Title: The Victor

Chapter III: The Captive, 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…

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

When someone knocked on the door the next morning, October jumped, her eyes flying to Mr Creed's. She'd been avoiding his gaze all day, but the scent of arousal still lingered heavily around her. The thought made him grin and he remembered again the pressure of his claw threatening her nipple through the white satin of her dress.

Arousal, and sometimes irritation, but no fear.

It was an abnormal thing, to Creed's mind. Most likely an unhealthy one.

For her to be so fearless.

The person at the door knocked again. He shrugged and raised an eyebrow at her, flashing the tip of one fang at her as he gestured to the door with his chin. The message was clear: your game. She could almost feel his blood singing with anticipation, spoiling for a fight. Her abdomen tightened, and she flushed a little.

And almost melted with relief when she saw it was just Margo.

"Margo!" she spilled out in a rush. Not Dean, not the police. Thank god. "Come in—Mr Cree—uh, this is Margo Reuse, from work. Margo, this is my—friend, Mr—uh, Victor. He's—visiting—for a while." The words tumbled clumsily out of her mouth and she winced, chewing her lip. She could see Mr Creed grinning, his canines gleaming, clearly amused at her expense. Toby scowled and looked to her friend, ushering her into the apartment. Margo was tall and thin, glamorous-looking. Her red hair was scintillating and voluminous, always sleek. Toby tugged on her own tangled locks ruefully, then said, "Hey, you want some water?"

Margo grinned like a cat and strolled in, dropping her bag dramatically. "Water's great, but first say hi, wouldn't you?" She drew October into a hug, tucking the smaller woman's head under her chin. "We've missed you at the office, 'Tober."

Toby smiled wryly and disentangled herself from Margo, turning toward the kitchen with a mild, "I missed you too." She knew without looking that Margo would be prowling toward Mr Creed now, and sent a smile prayer to whomever was listening that the giant mutant wouldn't take a bite out of Margo's throat. The redheadhad glamour and grace, though—and a feline quality that many men found seductive. In many ways, she might be the perfect match for Victor Creed, a vixen and a sabretooth tiger.

Sure enough, when Toby turned back, Margo wasn't even trying to hide the fact that she was sizing Mr Creed up. "Pleased to meet you," the redhead murmured after a long moment, holding out one hand to him. His brow furrowed and Toby stifled a chuckle. She'd never tell him, but she'd learn to read his look of confusion. She smiled when he reached out and clamped his hand over Margo's with enough pressure to be a threat. Of course, it was Margo. The woman just looked inordinately pleased with herself and vaguely intrigued.

Pleasantries over, she whirled back to Toby. "'Tober, why the hell did you leave us high and dry in the middle of a case? Jocelyn said you were taking an almost-unlimited amount of time off."

October gestured to the table, which was piled high with files again. Her wrist was bruised and aching from where he'd torn the bracelet off her the night before, and she was glad she was wearing a wrap on it now, so Margo couldn't see—though doubtless the redhead would have only raise a knowing eyebrow and smirk.

Mr Creed was another story. His eyes had widened—just a little, just a fraction—then narrowed again when he'd seen her wrist that morning. He'd watched her, implacable, while she'd wrapped it. Toby didn't think he knew what to make of it. She imagined that he liked his bruises to be deliberate, and that it might grate on him a little—that he had accidentally marked her.

His threats had angered her. She'd felt a frisson of fear at the time, but it had been quickly forgotten between her own rage and – then – the slow burn of her arousal. She frowned a little at the memory. His strength, the memory of his knee rubbing between her legs, sent shivers down her spine even now. She hunched her shoulders to ward against a shudder of desire, and saw his eyes flick toward her with something like surprise, followed by smugness. How did he always seem to know?

Nonetheless, her bracelet—that had been prized. Irreplaceable. Currently the charms and broken chain lay broken in a bowl on her dresser, and thinking of it alone made her lungs clench painfully in her chest, effectively quelling all desire.

Bastard, she thought, and scowled, but her heart wasn't in it.

"Sit down, Margo," she offered instead, with a small smile for her friend. "Look—something came up. I couldn't help it, and I am sorry. But I'm happy to help you out, from here. And I am so glad you came."

