A Feral Interlude

Disclaimer: Violence, language, implied rape, adult situations, explicit sex, graphic imagery, a pinch of angst, and some serious hormones. I do not own any aspect or character of the Marvel Universe nor elements of the X-Men Origins movieverse.
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A Feral Interlude: Pensive Retrospection

Nick knew he was missing something.

After cleaning up Moss’ mess and covering up the details of the gala massacre, as it was being called, he tried tracing how Vipress and Sabertooth could be connected. So far, there was nothing but a blip of them crossing paths in Vegas. He surmised that blip led to them butting heads at the gala, but had no goddamned idea what either of them were doing there in the first place.

Isabela Montecristo was an enigma so far, and with the unit still consolidating data from multiple branches and departments, he didn’t think he’d get anything on her that’d add to the shitty file they already had. For all he knew she’d been there to assassinate Nagaraja, and that was the extent of her involvement with the man. But he still didn’t see why someone would tip off all the satellites about her being linked to him if she’d been hired by that person to carry out the hit. All he could figure was that she’d pissed off someone who got greedy, but he still didn’t understand how the hell Sabertooth was involved.

The bit of surveillance that they got before shit hit the fan showed Montecristo and Creed squaring off; then when bullets started flying, they were practically back-to-back, tearing everyone to shreds.

He was filtering through the files, looking for something to jump out at him in the fray of photos, logs and stat sheets. Then it clicked.

Digging through some files, he found the file on Tommy DeLaughter. His autopsy report said he was drained of blood. His neck had been snapped, scapula cracked, and his throat had been practically torn out. A picture of the neck wound was attached to the report. Nick snatched it off and compared it to an autopsy picture taken of Malik Nagaraja. His death had been from a ruptured heart, courtesy of having a hand shoved through his chest, but his throat had been torn out as well.

Vipress stole the tele-computer.

She’d used Tommy DeLaughter to get it to her, killed him, and handed over the computer to whoever had employed her. Whoever hired her had double crossed her, but they hadn’t counted on her having a friend drop in and throw the whole operation down the tubes. Sabertooth prowling in had saved her from capture. She clearly was just as unstoppable as Creed, so at the very least they would’ve captured her had he not been there to antagonize her for whatever fucking reason.

Nick dragged his palm over his face before scratching at his thinning hairline. His dark features were hard, etched with stress as he realized whoever had hired Vipress was connected enough to feed shitty intel to Moss’ contacts. Something big was about to happen. He could feel it.

Whatever it was, Nick knew all he could do was wait for someone to slip up, and then he’d have ‘em dead to rights. Until that happened, all he could do was sit on his hands and take solace that he was going to whip the unit into shape so shit like this never happened again.

---------------

Victor awoke at the sound of the wind howling outside. The firelight was dim, glowing at him from the hearth. He shifted onto his back and felt a curvaceous body sigh and cling to his side. Looking down at Isabela’s sleeping form, he couldn’t help feel savage pride; her long hair was spilling over her shoulder, and the curve of her cheek was pressed against his pectoral. Her limbs tangled around him, clinging sleepily to him as if he was a pillow. When he shifted again, she hummed in her sleep, her leg sidling up his, caressing the arch of her foot down his shin.

He was content to just lay there with her pressed up against him, but he had shit to do; wanted to finish the journals, check in with Dan, and get more preserves. Since he didn’t trust her to let him walk out of the cabin without some power struggle, he figured he had to get the errands done before she woke up.

The temptation to roll on top of her and fuck her awake was simmering in him, but Victor suppressed the desire and maneuvered to untangle himself from the sleeping femme fatale’s grasp. The novelty of the situation struck him; he’d never cared whether or not he stirred his mate awake. Hell, he’d never kept a frail alive long enough to have to worry about sneaking out of bed. Once he slithered out of bed, Victor grabbed some clothes and went into the bathroom. While he dressed, he heard her shift on the mattress. Pausing, he waited to hear any sign she was awake. When nothing came, he finished dressing, splashed some water in his face, and headed out through the adjacent door that led out to the hallway.

He took care to leave the cabin as quietly as possible, closing the door soundlessly behind him. Once he was in his jeep, he snickered at himself. He was excited, buzzing with savage glee at his present circumstances. The viper was warm, luscious, and very sated in his bed; he didn’t think things could get better.

