—that it would be beneficial to—"

She leaned back in her chair. "Dean, I'm not moving."

"Look, princess—"

"Forget it, Dean. I'm not moving, and as dear as you are to me, I'm definitely not living in with you." She glanced at Creed guiltily—and isn't that innerestin', Creed thought, what exactly is she lookin' like that for?—and took McQuay's hands in hers, rubbing the tops of his thumbs gently. She was meeting the littler mutant's mercuric gaze with her heart in her eyes. "I know how you feel about me," she said quietly, after a moment. Again, her gaze flicked toward Creed and he tensed, realizing she was, for the first time, uncomfortable with his presence—probably because she was worried about embarrassing her little friend.

Well, no cause for that. The little shithead had opened this can of worms, hadn't he?

"And I'm honored," she said softly. "Really, I am. But I just want to keep things simple between us. And I need to stay where I am." She squeezed his hands lightly, sympathetically. "This is the last time I want to have this conversation, Dean."

"Jesus, this is boring," Creed growled, spearing a piece of bloody meat on his fork and swirling it on his plate in distaste. This place had hippie-food: lots of greens and grains, but very little by way of real nourishment—at least by his standards. Nevertheless, it was probably more sustenance than his Morgan frail ate in any given day. Meanwhile, McQuay was shooting him a dirty look while Toby glanced at him with wide eyes before laughing so hard that people from the other tables turned to look.

She sounded good. Something about her laugh set his insides humming. He allowed a slight, dry twist of his lips as he met McQuay's stare evenly. "Do you fuckwits seriously have this conversation every goddamn week? I feel like I'm in a fuckin' soap opera."

"Shut….up," McQuay enunciated, his fury so palpable that his voice seethed and hissed with it. "Or I will blow up your goddamn head."

Creed's chair creaked as he leaned back in it and smirked. He was actually a touch impressed that the little man had managed to hold his tongue for so long this evening. He had watched McQuay's face go gray when he saw the bruises on sweet October's chin. His silvery eyes had followed—with growing horror—the angry welt running from her throat down into her cleavage. Creed could almost see the dark thoughts unfolding in McQuay's mind: had Creed tortured her? Had he frightened her? Had he fucked her?

McQuay's suspicions had warmed Creed like good liquor. He only regretted, then, that he hadn't fucked her. Usually when he fucked a frail she'd be half-broken or worse by the end of it, a steaming broken-boned pile of tears or guts, but he thought he could hold back enough to keep from killing the Morgan frail. Maybe he could even make her pant and moan. Not that he needed to—of course not, he scoffed; he'd get hisself off either way—but the idea of her wrapped around his cock was a pleasure in its own right. Snagging her sweet snatch right out from under McQuay's nose? That'd be the fucking icing on the cake.

But for now, the memory of her wetness—the rich, buttery smell of her—sent ripples of tightness and heat into his abdomen and lower.

Since that moment—since the second McQuay's eyes dipped into her claw-marked cleavage—the conversation had become stilted and slanted, and every time Creed shot a carefully-calculated sneer in McQuay's direction, the little shit's frustration grew more and more pronounced. The smaller mutant's ears had been almost continuously red for the last fifteen minutes. In fact, Creed starting to get a mild headache, right between his eyebrows. He wondered if that was McQuay's doing: the early rumblings of a brainquake at the hands of the silver-eyed man's mutation. Still, Creed raised one brow mockingly in an expression that clearly said: bring it on, you little shithead.

"Don't you dare, Dean McQuay," the Morgan frail broke in, her voice low and threatening. Both men turned to look at her: McQuay with angry eyes rimmed now by hurt and confusion, and Creed with a slow stare of implacable stillness.

"You can't tell me you don't want me to…take care of this…this animal," McQuay said after a moment. He sounded utterly disbelieving.

But not, Creed thought, as disbelieving as he himself felt.

It was no surprise that a fresh, ripe, buttery piece like October Morgan had little desire to shack up with a skinny runt like McQuay. That part amused Creed, but didn't exactly surprise him. He figured a free girl might like to stay free, if she could. Might choose someone else to sniff her skirts if she had the option, instead of settling down with the first mercury-eyed maggot who offered her a roof over her head.