Margo glowered. Mr Creed popped open a beer and watched her from his place at the counter, and Toby found herself acutely aware of his eyes on them. Warmth pooled in her belly and she fought back a wave of irritation at herself.

"You haven't answered any of my calls, 'Tober," Margo complained, but Toby could tell it was half-playful.

Nevertheless, she flushed and bit her lip. What was she supposed to say? Some gigantic asshole ripped my phone out of the wall. At the time, the action had infuriated her, but she'd be lying if she said the memory didn't fill her with a slow ache now.

And there was something else in him—the startled widening and narrowing of his eyes, the bitter slant of his humor—that made her soften toward him. If she were permitted, she would want nothing more than to pull his head toward her throat and breast, just cradle him there, stroke the rasping fur at his jaw. When she wasn't wanting to jump his bones, she acknowledged ruefully, then everything in her wanted to try to soothe him. He was angry all the time, and she had a feeling that his rage was tangled intimately with pain.

"My phone….broke," she said after a moment, and sounded embarrassed even to herself. She could see Mr Creed's fanged grin from the corner of her eye, and forced herself not to look.

"Hey," Margo said, dropping her voice to a whisper as Mr Creed suddenly turned walked into the living room. Toby bit her lip, certain he could still hear the low murmur. "I don't blame you for wanting to take time off with tall, dark, and godlike over there—hell, I'd probably disconnect my phone if I had a giant like that in my bed too—"

"Margo!"

"—but we need you."

"You don't need me, Margo," October said quietly. "Most of you have a hell of a lot more training than I do. You know more than I do. I haven't even gone to college."

"Maybe not," the redhead conceded, "but you have a way of fitting pieces together. You're able to step back and to see patterns." She paused, and looked a little apologetic. "And you're a smartass. Vicious in the courtroom." Margo hesitated. "'Tober…it's Mendohls."

October could feel the blood run out of her face. The room swam and she leaned toward the table, gripped the edge of it. She heard Margo say something and waved her off. A brief wave of nausea swept through her and she dropped to a crouch, trying to lower her center of gravity. Her fingers still clung to the table.

Stop, she commanded herself fiercely. Some rational part of her mind noted that she was being unfair to herself: she was exhausted, and stressed, and had a murderer living in her home. She'd fought with Dean the night before and nearly been struck by him; she'd perhaps almost gotten herself killed by Mr Creed before nearly orgasming on his leg, and she'd lost her bracelet. She'd been at the end of her rope for days and maybe it was okay, for just a moment, to feel like she was going to fall apart.

She pressed her forehead to the edge of the table and breathed deeply. Because no, October Morgan did not fall apart.

She felt Margo's hand on her shoulder, an action that others might have seen as surprisingly gentle—but Toby knew Margo, knew how soft she could be. She breathed in again and exhaled, willing the muscles in her face to slacken, her brow to uncrease. Then she rose shakily, and offered a sunny smile.

"Okay," she said brightly. "Run me through what we've got so far, and I'll give you what I can."

Margo looked at her, dismayed, but didn't press. Toby felt her smile shift, trying to shape itself into something more reassuring for her friend, when she glimpsed Mr Creed coming back into view. Perhaps the brief silence had made him curious. He leaned in the door, staring at her hard. Her eyes locked with his, and her smile trembled. His gaze was piercing and ominous.

It steadied her. She sucked in another breath, still holding his gaze. She found herself thinking, with dry humor, that living with Victor Creed should put some things in perspective. What could you fear but him?

But something lower than that, something beneath the surface, urged in a quiet voice that the relief she felt—meeting his burning and unwavering stare—had nothing to do with fear.

Victor Creed could hold onto anything.

He was used to weakness, to tearfulness, to panic. Seeing her in pain, seeing her vulnerable—it would be nothing to him.

That was liberating.

Her smile came easier and she laughed in spite of herself. "I'm sorry, Margo," she said warmly, her eyes shifting back to her friend. The redhead's eyes were miserable and aching. Toby lifted a hand and patted Margo's cheek gently, affectionately. "I'm fine, really. Go on," October repeated, "run me through the case."

