Five Months Ago…

I was holed up in my room. Had been ever since the paramedics carted David away. My father followed them to the hospital, but my mother remained outside my locked door, begging me to come out and talk to her. What was there to say? I’d probably just killed a boy with a single kiss. And even now, I could feel a piece of him swirling around my head. Memories that shouldn’t be mine. Feelings I shouldn’t have.

With my 2.75 GPA I was no genius, but even a C-student such as myself knew what all this must mean.

Mutant.

That one word repeated like a mantra in my mind. The only coherent thought I could make.

It wasn’t until my father returned from the hospital and picked the lock to my door that I was finally able to snap myself back to reality.

He stood there with my mother clinging to him and there was a knowledge in his gaze that made me look away. He knew.

“Marie?”

I held my breath, waited to see what he’d say. Or do. My father had never been a violent man, but I knew well enough about his aversion and distrust of the emerging mutant community. I even agreed with him on some points. Or I used to. I wasn’t one for self-loathing and now that I was one of them, it’d be awfully hypocritical of me to dislike others for an affliction I suffered from myself.

My father took a step closer and I winced, bracing myself for the inevitable strike.

It never came.

I opened my eyes and was shocked to see him staring at me with an unexpected tenderness. He tentatively reached a hand towards me and I flinched away.

“Don’t.”

He didn’t listen, instead laying his hand on my covered shoulder and slowly guiding me into a warm hug. A sob wrenched itself from my throat and a flood of tears began to pour down my cheeks as I held onto him. My father rubbed my back soothingly, telling me it was all right, that we’d figure everything out. We both knew it was a lie.

At some point, my mother joined the hug and I sagged against the both of them, filled with relief. We stood like that for God knows how long before she suggested coffee, to which my father and I both heartily agreed.

In the kitchen, sipping on bitter ambrosia, I finally asked the question we’d all been thinking. “So what now?”

My father’s eyes were as serious as I’d ever seen them. “This doesn’t change a thing, Marie. You’re still our daughter. This is still your home. And we’ll deal with everything else as it comes.”

I’d never wanted to believe anything so badly in my life. But as I mulled over the last few hours, I knew that in fact everything had changed. I could still hear David’s voice inside my head, threatening me with retribution if he ever awoke from the coma I’d put him in. And I knew that, while most people were still on the fence about mutants in general, very few had any sympathy for the most dangerous ones. There was no doubt that poisonous, soul-sucking skin would be considered dangerous.

As my father and mother debated about the practicalities of the situation (if we should hide my mutation until David woke up, where we could go if things turned for the worse), I quickly realized there was only one option. The determined look on my father’s face and the reassuring squeeze of my mother’s hand let me know that, if it came down to it, they’d fight for me. And I knew with a terrifying certainty that they’d lose.

David was the golden-boy of Meridian, Mississippi. The star jock and inevitable prom king. The community would be in an uproar over what I’d done to him, accident or not. At the very least, we could expect bricks through our window and graffiti at my father’s local deli shop. But other images flashed through my mind as well. Being chased down the streets by mutant-haters wielding baseball bats and worse. My courageous father trying to fend them off, buy my mother and me time to escape. I could almost see his broken body lying on the ground, could almost feel our once-friendly neighbors ripping me from my mother’s arms.

My heart wrenched and I knew what I had to do.

After a while, the talking died down and my parents walked me to my room to say goodnight. My mother carefully smoothed down my disheveled hair and gave me a loving smile. “Sleep sweet, angel.”

I nodded and responded softly with, “I love you, Momma.” I tried not to dwell upon the thought that it could be the last time I ever got to tell her that.

When it came time to say goodnight to my father, I had to resist the urge to throw myself in his arms and welcome the protection they offered. My whole life he’d been strong for me, taken care of me. But now it was my turn.

“I love you, Daddy. I’m so, so sorry.”

He gave me a quick hug and a gentle kiss on top of my head. “Don’t be, Marie. We’ll figure it all out. Things will be just fine. You’ll see.”

He was right. Things would be fine. I kept reminding myself of that as I shoved some clothes and toiletries into an old duffle bag. I’d waited until midnight, when I was sure they’d be sound asleep, before starting to head out. I walked through my childhood home one last time and finally let go of the tears I’d been holding back.