As he drove down to town, he let his good mood relax him—turned on the radio and tuned into the first station he could find through the static. The opening bars of a Johnny Cash song filtered in through the static.

“—I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day”

Victor smirked, leaving it on the station as he drove down the winding mountain road. Things were never this good for him. Usually his routine consisted of mercenary work and murder for hire, globe trotting and bunking up wherever the fancy struck him. A frail here and there; fuck-and-kills he left broken and bloody wherever they fell. Having a wild tryst with a bodacious little number hungry and willing to have him—to take his savagery and give it back in spades was something completely alien to him…

“On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down”

And he liked it. His pulse was thumping from the rush. The spontaneity and uniqueness of it all made him edgy, just like the calm right before battle. He reveled in the feeling of having power over the situation—of having an unpredictable force like Isabela locked away for himself. It was better than the adrenalin high of storming the battlefield because he controlled the surroundings, and indirectly controlled her actions in said surroundings.

Victor drove onto the main street of the sleepy valley town, turning into the parking lot of the 24-hour emporium that was really the only place bustling at the early hour. He parked and cut the engine, but sat in the jeep for a moment when a thought struck him. She’s never gonna submit. She’ll fight until one of us is too fucked up to fight anymore.

Seething at the sudden thought, Victor went out to the snow storm, trudging up to the store. The chime of the bell was muted by the bustling crowd of travelers who’d been stranded by the storm and decided to come in to shop. They scrambled through isles and chatted one another up. Shoving his brooding thoughts aside, Victor sidled through the damned frails. He went up to the counter, but instead of Rob manning the register it was his mate, a former flower child with dark eyes and sandy hair that was a tangle of wavy tresses to her shoulders. The smile she gave to a customer who walked by froze once she saw him walking towards the counter. He smelled the spike of apprehension waft into the air. Suppressing his toothy smile as best as he could, he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as he came up to loom over the woman, who tried to offer him a genuine greeting without looking tense.

“Need to use the phone, hun” Victor stated with laced condescension in his amicable tone. “And I wanna put in an order. Rob out sick?” he asked and leaned his hip into the counter so he could invade her space a bit more.

She recoiled, slightly. Smart frail. “Oh-he’s out back—he’ll be back in a few, should be by the time you finish your call” she stammered prettily, her fear and apprehension thick around her as she reached for a key ring and waddled out from behind the counter. The bump swelling her stomach was a lovely sight. Victor wondered what it would be like to tear into the sweet and plump flesh, to taste the juicy blood and revel in her overly-ripe scent and the horror she’d have all over her cherub face. He shook the impulse off as he followed her to the phone booth. She quickly unlocked the sliding door for him and stepped back, sidling away from him and plastering a pleasant smile on her tense features. “If you need anything just let me know. Rob should be done soon to put your order together” she piped pleasantly enough, one hand on her back and the other resting over her womb as she looked up at him.

“Thanks, hun. Much obliged” he spoke in a syrupy tone, giving her a lopsided smirk as she wandered away cautiously, shooting him a few nervous glances over her shoulder as she made it back to the counter through the bustle. It wasn’t like he went out of his way to be malicious to every frail he encountered; just in his nature to be—as akin to breathing, in some ways. It was a hardwired behavior that had only become more wanton over the years. Jimmy hated it, complained and chided him every chance he got.

Huffing at the reminder of his brother’s stern glowering face, Victor got into the tight booth and slid the wood and glass panel shut. He grabbed the phone and punched in Dan’s number. A group of stupid fucking frails were griping about some football game being canceled just outside of the booth when Dan’s groggy voice came over the earpiece.

“M’hello?”

“Wake the fuck up, Danny-boy” Victor chimed gruffly over the line and heard a clattering sound and a series of muffled curses.

“C-Creed? Jesus man it’s not even dawn yet—!”

“What was that? I could’ve sworn you were getting crass with me, Dan” Victor cut in with a warning growl. The other man stammered an apology. “Yeah yeah, save it. I’m calling for an update; heard anything new?” he curtly asked.