Margo blew a breath out between her lips, and the sadness in her eyes eased a little in the face of October's reassurance. "It's the Bobby Roman case," Margo said. "You remember. Frederick Mendohls is currently fighting for the 'parental rights.'" Margo sneered over the term, but her words were flowing more easily now, and October knew the slight crack in her façade had been forgotten. "Mendohls is being paid by the FoH, though the Roman family doesn't have any specific ties to them. I'm not sure, at this point, if the Romans reached out the the FoH or vice versa."

Mr Creed's alert, calculating eyes were bouncing back and forth between the two women. Octobe tried not to notice.

"So, you know the basics: the family is trying to force the kid to take the Cure; Bobby doesn't want to. And you know our stance: forcing medication on an individual is illegal and unethical. What you don't know—since you haven't been around" —here Margo eyed October meaningfully— "is that Mendohls is stating that since the kid is a minor, it's the Roman parents who have the rights here; that is: Bobby's just a child and his parents are responsible for him. We imagine his closing argument will argue that if your kid has cancer but doesn't want chemo, do you just acquiesce to his wishes? It's kind of the theme he's been trying to communicate with all his shitty questions so far." Margo rolled her eyes. "Comparing mutations like this to mutating cancer cells—fuck Mendohls. But you know how he is," Margo added, and then looked like she wished she'd never said the words.

"Yup," October said mildly, letting a smile twitch on her mouth. "Sure do." She sat down at the table and steepled her fingers, pressing them to her lips and chin. "So—you've exhausted the ethics of medicating someone against their will, I assume. And the kid is filing for emancipation based on those grounds?"

Margo nodded, and Toby scowled, then gestured broadly. "I mean, really, it's child abuse in its own way, right?"

Margo blinked. "What?"

"Well, this idea that parents can just decide what they want a kid to be, and then try to force it on them."

Margo frowned. "Well, you might think so, 'Tober. I know you took that kind of approach with the girls—that, sort of, helping them explore their options and possible outcomes, letting them choose their own path."

October looked back at her patiently, ignoring the impulse to flinch.

"But most people, you know, they just—that's what parenting is. The whole idea of it is to, well, shape your kids to your will. Teach them to be like you want—"

"Teach them," Toby interrupted gently. "I mean, that's the difference."

Margo frowned. "I don't—"

"Teaching is mental, emotional. Abuse in that sense is harder to prove. But physically altering your child so they can be what you want—again, physically? It might be hard to prove in the case of little kids being compelled by Mommy and Daddy to, like, fit some ridiculous social standard—you know, like all the babies in those beauty pageants or whatever, or kids in show biz. But this is a young man who's nearly of age, actively saying he does not want the procedure they're trying to force on him."

Margo blinked and sat heavily in the opposite chair. "Excuse me?"

October laid her hands flat on the table, tracing invisible patterns on the rough wood. "My books are in the office, but you should look in Federal Law and the Child's Rights. There are a few cases cited that you can use. One in the early nineties—this kid's mom decided that she didn't want her child to be left-handed. So she tied the kid's hand behind her back every day for almost ten years—she was homeschooled, so almost no-one knew—till the kid told an admissions counselor in college that she was ambidextrous because of it. Keep in mind, the mom was still regularly tying back the kid's hand, right? Well, the admissions counselor—who happened to be a lefty herself—informed a social worker, because the girl was still a minor. Sixteen or seventeen, I think. They ended up taking the mom to court and trying her for the mental abuse of a child—she'd never left any marks or bruises, but you know as well as I that abuse manifests in a hundred different ways. The mom claimed she was only doing it to protect her child from an affliction, and the social pressures that went with it—or something like that—but they ended up siding with the child's rights and taking the mom out of the picture. Turned out there was another, younger brother, also a lefty, who she was doing the same thing to, for seven years. The parents were previously divorced, and the dad ended up raising the kids on his own. They're both well-adjusted adults now with families of their own, though they both still concede that their mother's beliefs had traumatic effects on their initial development."

October shrugged. "It seems crazy, but it's actually not a rare thing. My grandmother's stepfather used to do the same thing to her. The point is, there are tons of parents out there who think they're doing the best thing they can for their kids when there's nothing really wrong in the first place. Anyway, there are other cases in my books that you can probably use, too. You might wanna check out Children, Sex, and Law on my shelf—the volume by James Benedict. I don't know if they'd work as well, but there are lots of cases in the third section that are similar: parents thinking they're helping their children by approving certain medical procedures regarding intersex children or kids with enlarged organs, and really, the procedures end up being problematic. Some are devastating. Same book, fourth section: numerous parents and family members who beat their kids to death in attempt—so they say—to make them more masculine or feminine, or change their sexual orientation. It's fucking tragic."