With shaky hands, I left a letter on the kitchen table. I begged my parents not to try and find me, to understand why I had to do this. I gave them every logical reason I could and told them one last time that I loved them.

I hoped they’d follow the advice I’d left them in the letter, telling them that the best course of action would be to pretend they’d kicked me out when I revealed I was a mutant. The community wouldn’t blame them for my shortcomings. They’d accept that I’d run away and be glad of it. I could imagine the outraged look on my father’s face at the very suggestion that he’d disown me, but I was hoping my mother (who’d always been the more sensible of the two) would be able to make him see reason. I needed them safe. It was the only thing that mattered now.

When I walked out of my home for the last time, I dried my eyes and resolved never to cry about it again. I was running not to protect myself, but to protect my family. And there should be no shame or sorrow in that.

The walk to the closest ATM took less than twenty minutes. I took all the money out of my account ($1,217 worth of walking dogs and mowing yards) and got a cab to drive me to the nearest Greyhound. I bought a one-way ticket to Orlando and went out of my way to flirt with the ticket seller so he’d have no way of forgetting me. Then I called another cab and followed the same process at Amtrak, except that ticket was to Los Angeles. If my parents did try and find me, they’d be looking in the wrong two directions. I wasn’t heading south or west. I was going north.

By the time the third cab dropped me off at a rather large truck stop in Jackson, Mississippi, I had just over $500 left, which would last me a month if I was lucky. It took me three hours to find a trucker who had all the qualities I was looking for (headed north and not a horn dog) and when I slid into the passenger seat, I started wondering for the first time just what the hell I was doing. Me, who’d never been out of the great state of Mississippi, who didn’t know diddlysquat about defending herself, and who had just found out she had killer skin. And here I was hitchhiking across America. Alone.

My life had become a soap-opera in under twenty-four hours and it was all so ridiculous that I couldn’t help but laugh.

The trucker I’d snagged a ride with eyed me curiously. “So what’s your name, honey?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but abruptly stopped when I realized I couldn’t very well give him my real name. Especially if my parents started to look for me. But what would I call myself? What name could possibly fit one such as me?

A memory sprang from my subconscious. It was from science class last Friday (quite possibly the last science class I’d ever take – strange to think I’d miss something so mundane). Mr. Thompson had been talking about plants, in particular one’s that showed “undesirable variations from the standards.” He said there was only one term for such organisms. With a bittersweet smile, I knew what my name would be.

“Rogue,” I answered softly. “My name is Rogue.”

Present Day

In the last few months of hitchhiking north, I’ve seen some sketchy places along the way. Places my mother would blush to imagine her little girl in. But this makeshift bar in the middle of a podunk town in Alberta definitely takes the cake. It’s in a barn for God’s sake. And the only heating it has comes in the form of trashcan fires.

Laughlin City. The epitome of shitsville.

There’s no bouncer at the door to check my ID (surprise, surprise), so aside from the massive in-pour of people (which has me pulling my coat tighter around me), I have no trouble getting in. There’s a lot of screaming and yelling and it doesn’t take me long to discover the source of it all.

In the middle of the barn stands a metal-wire cage. I enter just in time to see some poor slob topple to the ground, out cold. A couple of guys drag him out and the announcer, a portly fellow with terrible fashion sense, starts talking.

“Gentlemen, in all my years I’ve never seen anything like this. Are you going to let this man walk away with your money?”

The crowd shouts a resounding ‘no’ and I push my way forward some more, trying to get a better look. I know I shouldn’t be here. Watching some drunken idiots pummel each other is not conducive to finding a ride out of here. But for some reason I’m drawn to the center ring. I’ve got to see the man responsible for such an uproar.

“I’ll fight him!” someone shouts from the crowd.

He rushes toward the ring and only then am I able to squeeze my way to the front. The site that greets me is not something I expect. The man in the ring is not decked out in the stereotypical hick attire that most of the guys in this bar are wearing. In fact, he’s not wearing much at all, except for a pair of snug jeans that leave little of his muscular physique to the imagination

I’m caught between intrigue and terror because there is something more than masculine about the fighter in front of me. I know, just by looking at him, that he’s not just a man. He’s something more, something I can’t quite put a name on.