“Um—yeah. You didn’t mention being part of that gala massacre before” Dan mumbled into the phone, “the unit I told you about covered it up. Said it was a domestic terrorist attack, or some shit like that. No mention of who was involved and they’re saying it’s an on-going case, but the truth is the unit is under new management, and he covered it all up. But that’s not the good stuff” he said before suppressing a yawn, “seems Khomeini was tipped off by that Basset guy I told you about—the one who contracted the job to Montecristo for his employer. He got greedy and cut out on his employer after he leaked the fake intel on Montecristo being linked to Nagaraja. Basset didn’t leak the evidence of Nagaraja being linked with Khomeini, so his former boss is screwed and doesn’t even know it yet—at least from the last I heard. But, no one other than this unit commander guy knows that you and Montecristo were involved in the massacre and that you got away. Word’s out on the both of you, but not for capture.”

“Shoot to kill?” Victor asked, his brow quirking with intrigue.

“No. They’re in some kind of holding pattern when it comes to bagging and tagging certain high-risk targets. The order is to keep an eye out for you two and report in when you’re spotted. This commander guy doesn’t seem interested in capturing you or Montecristo; he’s got a bigger fish to fry, and the only reason you two are in his crosshairs is cuz you slaughtered a bunch of his men, and because she stole some top secret computer” Dan explained.

Victor’s mind’s eye pictured Isabela lounging on that king-sized bed at the high rollers suite, the portable computer in her lap before she closed the top and put it on the nightstand.

“Who’s the big shot that hired her?” Victor inquired, glancing out to glare at the chatty fuckers just outside of the booth.

“Dunno his real name. They call him the Frenchman. This Basset guy is probably going to have a hit put out on him by the Frenchman, but my buddy in NY says he doesn’t seem concerned at all. Dunno why” a pause, then, “I gotta tell you, Creed. Montecristo might know more about who this guy is than anyone else; rumor is she doesn’t take a job without doing a thorough background check on her employer, for more than insurance purposes.”

“Didn’t do her much good this time, now did it” Victor quipped sardonically.

“Guess not…you got her stashed away, don’t you” Dan ventured, a bold move considering who he was talking to.

Victor snickered into the phone. “‘Stashed’ isn’t quite how I’d put it” he chuckled.

A short pause from the tacto-empath before he got the balls to say, “Sounds like you two are made for each other.”

Victor’s hackles went up, fury rising in him like hot water boiling over. “Watch it Dan, or the next time we meet, I just might have to show you what you’re made of, from the inside out?” he hissed coldly into the phone.

He practically heard the other mutant’s heart stop over the line before his breath wheezed into his lungs. “S-Sorry, Creed. I didn’t mean anything by it—!”

“Good. I’ll be calling you if I need anymore answers, so start looking for them in the meantime, got it?” he ordered in a biting sneer and didn’t wait for Dan’s reply, hanging up the phone with a grunt. He was tempted to yank the whole goddamned thing off the mount, but he cooled his temper and ruminated about his circumstances instead.

Things were an interesting mess. He didn’t need any fucking heat coming down on him—well, anymore heat coming down on him than usual. His work hinged on being hired with the least strings attached, and if there was a call out for his head by some top secret fucking government unit, the jobs would fizzle away before they’d even get offered to him. Victor was reminded now of why he preferred government jobs. Going private was a fucking mess, with all these bullshit contingencies he didn’t have the patience to be looking after when all he wanted to do was what he was good at and get paid for it. At least working for Stryker provided a cushy filter between him and government taskforces like this unit; immunity and clean up crews for all the trouble he did get into, and steady work that kept him busy and happy.

Becoming a mercenary had been the most fulfilling thing Victor had done in his hundred years of life. It came with the best perks and the least hassle. Sure he’d had to work in teams with assholes he would’ve killed for free with great pleasure—and pretty much had—but there were even times when he thought back fondly of his days on Team X. The times when they hunted in the jungles, taking down drug, weapons and diamond kingpins in third world countries, and even the times when the team would hang around a camp fire and just shoot the breeze at each other. He remembered once when Wilson yammered on about how much he loved his job; still remembered his wise-ass tone: “All I ever wanted was to travel to far off, exotic places; meet new and exciting people—and then kill them.” Victor had snorted at that, while Jimmy huffed and puffed on his cigar next to him. The other guys had snickered or stood silent, swigging on their bottles or canteens while Wade grinned like a hyena.

Victor didn’t really care if the people were exciting or how exotic the places were; he did it for the killing, plain and simple. The hunt, the chase, and the inevitable slaughter; the pay was just an additional perk.