There was a ferocity in her voice now, and some part of her was dimly aware that Margo was leaning back and looking pleased, and that Mr Creed was staring intently from the doorway. She wondered—vaguely, almost disconnectedly—how this all sounded to him. Did he think she was wasting her time? Was he amused by her increasingly-feverish rant?

Did any part of him resonate with the fear of a child whose parents had tried to make him into something he wasn't?

She gnawed at her lip. "Some of these might not sway the jury, or even turn some of them away," she cautioned. "But the transcripts could provide you with some great stuff for closing arguments The important thing, I think, is going to be covincing the jury that Bobby's mutation is not an affliction. It's not cancer. It's not going to kill him. There's nothing wrong with him, and he likes the way he is." Toby nodded to herself. "If you can successfully make that argument, then you can knock Mendohl's feet right out from under him.Once that's accomplished, it will be so much easier to argue for Bobby's rights: trying to take his mutation from him—especially when he wants it—is the same as a gross misuse of power and akin to child abuse."

October paused, and eyed her best friend meaningfully. "You already thought of all this though, didn't you?"

A slow smile curved Margo's mouth. "Not all of it."

October sighed, and then rolled her eyes, and then burst into laughter. "Fuck you, Margo. If you were worried, you could've just asked if I was okay."

"Oh, right. Because you always respond so truthfully to that question." Margo shook her head and grinned. "You sure you can't be there next Friday, 'Tober? It'll shake Mendohls up to see you again. Rattle him a bit."

October cast a glance at Mr Creed, who raised an eyebrow lazily and took a swig of his beer.

"I don't think so," she said at last, trying not to sound regretful. "I'll let you know if anything changes, though."

Margo grinned. "Bobby Roman really wants to meet you. He didn't believe me when I said his case was going to be won by October Morgan."

Toby gnawed at her lip, untangling a lock of hair with her fingers. "You shouldn't have said that, Margo," she said at last. "If the case wins, it's as much your work as mine—in this case, moreso. Especially now that I've bailed on you for the last week. And what if we don't win?" She frowned and looked up. "You can't promise shit like that," she said firmly.

Margo rose, slinging her huge turquoise handbag over one slim shoulder. "Oh, we'll win, 'Tober. You better believe it. And I know you—if we don't win this case, you'll dig in your heels and find ways to delay the administration of the Cure till he hits eighteen. It's only two years away."

October shook her head, sighed, and grinned a little in spite of herself. The actions had become so repetitive as to be habit at this point. "I hope you're right."

The redhead tossed her hair back saucily. "I'm always right, kid. Look. You—ah—have fun on your vacation. Nice to meet you, Vic," she added, directing the last bit toward the man on the couch. He lifted his empty beer bottle in silent reply as October leaned against the doorframe and watched her friend till she left.

With a sigh, she quietly closed the heavy door and leaned back on it, rubbing her temples. Vic. She'd forgotten she'd introduced him by his first name. When she opened her eyes, the man in question had eased his way into the kitchen, must closer than she'd realized.

He lifted an eyebrow measuringly. She waited for his comment, but the silence stretched.

Then: "You really take this shit seriously, huh?"

She hesitated, shifted, and then moved passed him and through the apartment to sit delicately on the couch, one leg bent beneath her. She fiddled with the wrap on her wrist and squashed her nerves. She'd never forgotten his presence—even with Margo there, distracted her, she'd all too keenly felt him in the apartment. Now, alone with him again, she became hyperaware. When he sat down on the couch beside her, causing the cushions to cave toward him, her breathing hitched and she glanced up at him. The lazy gleam in his eye—playfully predatory, almost malicious—made her feel like he could see right through her. She wondered if he'd known she'd been hot and bothered all since last night.

"I like kids," she said after a moment. "Not enough of them have someone looking out for them."

Something flickered in his face. She couldn't identify it, and it was gone too quickly for her to say what had changed. His mouth went hard then, and his eyes, and he frowned.

"What?" she asked softly.