The fight begins and my musings are temporarily put on hold. The challenger kicks the man while his back is still turned and I scowl at the obviously dirty move. I expect him to answer this with a kick or punch of his own, but he doesn’t. And as the challenger wails on him my scowl quickly turns into worry. Is the man too hurt to fight back? Perhaps the last brawl took too much out of him? Better question, why the hell do I care?

Another kick lands dangerously close to his nether regions and I wince in sympathy. The challenger goes for another punch and I almost close my eyes in dread.

Good thing I didn’t because then I would have missed the man layout his opponent with three moves. Three moves! A fist-to-fist punch, a right hook, and a head butt. Seriously. The challenger falls with a loud thud and the bell sounds.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our winner and still champion, the Wolverine.”

Wolverine. An animal known as much for it’s strength as it is it’s bad temper and ferocity. A frightening creature to be sure.

How appropriate.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


An hour later, I was sitting at the bar, staring at the jar in front of me. Tipping is not a city in China. Well no shit, Sherlock. It’s one of my many pet peeves, people writing corny things on tip jars. I’m not stupid. If a see a jar full of coins and dollars, I’m gonna know it’s there for tipping. And if you’re a half-decent bartender, I’ll leave you something. I don’t need a damn sign reminding me.

“You want something else, honey?” The barkeep asks me and I jerk my head up. I hadn’t even realized he was there. “Or are you sticking with water?”

He pulls the jar as far away from me as possible and I almost drop my jaw in indignation. The urge to snap out a scathing comment is so great that I have to clench my jaw to keep from acting on it. It would do no good to get kicked out now, especially when I’ve yet to procure a ride.

Luckily, the Wolverine strides in from the back, providing a much needed distraction from the assumption-making asshole in front of me. He’s wearing a white ribbed tank, long sleeved flannel shirt, and a leather jacket that looks like it could be as old as I am. Barbarous cage fighter or not, it’s a crying shame to cover up that body.

I wish I could say that I played it cool, barely spared him a glance before going back to my glass of water. Alas, I’ve never been good at subtly. And, despite the fact that he scared the shit out of me in the fighting ring, my body cannot help but react to his current proximity and the pure virility that pours off him in waves.

It’s an urge left over from our pre-homo sapiens days. We see a male that oozes raw power, total dominance and it’s in our instincts as females to recognize a potential mate, one that could protect us and our offspring. I know all this. But that doesn’t mean wanting this man, this clearly dangerous man, doesn’t bother the crap out of me.

He catches me staring and locks those hazel eyes onto my deep brown ones. They’re deep and that’s something I didn’t expect. He doesn’t have the eyes of your typical brute. Hell, not even the eyes of your typical human.

His eyes are like a wolf’s. Confident. Measuring. Utterly primal.

I don’t even have to talk to this man to know that he’s like no one else I’ve ever met.

The newscaster’s announcement of a UN summit rips my attention from the Wolverine. I really should learn how to control my reactions better. But anytime the word mutant is spoken, I can’t help but focus in. I may have saved my parents by running, but I put myself in a hell of a lot of danger. A lone mutant girl, killer skin or not, is an easy target.

I flick my gaze back over to Wolverine, wondering if his reaction will give away his sentiments on the topic. People either run hot or cold with the “mutant problem.” They hate them or defend them, but no one sits on the fence. Not with this. But, of course, his eyes are as steeled as before and I can’t get a reading on him. When he looks back at me again, I wonder if I’m as painfully obvious about all this as I think I am. I hope not.

He puffs steadily on the cigar in his mouth and I can’t deny that, while I’ve never had a taste for the things myself, he makes it look sinfully delicious. The smoke wafts towards me and it actually smells good. Must be a different type of tobacco than the one used in cigarettes because I can’t stand the smell of those.

My eyes are torn from their study when I notice the fallen challenger approaching from behind him. Immediately, I go on alert. I’ve got great instincts. They’ve kept me alive these past five months on the road, always guided me to a safe ride. So when they tell me something’s about to happen, even if I’ve got nothing to prove it, I listen. And right now, they are sending up major red flags. I tensed and kept my attention focused on the approaching brute.