But she wasn't free now—not exactly. Not with Creed forcing himself into her home, under her roof, into her bed—even if she weren't in it. Onto her couch, into her movie-nights, into her laughter and her hair and her kilowatt smile—and her soft, soft mouth pressing into his palm lingeringly, like she didn't mind being there, like she'd stay in his hands if she could. No, she wasn't free: and here was Dean McQuay, trying valiantly—if foolishly—to save her.

And she was making him stop.

"I don't want you to try," October said quietly, emphatically. "Even if you succeeded—which is, let's face it, doubtful—to what point? Traumatizing all the other people here? Getting brain matter in my food?" She softened the sharp edges of her voice: went whispery, and gentle. It put Creed in mind of bedroom-murmurs. "He hasn't hurt me—not really. If he deserves punishment—and perhaps he does—it's not because of anything that's happened between him and me."

She paused. Creed hadn't thought it possible, but her voice grew even gentler, and her eyes softer. "And it's not because of anything between me and you, either, Dean." Her fingers stretched for McQuay's—hesitated. "You can't try to hurt him because I won't give you the answer you want."

McQuay's expression melted into something bordering on ugly. His face was fine-boned—fragile, boyish—but now it folded into a goblin-sneer that almost startled Creed, if Creed were capable of being startled. "Oh, please," the littler mutant scoffed. "I see how you laugh at the things he says." His mouth grew tighter, his mercury-eyes became something sour. "What, because he has big muscles, you'll choose him over me?"

She looked appalled. "I'm not choosing anyth—God, are you twelve?"

"Look at what he's done to you!" McQuay snapped, his voice rising. Other diners were staring now. He flung an outstretched hand at her bruised face, the ribbon of red dipping between her breasts.

Creed grinned and relaxed back in his chair. Let the show begin.

October stared at McQuay. Creed watched her eyes grow cool and he tilted his head, remembering just few days earlier when that cold and dismissive stare had been leveled at him. He found that he wasn't envious of McQuay—that he was even glad she wasn't looking down her nose at him like that. It didn't make sense: logic told Creed that he could just slap the look off her face with a palm as big as her head. Nevertheless, as entertaining as it was to watch her ice out that shithead McQuay, he was still a little relieved—well, he didn't have a word for it. But he'd almost forgotten how she could look through a person.

Then she leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs casually, and picked up her glass of wine. She sipped it with an air of careless indifference.

"It doesn't hurt," she said coolly, after a moment. Creed's eyes narrowed, and he wondered if it were true. She must be lying—he could tell it burned when he gave it to her, and he'd noticed her touching the enflamed skin earlier, sucking a breath in through her teeth.

He thought suddenly of her curled on the couch, watching a stupid movie and laughing at him, touching his arm.

The littler mutant's face was mutinous. "You can't be serious."

Creed raised an eyebrow. For once, the shithead was onto something.

October leaned forward then. Finally, the cool darkness of her eyes was flooded with fire, and her voice was coated with ice when she said, "At least he's not making a scene over nothing." She softened suddenly, her kindness quick on the heels of her anger—or maybe it was just a mastery of control—and she was reaching for McQuay's hand again. For a moment, Creed found himself hating her again: how easily she became vulnerable, how quickly she reached out. "Dean, let's not fight. This is silly—"

McQuay stood up suddenly, nearly pitching forward into the table before he braced himself and grabbed his cane with shaking hands. His narrow cheeks were glowing. The Morgan frail gasped, jerking back, when he swung the cane down and jabbed it at her sharply.

It had been just a gesture—Creed could tell the shit hadn't expected to strike her. But McQuay had piss-poor depth perception—and worse judgment. The cane hurtled forward.

And stopped, quivering, just an inch away from the scarlet ribbon of the clawmark on her chest. Creed had risen fluidly, his clawed hand gripping the base of the cane, holding it still and steady.

He could have broken her fucking sternum, the little shit.

"You," McQuay said shakily, staring at the Morgan frail. Creed's eyes flicked between them. They were both pale and fragile-looking in that moment, the hollows of their faces shadowed with regret and remorse.

"Oh, fer fuck's sake," said Creed, and released the cane with a snap of his wrist. McQuay stumbled back, but the force of the blow was significantly less than it might have been.

"You," he repeated when he regained his footing. He managed to sound angry and wounded, even though his eyes were guilty. "You are just like every other girl."

"Dean," she said gently. "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell you."

McQuay's mouth pressed into a white line. Creed watched as they held each other's gaze, and the air was taut and heavy. Both of them looked like they had apologies waiting on their mouths.