There was a long silence. She imagined he was unused to anyone noticing the swift, almost invisible shifts in his expression. She imagined for too long he had been considered nothing but a murderous, terrifying monster, and that he might hate it and find it comforting at the same time – and then hate the unfamiliar sense of comfort. Every time she asked, she was unsure whether he would kill her or kiss her.

She didn't care which. She was happier than she'd been in a while. Or at least—more content.

She knew his threats, his physical presence, the way he handled her – at least right now, since she hadn't given him permission to do so – yet – were dangerous. Risky. But death had meant nothing to her for a long time, and when she was with him, she felt as though – for just a moment – she could rest.

Inexplicably, she felt safer with him than she had ever felt in her life.

"What?" she said again, very tenderly.

Creed's jaw clenched. The muscle at the hinge jumped. There was no way, of course, that he could tell her – no way she could know. He couldn't put it into words, wouldn't even if he'd been able to. But – if.

If she had been around when he was a kid, he knew she would have stuck by him, thick and thin. No turning him away. No running off, like Jimmy had. She was tough, and she was—weirdly loyal. If there had been an October Morgan in any one of the villages and settlements he and Jimmy stopped at—he paused, trying to remember how he'd acted and felt when he was a kid. He was a tough little bastard, looking out for his surprisingly fragile little brother: them against the world.

He thought of the village where he'd kissed Mary—the first and one of the only times he'd kissed a woman. Even there, they'd been hard-pressed to find someone to take them in. An older couple had let them live in the barn in exchange for a shit-ton of hard labor. When they'd realized how strong Victor was, they'd taken advantage, and used his love for his little brother to keep him in line. When he'd met Mary, with her coy glances and flirtatious gestures, he'd finished his work in half the time and snuck out to see her at the river. Three clandestine visits later, he'd kissed her, and it had gone downhill from there.

He'd gotten Jimmy safe by forcing him into an abandoned fox burrow, and then leading the villagers away. They caught him, and for a while were fascinated and frightened by his regenerative capabilities, trying to find the thing that couldn't grow back. He'd had shovels taken to his face; he'd been burned with torches, shot in the chest, left out on a stake for days at a time till he was savage with hunger. At one point, they tried throwing holy water in his face, as though it would melt his skin off. Instead, he'd lapped eagerly at the blessed liquid on his face, his cracked lips and parched mouth grateful for the fluid. At that time, his tongue had been swollen and black—

But he hadn't died.

When he finally passed out and they were sure he was no longer a danger, they threw him in a sack weighed down with rocks and tossed him in the river. When he woke andfought his way free, he was gaunt and pale and naked, but he'd smelled his way back to Jimmy first, knowing his little brother was probably sick and cold and hungry. Once he had the kid secured, he'd taken down a deer, and they'd feasted on raw meat that night.

Three villages later, he'd killed his first man, when the bastard had started to beat Jimmy. His little brother couldn't do the same kind of hard labor that Victor could, and—at the time—had no healing factor. His regenerative abilities hadn't shown up till two years later, when the kid hit thirteen. The shit-faced Canadian redneck had taken the business end of a hoe to Jimmy, and Creed had gone berserk, ripping the man to pieces. They'd run out into the night. Nowadays, it grated on his nerves that it had been Jimmy who killed first—never mind that it was their own father—but Creed assuaged himself with the knowledge that he was still the better and more ruthless hunter.

But if there had been an October Morgan there—in the village with Mary, or the settlement with the bastard who hit his brother—if it had been October Morgan in the very first Canadian village, fighting with Thomas Logan and telling him he had no right to rip his son's teeth out with pliers—it would have been entirely different. Creed had no doubt October would have taken them in, as improper as it might have been considering the era, and made a bed for them by the fire. If Creed remembered his fourteen-year-old self well—and he was certain he did—he knew he would have never glanced sideways at Mary, had the Morgan frail been around. At the time, he had been emotionally weak, and starved for the kind of beauty that was October: namely, her limitless kindness and generosity. Though he recognized it now as a weakness and a flaw, at the time he would have been entranced, and utterly devoted to her for the benevolence he'd never known in his fourteen years. He would have kept the three of them living in fresh meat for the rest of her life, and maybe when he reached maturity he would have tried to kiss her, even though she'd be older than him.