He tapped Wolverine, who didn’t look at all pleased at being disturbed, on the shoulder. “You owe me some money. No man takes a beating like that without a mark to show for it.”

He’d brought up an interesting point, one I’d considered once or twice myself. Wolverine, however, didn’t seem too concerned as he turned back to his beer. The brute didn’t seem pleased with this as he leaned forward, hissing softly enough that I could barely hear him. “I know what you are.”

Wolverine gave him a glare that would have sent me running out the door. “You lost your money. You keep this up you’ll lose something else.”

The brute turned to go and I thought it was a smart choice. Until I saw him reaching for something in his jacket pocket. I sucked in a sharp breath as he withdrew a switchblade and screamed a warning.

“Look out!”

What happened next was like something straight out of a science fiction action film. Wolverine spun around with a speed you only see in trained fighters. Seriously trained fighters. He backed the other guy into a wall and from his left fists shot three metal blades. Metal blades! Big ones too. Probably about a foot long. But before he could do anything else, the bartender had a shotgun pressed to his head and told him in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of his bar.

Suddenly, I was pissed.

All he’d done was defend himself and these people were treating him like the bad guy! I mean, sure, he had an obvious advantage, but he hadn’t actually skewered the asshole (not that I would have blamed him). But just because he was a mutant, he was the enemy.

Bullshit.

Wolverine snapped his other hand up and three more blades appeared, slicing the shotgun clean in half. I think the bartender pissed his pants.

His angry stare jumped back and forth between the two men before finally coming to rest on me. I don’t know what he saw in me, but whatever it was caused that anger to waver for just a moment. And then he sheathed those claws and stormed out of the bar.

It took me all of five seconds to realize he was the one I wanted to catch a ride with. Not because he was a mutant. Or because I was undeniably (and perhaps stupidly) attracted to him. But because whatever he saw in me had made him pause. I’d seen something in those wolf-like eyes as they’d flicked back and forth between his two adversaries. He could have killed them and slept just fine about it. Not because he wanted to, but because they’d put him in that situation and if they died, then it was their own fault. But when he looked at me… I can’t say for sure. I’m no telepath. But it was almost like he didn’t want me to see it, him killing them. As if that inconsequential fact somehow mattered a great deal.

So that’s why I was running after him, hauling ass as quickly as I could with a thirty-pound duffle bag in my arms. When he started the engine of his camper, I sprinted the last twenty feet and skidded to a halt by the driver side door. He was rubbing his knuckles when I appeared, but abruptly dropped his hands and stared at me. I motioned for him to roll down his window.

He didn’t.

I huffed and started talking anyways. “Look, I hate to bother you, but can I hitch a ride?”

Wolverine quirked an eyebrow at me before throwing the gear shift into drive. I widened my eyes as I realized he was going to leave me here. No way in hell.

Without even thinking, I dropped my bag and jumped in front of his car. He had to slam on the breaks to avoid hitting me. I know, I know. Not my smartest idea, but desperate times and all that jazz.

He glared at me and put the camper in reverse, but I just continued to follow his movements. There was only one way out of this parking lot and damned if I was going to let him pass through it without me. After a minute or so, once he realized there was no way around me, he threw the camper into park and stomped out towards me.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

There was annoyance in his eyes, but it was nothing close to the anger I’d seen earlier. And somehow, I just knew he wouldn’t hurt me.

“I told you. I need a ride.”

“Find another one,” he growled.

I scoffed. “With one of those assholes? Yeah, right. Not a chance in hell I’m getting in the same car as one of them.”

I must have shocked him because the annoyance gave way to intrigue. “And you figure I’m the safer bet?”

Nodding in response, I don’t offer an explanation. Mostly because I don’t have one. Common sense would dictate I stay as far away from the clawed cage fighter as possible. But my instincts demanded otherwise. And I just didn’t know how to explain that.

He stares at me a moment longer before walking back to his camper. I feel a sudden anxiety building in my chest. If he really refuses to give me a ride, I’ll be well and truly—

“You coming or what?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You don’t have anything to eat, do you?”