Then McQuay turned abruptly, and limped his way toward the exit, paying for his meal on his way out.

The Morgan frail watched him go in silence, then leaned back in her chair and reached for her wine. She swirled it lazily, her bracelet glistening in the restaurant lights, then sipped. Her eyes were still, but not as luminous as Creed had grown used to—there was something of moodiness in them, and brooding. It was unfamiliar, and he scowled as he loomed over her, still standing.

"Wasn't that exciting?" she said drily, before he could give voice to the nasty comment on the edge of his tongue. She sounded incredibly tired. Slowly, he sat, and she toasted him with her glass. "Here's to being surrounded by violent, angry men," she said lightly.

He didn't respond, leaning back to look at her. It didn't seem to bother her that people were whispering and glancing over at them. She stared silently at her plate for a moment, as though she wasn't seeing it at all. Something about the expression made his bones tighten.

Her eyes flickered to him then, taking in how incongruous he seemed here: his sleeveless shirt tight, his arms tense and folded, his face impassive—for the moment. "You should eat," she added after a moment, directing a flutter of her fingers toward his plate.

Creed was still for a moment, and silent. She sipped at her wine again, her eyes now fastened on his with something unnamable in them, and he finally reached for his fork and took another bite of steak. Why not, after all? Bloody meat was bloody meat.

"Does that usually happen—every week?" he asked when he'd swallowed. His voice came out almost as cruel as he'd meant it to be.

But a wry grin twisted her features as though there'd never been a question of cruelty, and her eyes lightened—just a little. "Not to this extent," she conceded ruefully. "Having you here was kind of a wild card, Mr Creed." She smiled, her hand lingering lightly at her collarbone. Her fingertips skimmed the slight swelling there, the burning weal. For a moment, he almost—

"I don't think he liked your 'mark,'" she added mildly.

He ate in silence for a moment, watching her. The troubled look filtered back into her eyes, and he found himself nodding at her own plate. "You'll be hungry later," he said.

She ignored his statement. "Mmm," she uttered noncommittally. "I suppose your idea of collateral is wasted now, Mr Creed," she added instead, her voice suddenly vibrant with false merriment.

His eyes narrowed while he studied her. Her skin was pale under the golden tan—waxy, almost. Her eyes were bruised with sleeplessness, and her chin was bruised from his hands. The mark on her throat and chest stood out garishly in the dim light, but she held herself like a queen, her face open and expectant and utterly lovely in its fragility.

It came to him slowly: that she expected him to kill her now. Well, perhaps not at this moment, but she believed they would return to her apartment and that, in light of her apparent worthlessness as a hostage, he would murder her. Probably after hours of torture and rape.

You should eat, she'd said.

"Naw," he answered with perfect nonchalance. "If anything, you're worth more." He grinned. "F'anything, this little date just proved he's soft on you. In a big way." He shrugged and snorted. "Still thinks you're some kind of gift to the universe."

Her gaze hardened a little. "It would probably be better if he didn't," she responded, tossing back the rest of her wine and pulling a credit card from her purse. "Thank you," she added after a beat.

His eyebrows flared questioningly.

"He was going to knock the wind out of me with that thing," she said after a moment, her voice still light, collected, calm. "At best."

Silence. He saw again, in his mind, the cane striking toward her delicate collarbone and chest. Heard the snap of her fragile bones splitting under the blow.

He knew that sound well.

The thought made something in his abdomen knot. He was used to thoughts of violence making his gut and groin tighten with excitement, and arousal. This was different. He shifted irritably.

"I'm your keeper," he growled at last, and perhaps it was a poor choice of words because he imagined her, now, in that little bedroom of hers, wearing only the marks from his mouth and claws and the tangle of her own yellow hair. She'd be wrapped in bedclothes when she wasn't entirely naked and underneath him. "Till I let you go," he added, and was surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice, "no-one gets to knock you around but me."

One corner of her mouth curled, sardonic. "How oddly comforting."

She paid the rest of their bill and they walked home in silence. When they reached the apartment, she dropped her bag and coat at the door, not bothering to hang them up, and curled up on the couch.

He paused and stared down at her, hesitating. He wondered if she was going to sleep like that. He knew she got cold at night, and here she was, all bare leg and thin white dress. Her high heels were still on. She looked exhausted though. He wondered if he should throw a blanket at her.