And even if she had been scared by his clumsiness and the ease with which his teeth made her bleed, even if she thought he was just a young stupid kid, she would have been kind. She wouldn't have screamed or clawed him or let the villagers tie him to a stake in the middle of the settlement. In fact, had they tried, she would have fought them every step of the way.

He wouldn't say that he would have ended up anywhere but here, assassinating random targets and raping women and breaking laws. But for a time, things might have been brighter. Maybe he could have done better by Jimmy. Maybe—

He knew he wanted her. Knew that, someday soon, he was going to make her plead to have him inside her, beg for it. He wanted her spending sleepless nights wishing for him between her thighs. Touching herself. She'd be so caught up in fear and desire she'd be begging for mercy from him, and she wouldn't even know whether she wanted death, or something harder.

It disconcerted him, threw him off, and he hated that. At the same time, he wanted to hold onto it and not let it go.

And he blamed her for it.

With that thought in mind, he lunged.

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October gasped at his sudden attack but didn't move, and the impact never came. Instead, when she opened her eyes, it was the soft fur of his 'chops scraping lightly against her neck, his open mouth just resting heavily against the muscle that joined her shoulder and throat. Utterly still, she felt him inhale, as though he were swallowing the very air around her. His tongue never touched her; his teeth only bumped against her skin bluntly, but she was glad she was sitting because her knees were suddenly shaky and weak. Warmth pooled through her.

This is the reason I don't fear him, she thought suddenly.

He slammed his arm on the other side of her head, belying her thoughts and making her jump. He was almost covering her with his large body, surrounding her, and all she could see and breathe and smell was him.

The fur on his jaw scraped her throat. She felt him pause – a hesitation? – and then he licked her from collarbone to chin in one long stroke like a cat.

She didn't know she'd whimpered until she heard herself. She could feel him grin against her throat, pressing his teeth to her skin, and trembled at the contact. She wanted him—yes—she might even like him—for his sharp, shrewd humor, for the enjoyment of his company in some moment, the mystery of his brief and flickering expressions, his hidden stories. For just a moment, there was a frisson of apprehension, of fear. Of anticipation.

She heard him chuckle. "Scared?" he breathed against her throat, his voice husky and mocking all at once. It was like he could read her mind, and she wondered briefly if that was another of his mutant abilities.

She tilted her chin defiantly, and was proud of herself for not squeaking when more of his 'chops came into contact with her tender flesh. "Not even nearly," she stated, and was relieved that her voice didn't tremble. She wondered what he would say if she blurted out that she wanted to fuck him. She imagined his startled withdrawal, his angrily-bared canines, the rasping growl of It's me who does the fucking around here, little frail. The thought only made her muscles coil tighter.

He snickered darkly, and nipped at her and she thought he might draw blood; instead, he drew the soft skin into his mouth and worried it with his teeth. She gasped, her abdomen coiling tightly. She could feel, suddenly, her panties grow damp. Her clit buzzed.

"Little liar," he purred. "You should be scared."

Her mind fogged over, a moment of relief: no bracelet, no court case, no worries about being taken from her empty, dilapidated home. She wanted to stay in his arms, let him play with her – but she wasn't ready yet. He wasn't ready yet. She shook her head, trying to clear it, and pulled away. He grinned wider at her, head lowered, eyes glinting, and chuckled when she bumped into the huge arm he had caging her in on the other side. She felt like a little rabbit, too flustered to know where she was going. She mewled in spite of herself, clenching her thighs together tightly, trying to ease the ache.

"For now," he chuckled, lifting his arm in a gesture that was intended to let her escape. She didn't move. "We have plenty of time, after all, frail."

She chewed her lip and stared up at him with large, dark eyes. He meant, of course, to hunt her, to take his pleasure from her. She wondered how hard it would be for him if and when he realized that she would essentially be doing the same.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

On Saturday, Creed had visited McQuay at his home—"to sound him out," he'd had smirked at the Morgan frail. McQuay had sulked and brooded the entire time, staring moodily about and answering questions with singular words as often as possible. It was annoying, and not as fun as Creed had expected. Still, he'd walked away reassured of the little man's cooperation.