He wondered if the viper felt the same.

Shucking the booth door open, Victor stalked out and spotted Rob at the counter.

“You make Camille nervous as hell, yah know that?” Rob chuckled after the big feral walked over, his arms crossed and his Marine Corp. tattoo peeking out from under his rolled up sleeve.

“It ain’t my intention to make your little lady nervous” just a perk of being an animal, “skittish, maybe” he joked and earned a laugh from the shaggy-haired veteran with the stubble-lined jaw.

“Women and their hormones; get extra sensitive about things” the vet quipped, “so I heard you need another order?”

Victor glanced out of the corner of his eye at the pregnant Camille as she took inventory in the back. She looked up and caught him staring, so he flashed a broad grin, showing off his fangs. The woman blanched and pretended to busy herself somewhere else tucked out of his line of sight. “Yeah…it looked like I was going to be staying longer” Victor mentioned and shrugged.

“Huh, “looked like” means another change of plans?” the shopkeeper asked, not at all bothered by the mutant’s show of bravado; he knew the other man was intimidating, but didn’t feel threatened in the least. Victor picked up as much, and couldn’t help begrudgingly respect the guy. Didn’t mean he thought it was a smart move on his part—but he admittedly hadn’t seriously entertained any vicious ideas against him or his pregnant frail.

Acerbically snorting, Victor eyed the man and conceded, “Not entirely…but I might need your little lady to help me with this order.”

---------------

She was dreaming. She knew it. She tried to fight the memories away. That’s what her dreams had become after 4 centuries; just a series of memories tied together by a stream of consciousness. A vacuum of moments she had to relive, stark and sharp in sensation and perception.

She hadn’t dreamed in over a decade. Let alone dream about him. But like quicksand, her unconscious was sucked into the stream of memories until she was part of it, unaware it was a dream and living through the motions all over again.

“They are dead, Izzie.”

“You don’t know that” she argued, pushing his hands away from her waist as she went to the window, looking down at the cold snowy night and at the Nazi soldiers that patrolled the streets.

“Even if they are still alive, they won’t be for long.”

He came up behind her, his warm body scorching her skin. She whirled around and glared at him, but he just smiled, his eyes dancing with blue mischief as he cupped his hand around her chin.

“You’re such a heartless bastard” she murmured with wavering contempt as she slapped his hand away. “What if it was your son of a bitch brother? Would you like it if I smiled in your face?”

He laughed, even when she pushed past him and went to grab her dress. “Izzie, please stop being so mundane” he mused and grabbed her, forcing her to turn and face him. “You can’t control death, my Valkyrie. You’re too perfect to care about mere mortals. If they are alive, let them survive by their own merit. Its how the rest of us have done it” he murmured in a liquid steel voice, his hands roving down her body to press her against his naked and chiseled body.

Her hands pressed against his broad chest, digging into the fine fair hair that dusted his pectorals before tugging on them. He yelped and laughed down at her, pulling her into his arms to kiss her, even when she struggled and struck him in the face. He tossed her on the bed, chuckling warmly at her before he leapt on top of her and framed his arms around her head.

“Let’s run away together” he hissed and smiled, his blond hair falling into his eyes before he could toss the strands back. “We could go to South America. Things here are falling apart anyway. I have only remained in Berlin because of you. Let’s leave” he cajoled with sensual repose.

She avoided his gaze, her blood boiling with helpless anger. He caressed his fingers along the contour of her cheek bone, down her cheek, and tipped her face towards his. Under the glow of the lamplight, Isabela could make out the ragged scars that ran across his bicep. Her fingers trailed up his arm to trace the marred skin, transfixed by the ravages of time that peppered her lover’s ageless body. She gazed into his blazing ice blue eyes, at the spark of zest that danced in them before tracing her fingers down his rugged features to brush along his lips.

“Just shut up and make love to me, Eirik.”

His hearty laugh echoed around her, made her feel alive and ablaze with the joy of living that beamed out of him.

“You cannot avoid my advances forever, Izzie. You are mine, Valkyrie—!”

“Yes, I know Loki, now make love to me before I change my mind” she cut in before nuzzling his clean shaven jaw. He growled, rearing up to toss her onto the pillows so he could grab her wrists and pin them on either side of her head. He pressed slowly into her heat, his smile radiant and hair platinum under the overhead lamp. Isabela cried out, wrapping her legs around his waist and arching against him.