He grabs me some beef jerky from the glove compartment and I tear into it. Not usually my thing – way too tough – but I’m so hungry at this point that it doesn’t even matter.

We sit in silence for a while, but I’m a southern woman. There’s only so much of that I can handle. Especially without even the slightest bit of music to mask the awkwardness. Flipping my hood down to get a better view, I turn to him and introduce myself.

“I’m Rogue.”

Nothing but silence on his end, but I’m not giving up that easily. There’s nothing to talk about in the cabin of the truck, so I look at his clothes. ‘Nice flannel shirt you’ve got. Were you a lumber jack in a past life?’ ‘Do you have to use an entire bottle of hair gel to get your hair like that, or is just naturally crazy?’ Somehow I don’t think either of those would go over well, so I look closer and finally spot something of use. Dog tags!

My Uncle Joe was in the army a while back and he loves talking about it to anybody who’ll listen. He has all kinds of crazy stories and can go on for hours. I wonder if it’s the same for Wolverine.

“Were you in the army?” I ask, motioning to the tags. “Doesn’t that mean you were in the army?”

He doesn’t even look at me. Just tucks the tags into his shirt. Well, great. There goes that idea. This guy really isn’t a talker. And normally, I would just try to deal. Except I have all these questions I want to ask. But even I have more tact than to just jump right in.

I look back behind me and see the most pitiable camper set up ever. It’s got a ratty couch that must double for a bed, a sink, a stovetop, and clothes hanging from a rope on the ceiling. And it looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in at least a year.

“Are we sleeping back there?”

He finally looks at me. “What?”

I bite my lip, not wanting to offend him. “It’s fine if we are. I just… would you mind if I cleaned up a bit?”

I have serious issues with dirt. That’s been the hardest part about being a runaway. My mother kept an extremely neat and organized house. You don’t get much of that on the road.

“Who said you were staying the night?”

That freezes me for a second. “I thought Laughlin City was a good couple hundred miles from the next city. I mean, you’ve been up all night fighting. I didn’t figure you’d want to drive the whole thing in a day.”

He stares at me for a minute and I wish I knew what was going through his head. I can’t figure out why, but the idea of only getting a day with this man bothers me. I want to get to know him. How ridiculous is that? All I’ve wanted to do since I took off on this journey is get to Alaska as fast as I can. And now, I’ve thrown all that out the window because of some stupid curiosity. Hell, we might be going in the complete opposite direction.

Oh, shit.

“Where are we headed, by the way?”

“Whitehorse.”

I can’t help the smile on my face. “Really? Whitehorse?”

Wolverine looks at me kind of funny. “Yeah. Why?”

I shrug and rub my hands together to keep them from going numb. He doesn’t have the heat on and I’m wondering if that’s because it doesn’t work or because he doesn’t need it. Maybe that’s part of his mutation too.

“I’ve always wanted to see the aurora borealis,” I whisper.

And a part of me hopes Wolverine will be there with me. Stupid, I know. He’ll probably ditch me as soon as we arrive somewhere suitable, but even after all the crap that’s happened, I’m still a dreamer at heart. Pathetic.

I’m pulled from my thoughts as Wolverine flips on the heat (so it does work after all) and reaches for my hands. “Put your hands on the heater.”

I jerk away from him so quickly that I smack into the door. Careless, Marie. Utterly careless. I should know better. I should have put my gloves back on the second I stopped eating. I’d forgotten what I was for a moment, sitting there and imagining taking in the northern lights with someone by my side to enjoy the view. I’d gotten caught up in the dream and had nearly screwed up the reality.

It made me want to scream.

But I forced the urge back and quickly shoved on my gloves. No more mistakes.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, kid.”

Well, shit. Now he thought it was about him. “It’s nothing personal,” I quickly reassured. “It’s just…”

I hesitated. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about my mutation since I took off from Meridian. And to be honest, I wasn’t even really sure what it did, aside from knock people out and give me their memories. But looking at the man beside me, I knew he deserved the truth. After all, I’d seen his mutation. It was only fair.

“When people touch my skin, something happens.”

“What?”

I bit my lip and thought about how I should explain it before realizing I really couldn’t. “I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “They just get hurt.”