That night, October woke up to the sounds of him thrashing down the hall. When he roared deafeningly and things fell silent, she assumed he'd woken himself up from his nightmares. Having learned earlier that week that he didn't like to think she knew about them, she said nothing, just as she had remained silent the last three times she'd woken to the sounds of his ghosts.

Sunday passed uneventfully. Victor watched October read to the children at the library and noted that McQuay was not in the audience this time. She asked, with one of those kilowatt smiles, if she could take him out to lunch, and he realized suddenly that she must be running out of hot pockets and cereal. He agreed and ordered a variety of meats for his own meal: bacon, sausage, ham, breakfast steak—thank you very much. She watched with wide eyes as he downed every bite with fangs he deliberately flashed at her, grinning mockingly when the scent of her arousal spiked.

He dragged her to the store while he got more meat and beer for the fridge. Tentatively, she asked how he never seemed to be drunk, and he explained his healing factor a little more clearly: how it didn't allow him to get high, get drunk, get addicted. Between his inability to turn off reality and his complete lack of scar tissue, the healing factor could be as much of a curse as a blessing, and he supposed lesser men than him would have been driven crazy by it.

She was curious about him, but less invested in his mutation than he might have expected. She never seemed interested in what—if anything—could hurt him, or how strong he was, or how his claws were so easily extended and retracted. Nor his fangs, or his animalistic tendencies, or his longing for bloody meat. She asked, instead, what he liked, what he didn't, what stories he was willing to share.

Mostly he chose stories deliberately designed to scare her—like the time when he and Jimmy had been found out and staked out in front of a firing squad but hadn't died. The time Creed had decided he didn't like the squadron leader and had reached into the man's soft belly to pull out a handful of slithering intestines, and how the idiot had squealed and slobbered like a pig. One time a drunk man in a bar had thrown a punch at Jimmy for hitting on his girl, and though Jimmy had long since learned how to take care of himself, brotherly instinct had Creed catching the man's wrist and pressing a clawed thumb so sharply between the wristbones that the fist had popped right off the arm in a spray of blood and splintered bone. That had been a good one. The men in the bar were stunned and screaming.

Sometimes this storytelling tactic worked, especially if Creed managed to get just the right tone of satisfaction, nostalgia, and blatant threat in his voice and his gestures. October's fear would spike, her heartrate would accelerate, and she'd be jumpy and edgy—for a while at least—which served Creed's purposes just fine.

Other times, the Morgan frail just looked fascinated. He realized quickly that while she might fear his violence, such fear was fleeting. His threats seemed, if not powerless, then something like a game to her. More than once he'd brooded on the idea of making good on those threats, but something always interfered. And she hadn't, as of yet, taken any real action against him after all. He supposed, if it kept her smelling rich and aroused, he could see how this would play out. Certainly there was no reason he couldn't change his mind later, after all – hurt her when she least expected it.

It was strange, though. Unfamiliar, how she was more impressed by his intelligence and sardonic wit than his ability to tear someone's throat out. When she listened to him at these times, she got the same look she'd had on her face the night he'd bit his palm and she'd brushed her soft fingers over the skin, completely wrapped up in the idea of him.

Creed wasn't sure if he liked it or not. He often relied on people underestimating him, thinking he was stupid muscle, and clearly, the Morgan frail was not fooled.

Still, it gave him some sort of pause: knowing how intrigued she was, by him. That she concerned herself—with him. He wondered if it was just because she knew she'd die if he wasn't happy with her. She was always tentative in her actions and touches, even before the night he'd broken her bracelet and pressed her body between himself and the wall.

He liked it that way. Mostly. It made him feel powerful, and in-control. He liked that she was apprehensive of him, and aroused too—that she was tentative to touch him, but seemed to want it so badly that she couldn't help herself. Nevertheless—and it made his jaw clench to think of it—nevertheless, there was also a part of him that remembered the way she'd reached for his jaw in one of those first few, unguarded moments, before he'd threatened to bite her fingers off. Usually when people reached willingly for his face, it was an attempt to strike him. She'd stroked though—leisurely, sweetly, her fingers lightly combing through his fur so gently that he almost couldn't feel her.

He wondered if she would touch him that way again, if he gave her permission. He imagined her cradled in the nest of furs and velvets on his bed, unbruised—just yet, anyway—her fingers curled in the blankets where he'd told her to keep them. Or better yet, between her pretty thighs.