Eirik’s laugh came out a groan as he sheathed into her and thrust up, tearing a mewl of pleasure out of her as he brushed against her womb. “Keep calling me that and I’ll never leave your side, my Valkyrie” he groaned harshly against her lips before taking her in a fierce kiss.

She clung to him, her hands clutching at the muscled planes of his body and rocking against him, the world outside dead to them as they lost themselves to each other.

The sensation of his hand caressing up her thigh to knead her hip felt so real. Isabela unfolded into his warmth, breathless and hoping she never stopped feeling him.

“Eirik…”

---------------

He parked and cut the engine before heading out with the small crate and a brown paper bag to trudge through the snow up to his cabin. It didn’t seem like daylight was going to break at all this snowy Sunday, and that was just fine with Victor; better to stay in bed fucking.

He grinned at the thought as he walked up the porch steps.

Walking into the cabin, Victor felt his senses jolt. His head rose so he could sniff at the air, the scent fluctuating thick and spicy, making him see colors it was so strong. Shutting the door and dumping the stuff by the closet, he followed the scent, his skin getting hot and his mouth watering. He stripped his coat and peeled the layers off until he was shirtless and barefoot by the time he made it to his bedroom.

She was still asleep, curled into the spot he’d vacated when he left. The furs were tangled over her and her lithe leg was draped over the comforter. The arousal and heat was coming off of her in waves, so animalistic that he could feel the primordial pull lure him to the side of the bed. He had a mean hard-on, his loins tingling as he raked his claws down his chest and caressed his hand up her thigh to squeeze her hip.

He felt the current shoot up his fingers as she sighed and moaned under her breath.

“Eirik…”

Victor jerked his hand away and balked down at her sleeping form. The fuck?!

Anger swelled in him, scalding and irrational. She was dreaming. Dreaming about someone else; some other bastard got her this hot.

His jealousy was a blow to his savage ego. The animal in him wanted to tear into her—how dare she want another when she’s yours—make her scream and wail for the betrayal—

Jealousy seethed into a cold rush of wild possessiveness. She belonged to him. He would make her belong to him. Force her to accept him and take her like he’d taken all his prey.

His skin was boiling as he worked his jeans undone and off. Before he knew what he was doing, Victor was on his bed and pulling her sleeping form, dragging her against him to press into the mattress. He jerked her onto her side, stirring her. Then he forced himself into her from behind, digging his claws into her supple flesh and growling warningly against her neck when she moaned and clutched at him.

Isabela gasped awake, growing taut against the hard body behind her. She cried out when Victor bit the arch that joined her neck and shoulder, her skin hypersensitive and tingling from the onslaught of her dream and his domination. She tried to shove and wriggle away, but Victor’s grip around her waist was a vice as his fingers dug into her, scenting the air with blood.

She hissed and clawed at his arm, confusion and a tumult of emotions reverberating through her. When she reached back over her shoulder and scratched Victor’s cheek, he snarled and slammed brutally into her, tearing harsh cries from both of them before Isabela elbowed him hard enough to fracture a rib. She tried to scamper away, to turn and fight him, but he was on top of her—gathering her up against him to slam her face against the headboard and push back into her. Her shocked cry came out hoarse against the wood before she tossed her head back and smashed the crown of her skull into his mouth. His grunt came out a strangled bark from his fangs slicing the inside of his mouth open. The fury was palpable, scorching as he roared in exasperation and grabbed the back of her neck. He pressed her up against the headboard, using his hold on her as leverage to keep himself on top of her and her taut against the wall. She thrashed against him, but gasped when he drove into her again, his grip firm on the back of her neck and digging into her hip.

Victor was rancorous, his mouth tinged with blood and his eyes glazed with drunken ferocity as he dominated her, trying to pound her into submission. He felt her grow rigid in his grasp just before she stopped struggling. Growling, he bent over her after a particularly deep thrust and pressed his chest against her back. Her hands were spread against the wall, their full weight keeping her from rolling or tossing him off.

He was trying to take her, to break her down and make her submissive to him. She didn’t know what had set him off, but she knew she couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t stop until either one of them was beaten into submission, and because she knew this, she’d paused in her struggling, waiting for him to be lulled long enough for her to turn the tables.

