“Wake up.” She curled to a tighter ball in her sleep. She was aching all over and her head felt dizzy.
“Wake up, Rogue.” Rogue? Why on earth was somebody calling her rogue?
“My name is Marie…” She muttered, trying to bury her head under a pillow she found. She didn’t have the slightest idea of where she was, and at the moment she didn’t particularly care about it either. She was hurting, but somewhat warm and comfortable. Bed was soft, yet little prickly, she hadn’t gotten the straws soft enough after all, and she used so much time to flog them and it was all for nothing…
She woke up with a huge gasp. The executioner. She was in his bed. She was naked and in his bed. And he was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully clothed, holding a cup of water out for her. She took the cup and drank greedily, dismissing the stabbing pain that sliced through her head when too cold water scalded her throat.
“Feeling any better?” The executioner asked. She rubbed her eyes tiredly. Everything looked so hazy and distorted. There was something wrong.
“You have been sick for few days. This is the first time you woke up after I brought you up here.”
Up here? Oh, his bed… She started to stand up, tried to get out of the bed as fast as possible. She didn’t have any idea of where he had slept while she had been hogging his bed, but as from now on she was going to give it back to him. Her feet touched the floor and she pushed up only to fall down on her hands and knees when her legs weren’t strong enough to carry her weight.
“What are you doing? Stay in the bed! You’re sick!” The executioner growled picking her up and placing her back on the prickly mattress that currently felt like heaven for her.
“Sleep and get better. If you’re not better by the end of this week I’ll have to start looking for a new maid.”
Yes. He should. It was only practical. What ever was wrong with her, if it didn’t go away within few days, it most likely meant death. Death for her. But she didn’t want to let him down. He had taken her in even when he doubted her. He had treated her decently, had given her food and shelter, and had even defended her against Eliac.
“Don’t…”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t find a new maid… Not yet… I’ll get through this…”
“We’ll see about that. Sleep now, Marie.”
At the same night she was up and running. Well, not really running, but going on with meager, meaningless tasks the executioner appointed her to keep her from getting on his nerves with her fiddling and sighing. Every once and a while she had to sit down and catch her breath, her lungs rattling alarmingly. But she wasn’t going to give up. She wasn’t going to die. She was going to show to him, show to the executioner that she was worthy of his trust.
“Logan… Can I call you Logan?” She asked, leaning her head against the backrest of the chair she was sitting on, watching and listening when the executioner cleaned and sharpened his sword. He grunted his response silently under his breath.
“Excuse me?” She had to ask him to rephrase his answer.
“Wolverine. That’s what people usually call me.”
“But I like Logan…”
“My wife was the only person calling me Logan. Aside from her you’re the only person around here who knows that name. I’d prefer if you called me Wolverine.”
“Why Wolverine?” She asked. The executioner grimaced.
“That’s not a story for a proper lady…”
“And would I be here… If I were a proper lady?” She asked, her eyes closing from the sheer exhaustion.
“No. Probably not. For that you are right. You would have died in that cell long before I even met you. But that’s beside my point. The origin of that name isn’t… It isn’t a nice story. Not something to be proud of.”
“Why not?” She knew she was pushing him. But for some reason he didn’t seem to mind.
“It isn’t, trust me. Just forget about it. You can call me what you like,” he grunted, sheathing the sword and placing it on the wall.
“I like Logan… But since you don’t like me to call you that…”
“You should go to sleep. You need to rest after what you got through.”
“Wolverine… I’ll call you Wolverine if it makes you more comfortable…” She mumbled feeling her body sliding lower in the chair, nearly falling to the floor.
“Hey! Get back in to your bed. Right now.” The executioner was kneeling in front of her, his face just inches away from hers, her chin held up by his fingers. She blinked. And did the first thing that came to her mind. Leaned closer and placed a quick kiss to the tip of his nose. The executioner blinked as well, then shook his head.
“Go to your bed. You’re delirious.”
“Aww… Can’t I even show how grateful I am for taking me in?” She whined, suddenly very ashamed but unable to stop.
“I’m not expecting that kind of gratuity. Go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning,” the executioner said standing up and moving away from her. She started to get up, lost her balance and would have probably stumbled right in to the roaring flames in the fireplace if the executioner hadn’t stepped between her and the open mouth of the inferno, steadying her against his chest. And from her position she could feel the hard proof of how much her actions and words, no matter how delirious they had been, had affected to him.
His whole body was tense, front of his trousers a hard, throbbing ridge. The fire in his eyes rivaled with the one in the fireplace. Hands that held her against him were as much pulling her closer as they were trying to push her back in to the chair.
She landed on the chair, her back colliding with the backrest when the executioner finally found the willpower to let go of her shoulders. He shook his head.
“I brought you here to work. To earn your freedom. You’re not going to earn that in my bed.” She hung her head in shame. She had acted foolishly, and she ad no idea what had possessed her to threw herself at the executioner like she were one of the whores working at the tavern.
“Lets just forget that this ever happened. We both go to sleep, and maybe tomorrow things won’t be so… Complicated,” the executioner said, turning towards the stairs.
“I’m sorry…” Her whisper was barely audible, but he heard it.
“Don’t be. I was expecting this to happen. They do it every time. Sooner or later, when they got bored of working for their freedom. You lasted longer than anybody else before. And I trust this won’t happen again. Good night.”
She managed to drag herself on top of the fireplace. Again he had suggested that she was just after her own comfort, trying to get out of her duties by giving him something else in return. Was he right? Or was she just simply so tired and delirious that she had momentarily confused him to be somebody else entirely? For a short moment she had actually imagined that he was Carl. Could she blame that confusion for her actions? And why the hell couldn’t the executioner see that all she was really after was the possibility of a freedom after the year in his service was over? What exactly had Carl’s friends told him about her? And what kind of stories had they spun when Eliac had returned to the town with questions of his own? Eliac…
She crawled higher on the mattress and turned so that she could keep her eye on the front door. The executioner had promised to stay home at least this night, but could she trust him? What if he got called away and Eliac came back?
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