“Fair enough.”

I turned my attention back to him and couldn’t help but stare at his hands. They were strong and sure, the kind my best friend Abby would have loved to sketch. She’d always had an obsession with hands. Me, not so much. But his… well, anyone would be interested in those hands.

Finally, the curiosity won out and I had to ask. “When they come out, does it hurt?”

He swallowed hard, but kept his gaze firmly on the road. “Every time.”

I knew exactly how he felt. When my mutation had appeared, it’d hurt like a bitch. It was that, more than the onslaught of memories or temporarily overwhelming presence of David in my head, that made me want to never use it again.

I resisted the urge to reach out and touch him and instead offered the only comfort I could. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at me then and I could tell that he knew I was sincere. A softness crept into that gaze that hadn’t been there before.

“So what kind of a name is Rogue?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. What kind of a name is Wolverine?”

He tried to a hide a smile, but I could see the corners of lips twitching and I was glad it was because of me. “My name’s Logan.”

Well damn. That I hadn’t expected. And it left me with only one choice.

“Marie.”

I gave him a soft smile, which he halfway returned. I suspected for him, it was quite a lot.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It’d been dark for a few hours when we finally stopped. By that time, Logan and I had dispensed with the awkwardness. He still wasn’t much of a talker, but that was fine by me. We’d found something better to fill the silence. Johnny Cash, George Strait, Conway Twitty, and Clay Walker. Along with pretty much any other decent country artist.

Attractive, not twitchy about my mutation, and great taste in music?

I was in so over my head.

We pulled off into a small campground and I started puttering around the back, trying to clean up as best as I could. Logan heated canned chili on the stove and watched me with amusement. “You always been such a neat freak?”

I snorted and snapped a towel at him, which he deftly dodged. “Please. There is a difference between being a neat freak and not wanting to sleep in—what the hell is this?”

I held up something that might have been a large article of clothing at one point. But now it’d been reduced to rags with a strange sort of fuzz. Logan laughed and grabbed it from me before tossing it in the trash.

“Dinners ready, kid.”

He poured the chili into two bowls (and I tried really hard not to wonder when the last time they’d been thoroughly washed was) and I plopped down on one end of the couch.

“Will you stop with the kid business?” It was the fourth time he’d used the term and it was beginning to irk me. Endearment or not, I so did not want him thinking of me in that fashion. Not when I was thinking of him in a way that really did not become someone you’d call “kid.”

“You can’t be more than, what, thirty-five years old?”

He shrugged. “And what are you?”

I thought about that for a minute and realized I wasn’t sure. “Depends, what’s the date?”

“January twenty-first.”

I nodded my head with a bittersweet smile. “Then I guess I just turned eighteen.”

Logan looked at me from his spot leaning against the sink, bite of chili frozen halfway to his mouth. “When?”

“About ten days ago.” I laughed. “You know, I don’t even remember where I was? How crazy is that?”

Logan put his food down and studied me carefully. I, on the other hand, dug into mine, hoping he’d just leave it be. As if I’m that lucky.

“How long have you been on the road?”

“A little over five months I guess.”

He opened his mouth to ask something else, but I put a hand up to stop him. I had a feeling it’d be about why I ran and I just couldn’t handle talking about that yet. Hell, maybe I’d never be able to. “Please, Logan. Can we just drop it?”

He kept looking at me for a minute and then shook his head. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he mumbled.

And then he was gone.

I set my chili to the side, no longer hungry. Damnit.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Logan knocked the snow off his boots before stepping into the camper and plopping down next to me on the couch. He chewed on an unlit cigar, but didn’t look at me.

“What’s your plan, kid?”

“Marie,” I corrected.

He sighed, but acquiesced. “Fine. What’s your plan, Marie?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to see Anchorage, so I figured that was as good a place as any to start over.”

“And then what?” he asked, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “You don’t have any money, do you? No skills that’d help you survive out there.”

I bristled, not liking his implications. “I can take care of myself. I’ll make it work.” Somehow.

Logan finally looked at me and the disbelief was plain to see. “I should have left you back in Laughlin.”

Anger swelled and I jumped up, glaring at him. “Then why didn’t you? Hell, why even wait for Whitehorse? You can just let me out right here!”

