Marie was woken by the sour tang of beer and cracked open one eye to peer blearily at the clock. Three am! No wonder she felt as though she’d only just closed her eyes.
She rolled onto her side and prepared to snuggle back under the covers when a soft movement from the chair by her bed had her jack-knifing upright with a shriek.
“Hey! Keep the noise down, darlin’. Some folks are tryin’ to sleep.”
She flicked on her bedside lamp with a shaking hand. “Logan? What are you doing? How’d you get into my room?”
“You really oughta keep your window shut.”
“I’m on the second floor. I didn’t think it would be a problem.” She shook her head as if to clear it and scowled. “Why are we even having this conversation? Would you just leave please?”
“When I’m ready,” he said, and her heart began to thump. He leaned forward in the chair and she brought her knees up to her chin under the covers, hugging them protectively. There was a time she wouldn’t have thought twice about Logan being in her room late at night, would even have welcomed the opportunity to be close to him. All that had changed now, and the look he was giving her was making her distinctly nervous.
“Did you have a purpose coming here or did you just feel like terrorising me again?” she snapped, and was satisfied when she saw his jaw tighten.
“I’m sorry about what happened before,” he muttered gruffly.
“Which time?” she responded, then before he had time to reply: “Have you been drinking?”
“We both know I’m not drunk.”
“Yeah, thank God for those healing powers huh? Doesn’t stop you smelling like a bar-room floor though.”
“When did you get so bitchy?”
“About the same time you got mean.”
Logan lowered his head, and the silence stretched out between them. Marie gave him one last glare then fell back onto her pillow, pulling the duvet up to her neck. She lay staring at the ceiling for some time, then risked a glance at the man sprawled beside her bed. He looked rough, more so than usual, his white T-shirt covered with an interesting variety of stains that made her wrinkle her nose.
“Is that blood on your shirt?” she asked, and he jerked his head up to meet her gaze.
“If it is it ain’t mine.”
“You been rolling about on a floor somewhere?”
“Maybe.” His smile was crooked, but so like the Logan she knew that she felt herself relax instinctively. There was little sign of the fierce predator about him tonight.
“So. You’ve been fighting.” It wasn’t a question: she could read the signs. He’d been wound as tightly as a spring the last time she’d seen him, but now he was sated and lethargic. Only two things could induce that in the Wolverine, and as he didn’t reek of cheap perfume she guessed he’d gone for door number two.
He shrugged, leaning his head back against the chair and sighing deeply. He looked weary, and she turned her head to the side to study him surreptitiously. Grubby denim jeans hugging muscular legs; wide leather belt with the familiar buckle of tarnished metal; a T-shirt just the right side of tight, his dog tags disappearing beneath the neck to nestle against his skin. Damn! Just looking at the man was inducing all kinds of wicked thoughts. Blinking, she forced herself to concentrate on the subtle signs of past violence on him. There was a jagged tear near the hem of his top, and the knees of his trousers were scuffed and dirty. Although the abrasions and torn knuckles had healed she felt she could almost see them.
Almost without thinking she stretched out her hand, her fingers hovering above the skin of his forearm where it rested loosely on his leg. His eyes were closed, his breathing regular, and licking her dry lips nervously she risked brushing her palm against his skin, tracing the outline of his muscles and the memory of bruises that had long disappeared.
“Don’t.”
She gasped at the taut command, snatching her hand away immediately, but one second too late. He grabbed her wrist, the heat of his palm seeming to burn the tender flesh, and then he was hauling her onto his lap in a flurry of white sheets and dark hair. Their bodies slammed together with delicious force, and while her brain screamed a warning, the rest of her welcomed the solid bulk of him beneath her.
“You needn’t think I’ve forgiven you,” she gasped as his hands slipped inside her nightgown. “It’ll take more than a few kisses to make me forget…whatever it was…that happened before…” Her voice trailed away into a moan, her head falling back to expose the long pale column of her throat, an invitation he was unable to resist.
“I’m so sorry Marie,” he whispered, his mouth muffled against her neck. “I think I went a little crazy earlier, just thinkin’ about you with another man…”
“You’ve got nothing to be jealous of, Logan,” she asserted, gripping his head tightly between her palms and looking down at him. This time she was determined that there should be no misunderstandings between them, no recriminations or blame attached to what they were about to do. “Nothing happened. I love you too much.”
He stilled beneath her, his body seeming to tense. “You shouldn’t say that Marie.”
“Because you don’t feel the same way?” It hurt her to say it, but she needed him to confirm it.
“I loved Jean.”
“I know. It doesn’t matter.” It almost killed her to speak the lie, but she managed to smile while she did so, hoping it would hide the incipient tears.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his hands trying to soothe away the hurt. She let them work their sensual magic, closing her eyes and mentally shrugging away all other concerns. Logan was a drug she couldn’t do without, and she was prepared to put up with a little hurt to experience the high. The pain in her heart only seemed to intensify the pleasure she was feeling now, and when Logan laid her on the bed and came down on top of her all rational thought ceased entirely.
***
He felt like shit. He also felt better than he ever had in his life before, and the paradox was confusing the hell out of him.