If she'd been his—if he'd been her keeper the way he wanted to—he imagined she'd never have time to be cold. He'd keep her close to his naked skin whenever it was manageable, fuck her till she was flushed and weak, molten. She'd be sore, and maybe—well, slightly wounded, but he decided in that moment that he wouldn't damage her permanently; not yet, anyway—maybe she'd be bloody, but she'd never be cold again. Of that he was certain. Almost every one of the dens he had around the country had been built with a giant fireplace, and he imagined when he wasn't able to be there and keep her pinned beneath him that she would be curled in a pile of furs and blankets in front of a blazing fire. The image was surprisingly pretty in his mind.

"You'll have to get up early tomorrow," he said after a moment, almost reluctant.

She turned her head and gazed up at him blankly from one eye, the other hidden by hair. It made his claws and canines itch.

"We gotta pack up and move out of here."

She jolted upright, suddenly more awake than she'd been in the last hour. "Excuse me?"

He glowered, his reluctance vanishing in the face of his irritation. "You need me to repeat myself, frail?"

She met his stare evenly. "What did I do to make us have to leave?"

He sneered down at her. "Your little friend," he purred, "is righteously pissed. He's gonna fuck up on our agreement. Probably call the cops." His lip curled mockingly. "Which would just be a big fuckin' mess, don't you think?" He leaned toward her till they were nearly nose-to-nose, and his eyes locked with hers like a predator's. "'Cause you'd end up dying, most likely, and I'd have to kill every cop who came in here, and then inevitably I would have to twist Dean-o's fragile little head right off his fucking shoulders. Is that what you want?"

She stood so abruptly that he swung backward to avoid cracking their heads. She moved toward him anyway, relentless and fearlessly, regardless of the fact that she had to crane her neck at a ridiculous angle to meet his eyes. Some part of him tightened in anger and arousal.

"Did you not hear me tell Dean that I am not leaving this place?" she demanded. Her voice was disdainful, and he flashed his teeth in warning.

"You'll leave this place if I have to drag you out by your pretty hair, kitten," he hissed.

Her own brows rose, daring him to continue, and he curled a lip and leaned down to her.

"Besides," he added silkily, his voice a seductive veneer over malic and threat, "place I pick? We'll be living in a penthouse suite. You can have a bed. Real food." He leaned in closer, breathed in her hair. His breath stirred the strands. "Make you feel like a princess," he purred.

He wasn't sure why he was bribing her with promises of luxury. It had never occurred to him to do so with any frail before. He said something, and a woman listened—or she died. Probably painfully. In fact, probably she died no matter what. But perhaps some part of him still wanted to keep her alive, still wanted to keep her in his grip for just a little while longer. Perhaps some part of him imagined, again, how she would look naked, surrounded by furs in front of a fireplace.

And perhaps a threat of death might have worked better. Perhaps not. Either way, it had apparently been the wrong thing to say. Her face shuttered in. "I am not leaving this apartment."

"The fuck you ain't," he growled, his eyes darkening. His claws lengthened, and his jaw clenched. Fuck the furs and the fireplace. "Do you really wanna have this fight with me, frail?"

"If I have to," she snapped. "Do you think I'm going to be swayed by fairy-tale promises?" She bared her teeth. "Fuck you."

His eyes widened in shock, and fury flared from his gut to his fingertips. He advanced. She stumbled back a step, eyes still defiant, when he pushed into her and crowded her against the wall. His hands slammed against the wall on either side of her face, the impact so hard that he cracked the plaster. The pictures of her sisters on the shelf rattled and fell.

"I could, you know," he growled dangerously, furiously. "Fuck you, that is. So hard you'd be in a wheelchair."

She swallowed. Her fear spiced the air, along with anger, but there was no arousal this time. In a low, even voice, she said, "I am not leaving this apartment."

"You'll do as I fuckin' say," he snapped, his teeth only a breath from her cheek. She darted left, trying to duck under his arm, and he jammed a knee between her legs, caging her in on all sides. She gasped when he lodged his thigh against her crotch and lifted, forcing her onto her toes. There was a sound of fabric ripping as her skirt slid upwards around her hips. She was straining in her heels, her muscles taut as she straddled his thigh, which was nearly as thick around as her waist. He crushed her against the wall with his own chest, squeezing the air out of her lungs with his bulk. Her hands flew to his chest, trying in vain to push him away. He was immoveable, a brick wall.