Touching her folds, stroking her clit feverishly, he wondered if she would beg him to let her touch him, to feel his skin and the soft scrape of his hair against her.

Of course, it was only in his imagination. She might want him, but once in his bed—well, he wasn't given to gentleness. She was lucky, in fact, that he was hoping just to keep her alive.

Hoping. Not even planning.

Still, that she was always turning inquisitive eyes up on him when he mentioned something about himself—it was a fucking turn-on. If he was honest, it was even more of a rush than getting a new assignment—he was the best at what he did, but people with money would always find someone to do the job, even if it was subpar. Something about her dark, still gaze though—focused only on him—made him feel important.

It made him want to fuck her even more. Harder. Faster, Longer. Make her bleed, make her cry, make her come. Make her beg. For him, or for death.

At the store, he ordered her to get whatever she needed, too. Demurely, she'd stocked up on a couple boxes of cereal, a gallon of milk, some hot pockets and then—splurging—a dozen tiny cartons of flavored yogurt.

"Don't you eat anything else?" he'd asked. Surely that birdlike appetite wasn't healthy for even a normal human frail.

She shrugged. "I learned not to eat much, growing up. Keep my expenses slim." That scintillating smile he hated. "I was saving money for other things."

He thought about keeping her after the mission was over. Taking her with him, making her his. Feeding her real food—sushi and liquer sorbetto. Getting her buzzed and seeing what she was like when drunk. He imagined her giddy and silly and overly affectionate, those ridiculously tender and generous touches at his jaw. Maybe against his throat, or the skin of his arms and chest. The thought made his blood run hot. She was already curvy, like he liked, but he'd make her even moreso, and then take his pleasure at her softness. Parting her plump thighs, sinking in. Maybe she'd even wrap them around his hips, pull him in deeper.

Fuck. He'd fatten her up like a sweet piece of meat before enjoying the meal.

He was leaning against the counter, lingering on these fantasies and watching her sway as she popped in a movie and asked him to sit with her. He turned her down without a word, inclining his head and looking away, but keeping an eye on her through the corner of his gaze. Regardless of how much he wanted to fuck her till she cried, he didn't like not being able to figure her out. Not being able to figure himself out. Not being able to clearly evaluate her obscene generosity, what she intended to gain by it.

She curled up on the couch, nestled in ragged fleece blankets, her sweatshirt swooping off one sloped shoulder, bare in the lamplight and waiting for his mouth.

Again, he imagined her naked, wrapped in something more luxurious. Wrapped around him.

"You do know I'm not letting you go after this," he stated after a few minutes. He managed to keep his voice cold, predatory. "I'll kill you first."

She didn't even take her eyes off the TV, but a small curl of mirth twitched the corner of her mouth. "I do."

He growled. Did she have so little concern? Did she expect him to be merciful? Did she just not care? Silently, he raged against her quiet certainty and confidence, smoldering in his fury as he stood and watched her.

She fell asleep halfway through the movie—again. He wondered if she'd ever seen the ending of any of them. He flicked off the TV and found himself reaching for her—perched like that, asleep sitting up with her chin folded down to her chest, she'd be sore in the morning. He stopped himself before touching her, curling his claws into a fist so tight that he punctured his own skin, felt the flesh pop and bleed, then stitch itself closed.

The change in the light and sound of the television must have roused her, or perhaps she felt him near her. She popped her joints like a little kitten and sprawled on her side, dragging the old, pebbled fleeces with her. His throat felt inexplicably dry.

"'G'night, dear Mr Creed," she murmured into her folded arms, still half-slumbering. His gut tightened with something that was not arousal or irritation—something indefinable. He had no context for it. "I hope you sleep very well," she added in an earnestly sweet, sleep-addled voice.

He stared at her, long and hard and baffled and angry, before flicking off the lamp and moving back to the bedroom.

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A/N: I just want to thank everyone who reviewed or PMed me after the last chapter was installed. All of you were so supportive and encouraging, especially in response to some of the nastier reviews and messages I had gotten previously. I can't tell you all how much I appreciate that. So, as a result, here is a quicker update. I can't promise it will always happen like this – again, life gets in the way – but it definitely makes me want to work more.

I hope this was enjoyable for all of you. Thank you again for your kindness. I am so grateful.