On the one hand he had Marie in his bed every night, and often several times during the day too. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Only today she had been forced to beg him to let her leave the mansion, playfully swatting his backside with her bag when he threatened to drag her off into a darkened corner again. She complained that she was becoming bow-legged, although her wide grin suggested she wasn’t that bothered about it. He’d laughingly offered to show her some different positions to ease the problem, and she’d said ‘later’. Just thinking about later was making him hard.
On the other hand he sensed the sadness that lurked beneath her happy façade, and knew that he was the cause of it. Sometimes he would catch her off guard and watch her visibly pull her smile into place, or wipe away a sneaky tear. In those moments he hated himself and the weakness that made him keep her. An honourable man would have let her go when he realised how she felt about him, knowing he didn’t return her feelings. Obviously he was not an honourable man, because he could as soon let go of Marie as fly to the moon.
It was worse than that, however. He knew that he couldn’t be held responsible for Marie’s initial feelings for him, but he was responsible for fostering them. Some part of him liked to hear her tell him that she loved him, especially when he was buried deep inside her, driving them both towards a desperate release. He liked it so much that sometimes her prolonged the agony for her, denying her a climax until the words spilled from her lips. He made her writhe and twist beneath him, forcing her into a state beyond lucidity, unaware that she was even speaking, every breathy moan of devotion he wrung from her a balm to his soul. Sometimes, afterwards, she would apologise, embarrassed by her outpouring of emotion, and he would cradle her against him and tell her it was okay, she couldn’t help it. He was such a fucking hypocrite.
Shrugging into his leather jacket he made his way down the hall, pausing briefly outside the room Jean had shared with Scott. Every time he passed the door he experienced a pang, remorse mixed with impotent fury that he’d been unable to save the woman he loved from herself. Today he paused, letting his thoughts dwell on Scott properly for the first time, his old rival, the butt of many a joke, a well-meaning, inoffensive man who had loved Jean with his last breath. The guy had been a car wreck after her disappearance, and compared to that raw grief Logan suddenly felt like a cheap fake. Why was he so hung up on a woman who had never really loved him? Sure, she had turned to him eventually, but only after Scott was gone, and what was left by that point bore little resemblance to the Jean Grey he had first met. That woman had chosen once, and she had chosen the other man. It had probably been the right decision.
How long would their relationship have lasted if she had lived? How long would he have been content to love her, knowing she didn’t return the emotion?
A chill settled in his gut as he silently answered his own question and realised the implications. He would never have been satisfied with less than everything: it wasn’t in his nature. Marie was less selfish than him, but eventually she would tire of it too, and then she would leave him. Just the thought of life without her made him curl his hands into fists, the urge to pop his claws and rip the room to pieces itching beneath his skin. Grief unlike anything he had experienced before threatened to overwhelm him, and she hadn’t even gone yet. He had to make sure she never did.
His heart hammering in his chest, Logan took the stairs three at a time and burst out the front door of the mansion, heading for the solemn plot in the rose garden where they had erected the memorials to Jean, Scott and Charles Xavier. He scattered a group of tiny first year students clustered near the tall stones, halting in front of the one that bore Jean’s name. He remembered the service they had held here in the aftermath of that final battle, and even then he had been aware of Marie’s presence in the throng of students and teachers, a comforting glow in the darkness that seemed to surround him. Looking back, he had taken every gesture of warmth and sympathy she had offered, and given nothing in return. He had been distant and surly, wrapped up in his own problems and uncaring of hers.
He stepped closer to the stone obelisk, reaching out with one hand to rest his palm against its smooth surface. It was surprisingly warm from the heat of the sun, reminding him of the flames that had wreathed Jean’s body as the Dark Phoenix took over. Bending his head, he closed his eyes and tried to visualise Jean’s face. For an instant it shimmered in his mind, beautiful and distant. He smiled once then stepped away, dropping his hand to his side. “Goodbye Jean,” he muttered, his voice a mere croak. Clearing his throat he said more clearly, “I did love you.”
Finally turning to leave he noticed Marie watching him from the shadow of the hedge. Her face was white as chalk, pain etched so clearly across her features that it made him miss a step.
“Hey, Marie!”
As he stepped towards her she fled, but he had come too far to lose her now. Every muscle in his body seemed to be shaking, but he ran after her, grabbing her round the waist as she struggled to escape, hauling her back against his body and cradling her there, his chin nuzzling into her neck.
“Put me down!” she sobbed, scratching at his forearms and kicking wildly before suddenly slumping in his grip. “Logan, let me go. I can’t do this anymore. I thought I could, but it hurts too much.”
He shook his head, willing to do anything for her except let her go. Normally he was so sure, so confident, but this was something he couldn’t fight in the usual way, and he was momentarily at a loss. Looking down he saw the scratches on his arms knit instantly, almost as if they had never been. Marie’s hurt was deeper, lurking beneath the skin, and would take longer to heal. He took a deep breath, knowing he had to get this right, that the rest of his life depended on it.
“I can fix that,” he told her, spinning her round and gripping her shoulders harshly, shaking her gently to emphasise his words. “Darlin’, look at me. I love you. I love you.”
The End
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