"I. Am not. Leaving this apartment," she spat breathlessly, trying desperately to twist away.

He sneered at the feel of her sex grinding against his leg. Her breasts pressed flat against his chest as she struggled.

"Wanna bet?" he mocked. Fuck, but she felt good. He imagined what it would be like finish tearing that skirt of hers, slip his claws between them and shove her panties to one side or shred through them, slide into her while she wriggled and fought. Her cunt would massage him. "I'll tell you what, fail," he growled. "You keep that wiggling up and you won't be leaving this wall for a while."

"I'm not moving away!"

Christ. "You're not gonna be able to move at all when I'm done with you," he hissed. She slugged him in the jaw—a proper blow, one that might have sent a weaker man reeling—and his right hand swept up to pin her wrists. The fine silver charm bracelet on her arm tangled in his claws and he ripped it away, snapping it against the delicate skin.

She howled.

"Goddamn you, you fucking bastard, you disgusting, manipulative, revolting piece of disease-ridden—"

He blinked as she went on, amazed that she would even dare to say such things to him. He could count on one claw the number of people who had so disrespected him since he had reached his physical maturity, and those had been mutant men who could hold their own against him, at least for a few minutes. Some of the men in his unit back in the day had said snide, veiled things, but the only one who had been so blatant was his brother. Well, and Wade Wilson, but that idiot couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life.

He thought about decking her, busting open that sassy, pretty mouth of hers. She'd be knocked off her feet, curled in a ball, and he'd bury his foot in her soft belly again and again, whip her with his thick belt until her skin peeled back like he'd promised earlier in the week.

But there was something just as satisfying in letting her struggle against him. Grind against him. He could feel the heat of her against his muscled thigh and if she didn't smell wet and buttery now—well, he wasn't used to women wanting him anyway, and he told himself scornfully that he didn't miss it. Instead, he focused on the sheer vicious glee he felt in showing her just how helpless she was. His inexorable, unmoving physical strength bore down on her, and he grinned, loving the feel of her on him: pressed to him, the almond smell of her skin, the softness of her, her ineffectual wrath and wriggling.

He didn't have to even try in order to win.

She was putting up a real fight now, the kind he knew how to deal with. Her body twisted and arched against him; she tried to knee him in the groin. He chuckled, leaning in harder, driving his thigh up higher and harder against her sex. Obscenities spilled from her mouth even as her lungs struggled to expand against the pressure of his massive chest.

He could crush those frail little lungs like paper bags.

He flattened her further against the wall, reveling in the feel of her, grinning. Her breasts were crushed against him. He was sure he could feel her hard little nipples, too, like pebbles—she didn't smell aroused, but they were pressed against him and he imagined cupping one tit through her shirt and lifting it upward, carrying her with it, wetting the white silk with his mouth and nipping that sweet little nub with his sharp teeth, rolling it in his mouth, grinning around it. She was still muttering breathless cusswords under her breath, writhing against the plaster, determined to twist out of his grasp and probably scratch his eyes out. Never mind that: her fists were clenched. She was probably gonna try to deck him again, and might hurt her pretty little hand in the process.

He grinned again when her crotch continued grinding against the muscled planes of his thigh. Those old familiar places. He bumped his leg against her. He wasn't familiar with willing women, or with making a frail come, but he found himself forcing her to ride against him. His incisors dented his lower lip in a feral smile as he pinned her and rocked against her. She was getting tired; he could tell. Her vision was probably going spotty. He'd heard once that this kind of shit made a frail's orgasm even more powerful. He wondered if he could do it now—make her come. She wasn't yet wet, but it hadn't taken long before, and all he'd had to do then was stand between her pretty thighs.

"That's my—fuckin'—I love that bracelet!" she snapped, her voice alternately rising and falling in volume as she gasped for air against him. "Just come in here—wreck all my…my things—try to make me move—goddamn you, you fucking—animal! You can't make me leave!"

"How much would you like to bet I can?" he hissed, fury and excitement warring in him. An animal, is it? For fuck's sake, he hated her. And for fuck's sake, he wanted her. And for fuck's sake, the frail could put up a fight. She was fragile as a bird, and her blows glanced off him like beanbags. But she didn't give up—hell no. And she was clever, her little fists and spiky heels catching him in places he wasn't prepared for. Had he been a normal man, with normal reflexes, he might have lost an eye and sported some nasty bruises.