I was out the door in two steps and quickly realized what an idiot I was. Damn temper. Just what the hell did I think I was going to do? Hitch a ride in the middle of the night on an abandoned highway?

But Logan had followed me out and quickly grabbed my arms, hauling me back inside. “Are you stupid or something? It’s ten degrees outside!”

“I know that,” I snapped. “But I’m not going to stay where I’m not welcome.”

My shivering body and common sense protested otherwise. Welcome or not, if I tried to rough it out there, I’d freeze to death. Even putting on every piece of clothing I had, it wouldn’t be enough.

Logan made a sound – it sounded like a growl, but that’d be just too weird – and quickly wrapped me up in a blanket. I made to protest, but realized that not only was I still cold, but I was covered up enough that there was almost no chance of skin contact. And the snow had quickly doused my temper with the reality of the situation.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Marie. I’m just no good at this, is all.”

“Good at what?”

He motioned between us. “This. Being with someone else.”

My heart sped up of it’s own accord. I knew what he meant (and it was most certainly not the ‘being’ I had in mind), but that didn’t stop my imagination from briefly running wild.

“Look, you’ll be a sitting duck on your own. No money, no job, no know-how of life out here.”

“Um, hello?” I wiggled my gloved fingers in front of his face. “Deadly skin. I think I’d survive.”

His eyes were serious when he stilled my fingers. “You don’t have to be touched by someone to be hurt by them.”

I quieted instantly, knowing he was right. “So what are you saying?”

He released my hand and sunk down on the couch, clamping the discarded cigar from earlier between his teeth and looking more pensive than I’d ever thought he could. “You come with me to Whitehorse and I’ll help you get set up. Learn the ropes, find a job, all that shit. So when the time comes, you can handle yourself.”

I sat there for a moment and just stared at my hands. “Why? Why do this for me?”

“Cause I gave you a ride. I got involved.”

He didn’t say it in a good way and suddenly I felt guilty. I’d just barged into this man’s life without thinking of the consequences. Somehow, I’d just never thought it’d escalate to this, that it’d ever be anything more than a ride. Guess I didn’t take into account the possibility that this man before me, this Canadian cage fighter, was one of those rare good guys.

“I’m sorry, Logan.”

He looked over at me and shrugged. “Don’t be. It’s no big deal.”

We both knew that was a lie. Because if the past few hours had taught me anything about Logan, it was that he didn’t normally form attachments. He never said what, but I got the feeling that some serious shit had gone down in his life. And it’d scarred him forever, left him less than whole and completely cut off from the world. It was probably safer for him that way, less painful. And I’d just ruined that.

Logan stood up and shoved the cigar back in his pocket. “It’s late. You can take the couch, I’ll sleep in the cab.”

I reached after him, wrapping my gloved hand around his knuckles. His eyes locked onto where I held his hand and I hoped he understood what I was trying to convey. That I trusted him. And what he was doing for me meant more than I’d ever be able to say.

“Please don’t. Stay back here with me. I don’t want to be alone.”

I didn’t. Not anymore. And Logan, well, he was starting to give me the idea that maybe I didn’t have to be. That maybe there was someone like me, someone who’d gotten the short end of the stick and had been forced into seclusion as a result. And maybe two people like that, two someone’s, well maybe they could heal together.

He nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll take the floor.”

I tried not to put too much thought into what I did next. Once again, I just followed my instincts. Lightening quick, I pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, where his mutton chops covered his face and protected him from my mutation. I could feel he was surprised, but he didn’t back away.

“Good night, Logan.”

Before he could say anything in response, I let go of his hand and quickly burrowed into the couch, keeping my back turned away from him. I didn’t want to see his response. At best, it’d be neutral. But at worst… well, let’s just say me knowing he was afraid of my mutation or appalled by my actions would do nothing for my self-esteem. Or pride.

It was another hour before he finally shut off the light. I was teetering back and forth between the waking world and the land of dreams. But I was still conscious enough that I heard him whisper “night, Marie,” and felt the gentle press of lips on top of my head.

I fell asleep with a contented smile and a heart lighter than it’d been in months.