"Keep fightin', frail," he rumbled against her, grinning. He wondered if she could feel the vibrations. "I can do this for hours."

"You ready to hit me yet?" she taunted breathlessly. "Break my jaw?"

"Keep going," Creed invited, his smile growing even wider, but she was already a step ahead of him. She jabbed her stiffened hand at his throat, locking a thumb and forefinger around one of the tendons in his neck. Any other aggressor would already have been on the floor in pain, but Creed swatted her hand away instead, like a fly, laughing now and wondering if she'd actually learned to fight from someone or if she was just that inventive, quick-thinking on her feet.

Or up against a wall, as the case may be.

She twisted her arm at some impossible angle and caught him right in the throat with her elbow, then brought it down sharply on the back of his neck. Another creature might have blacked out, but Victor Creed just grinned and chuckled, snagging her wrists and pinning them. He hated her. He wanted her. He stared down at her breasts, flattened and pressed upward by his bulk, nearly spilling out of her dress. He thought he could see the pink shadows of her areolas above the neckline. The red welt snaked down into her cleavage, tracing her sternum—he imagined again McQuay's cane hurtling toward the fragile bird-cage bones.

His rage and arousal peaked and he ground against her, driving his erection into her soft belly and sharply lifting the leg wedged between her thighs. Her eyes flew wide, and the scent of fear suddenly surged through her anger, spiking toward him.

There it was.

And now that she understood the full gravity of her situation, he lifted one massive paw to backhand her across the face. He imagined she'd fly through the air like a rag doll.

Then he'd fuck the hell out of her. He wanted to—oh, he wanted to. His cock was hard and heavy against her and he pressed against her again, his smile vicious.

Without warning, she wilted against him, breathless and exhausted and afraid.

"I hate you," she whispered. "A lot."

"Feelin's mutual, frail," he grinned nastily. "Believe me." He'd like to kill her. Drill into her. Both. Now that she was still, the thought of backhanding her seemed like a wasted effort. He almost wanted to goad her back into a fight. "All this over a fucking bracelet?" he added snidely.

But then she melted even further, limp, suddenly fragile. He wondered briefly if she was going to pass out. Even more of a waste, if that happened now. He wanted her awake. He wanted her fighting. He wanted her writhing against him in anger and fear, because there was no other way—well, there was no other way. No other way he could have her.

The thought was jarring. What else could he want, after all? He released her wrists from his claw as though her skin had burned him, bracing his thick forearms on either side of her face and leaning in, his lungs feeling strangely empty. He didn't move—just breathed, matched his inhalations to hers. He was so used to making women unconscious one way or another that he wasn't sure what exactly it took anymore.

"I can't leave this place," she whispered against him, and he went still, his face inches from her hair, the clean almond scent of her warm in his nose. "Please don't make me," she murmured. "I know it's silly, but I can't."

"Why the fuck not?" he demanded. Then: "Is this some kind of weird fucking phobia?"

She laughed, then, sagging limply against him. "Something like that," she murmured, and rested her forehead against his chest. Her hands hung from him, fingers weakly gripping the lapels of his coat. He froze. She was still suspended off the floor on his leg, anchored by his arms on either side of her, and no longer twitching to get away or stretching to reach the ground. Instead, she simply trusted him to hold her there, leaning against him.

He thought about flinging her down, fucking her wildly. Beating her within a goddamn inch of her disrespectful life. Slapping that mouth silly, and then shutting her up with his cock halfway down her throat. She was a rambling mess of long bare limbs, ripped white fabric and lace, half-unpinned brassy tangles. Her lips were swollen, her eyes heavy. He shifted under her, and the buttery aroma of her arousal suddenly overpowered him, swallowing up the rest of her almond-scent with something richer and warmer and spicier. The muscles in her thighs twitched against him and she sighed, a slow blush creeping into her throat, eyes still closed.

Oh. Oh.

She was turned on.

His mouth watered. He could get used to this. He jogged his thigh against her and she got wetter, her little fingers tightening and a strangled gasp emerging from her pretty throat.

If any fucker ever tried to take her from him before he'd had her, he'd—

"Don't make me go," she whispered, turning her head so her cheek was pressed against his muscled chest. She could feel the cool metal of hid dogtags under her cheek. "Don't make me go." A pause, then: "I can hear your heart."

He felt a surge of something hot and powerful in his chest. Oh, he was still goddamn pissed, but he wanted her too. He was gonna fuck the life right out of her when this stupid mission was done, and he would teach her a thing or two about respect while he was at it.

Sly bitch.

"You're wet," he purred against her, and her arousal spiked. Her blush grew brighter. He leaned to one side, locking her in with his shoulder now, and dropping that had between them. His claws prickled over one thigh and he felt everything in her tense and weaken all at once. He chuckled, and his talon pricked at the cloth of her panties, right over her mound. He could feel a few threads pop, knew she heard it too. Her fear sweetened, and her arousal sharpened, and she panted against him before locking her jaw and twisting just a little. "Hold still," he warned teasingly, and claw threatening against her, and she obeyed.

He chuckled. "Good girl," he rumbled, and grinned. Then he moved swiftly, all feline grace, and flung her toward the couch. She sailed backward through the air. His open palm caught her just below the collarbone, lifting her a few scant inches into the air and throwing her slight body toward the sofa. She was actually airborne for a moment before crashing onto the couch, sprawling.

One heel went flying; he snagged the other with a deft claw and tore it from her foot. In a moment of indulgence—why shouldn't he?—he let his clawed fingers linger over her ankle and the arch of her foot. With a quick flick of his wrist he'd whipped the decorative chenille blanket off the back of the couch and snapped it down on her tired body. The sudden weight and momentum of it caught her off-guard and she gasped. She batted it away from her face, watching him with wide eyes, looking confused and so sweetly dazed, the scent of her arousal and her fear burning through him. His cock was so hard at the sight and smell of her that he grunted in spite of himself. He took a moment to find his voice and didn't think she noticed, since she was still so muddled by him.

"Ya see?" he said mildly. "You can't order me around, little girl. I call the shots here." He grinned, flashed his fangs, flashed his elongated claws. "I'd tell you that I'll tear ya apart if you disobey me, 'cept—frail—" and he grinned, leaned in, and drew that sharp claw across the swell of one breast and then zeroed in on her nipple. He let the sharpness linger there threateningly while she sucked in a breath and froze, her eyes locked on the sight of his curved talon teasing her sensitive nipple through the white satin. "—'cept I don't think you even want to disobey me. Not really."

He withdrew, stood, and rolled his shoulders. "Not that you deserve the favor, you manipulative little cunt," he added after a moment, all the mockery gone from his voice, "but if the cops come tomorrow, or if your stupid friend decides to play the hero, yer the one who deals with the aftermath. Got it? You pick up the pieces—even if they're bloody. I'll make ya crawl around on your hands and knees and pick them up with your teeth. D'you understand me, frail?"

She nodded mutely, her eyes large and dark in her pale face, her breathing shallow.

"And if you ever speak to me like that again…" he added, leaning closer to her. His voice was deadly and quiet and he savored the rekindling fragrance of her fear, the nervous desire that was quickly fading at the graphic image he'd conjured. " I mean, if you ever speak to me like that again…I'll tear your tongue out by the root. I'll chew it out like a dog. You'll drown in yer own blood. And don't think for a second I won't enjoy every minute of it."

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

AN: It's been a long hiatus.

As I noted previously, chapters will be slow. There may be times when they halt for months (or years!) at a time. I have spent the last two years working about 60 hours a week, half of it unpaid, and then graduating with my masters' degree, and then transitioning into a new job (and in many ways, a new life), and finally losing my old computer (I had the forsight to save this as a dropbox file, but still had to get a new computer before I could access it). As much as I know people have loved this story, and as much as I am grateful for those of you who have been sweet and kind followers, I have to prioritize my life.

I mention this because I have been reading some pretty nasty complaints about how I "have to finish" this rewrite, or repost the old one. These reviews/messages do NOTHING to motivate me. If anything, they make me more reluctant to return to this piece. I've changed a lot since writing this initially, and though the Octoberverse will always mark a very important time in my life, the only reason I am rewriting and re-posting it at all is because of the supportive and encouraging readers who loved the Octoberverse. Please be respectful in your reviews (at least, if you actually want to see more – if you hate it, then it's fine to say so).

I would like to get back to this rewrite. I am hoping for future chapters to not take so long, but my life is very overwhelming and busy right now, and I feel very strongly about not reposting the original. If you enjoy the story, then please respect me as a writer and remember to be kind.