When he clawed his hand from her neck around to her womb and nuzzled harsh nips against her shoulder, she sprang, swinging her elbow around to slam against the side of his head. Victor’s head swam and his vision blurred for short seconds, allowing her to shove him back and off of her. She turned and lunged at him, catching him off guard as she clocked him on the jaw. Unfortunately, Victor’s daze ebbed away in a flash when she fell on top of him, and the next thing she knew he snarled viciously at her and grabbed her wrists, gathering them and pinning them behind her back as he rolled them onto their sides, facing each other.

Isabela lengthened her predatory teeth at him, trying to chomp at him before she was jerked out of range by a sharp tug on her arms that threatened to dislocate her shoulders. She was stretched taut like a bow, and in one swift move Victor was pushing to get between her thighs. Her eyes were glowing with wrath at him when he pressed her against him, his powerful fingers clutching at her waist as he forced himself back into her tight heat.

The position thwarted her from struggling and only earned her intense pressure as he stroked deep into her core. She cried out and arched with shocked pleasure from his rough thrust into her, her body betraying her while the rest of her fought for autonomy. That’s when she saw the look in his eyes.

Betrayal, anger, and resentful desire darkened his glare, his mouth etched with hunger as he panted from his efforts. Isabela gasped, her brows wrinkling with confusion as her knees clutched around him, trying desperately to get closer to him. He growled menacingly and tugged on her wrists, his fangs bared at her, but not with hostility.

Her heart clenched and her breath hitched, incredulity lighting up her usually stoic features. Possession. He was trying to possess her; to claim her the only way he could. It was an impulse she’d seen in every man, but in Victor it was like an implacable force.

Victor stared at her, intrigued by the open emotions that graced her countenance. Her struggles and thrashing had died inside of her, and only a current of understanding flowed out of her, warming her scent as her eyes fluttered and she gave in to him.

His hand let go of her wrists to grab her throat, pulling her into a kiss that bruised both their mouths. Her hands clutched at his shoulders as they kissed and rocked against each other, their primitive struggle forgotten to instead revel in a passion as voracious as their natures.

When she climaxed, Victor moaned and bit down on her shoulder as he tangled his fingers into the back of her hair and fucked her hard. He shouted gruffly when he came, his muscles flexing as he clung and rocked blissfully against her until the energy fizzled right out of him. They collapsed in a heap of panting and throbbing flesh, high off of each other and pulsing with sensations.

Isabela stirred against him, the afterglow tingling and flushing her skin. She sighed softly and rested against him as she reached to caress his face. Victor jerked away from her, sated but still irrationally fuming. He glared down at her, his furious blue eyes dark with angry fog. Instead of following his retreating warmth, she curled sinuously back down onto her side, her gaze cooling and her mouth soft. No judgments, cub.

Victor was so pissed off he couldn’t see straight.

He stalked off the bed and into his jeans, aware of her gaze as it raked like nails down his back. Without a cursory glance he growled and lividly left the room, his heavy footfalls barreling down on the floor until she heard him slam a door. The muffled echo of something being slammed or thrown carried over into the bedroom.

Isabela remained motionless on the bed, mindful of how cold she was getting, but too pensive to care.

---------------

His fucking armchair was a splintered mess of leather and wood after having picked it up and slammed it furiously down to the floor. It pissed him off that he’d petulantly break his own shit when he couldn’t actually get his hands on something living and squishy, but he shook off the exasperation of the broken chair and tried reigning in his anger.

He didn’t want to think; didn’t want to speculate over what made her tick and why she managed to rattle him like lion in a cage.

The unread stack of the faxed journals still sat on his table.

Snatching the pile, he wrinkled his nose at the broken armchair before stalking over to the wide windowsill. The cold windowpanes brushed his bare arm as he sat down and lounged. He found the place he’d left off on.

16 August, 1936

The analysis came back. I wasn’t sure of how to broach my findings—I didn’t want to make her disassociate; didn’t want to waste a session of playing semantics with her because she was too damned smart for me to pin down—since she had exhibited a detached demeanor when I explained my hypothesis a few sessions ago.

She sensed something immediately. I tried to engage her in idle chatter as we entered my study, but she smiled and paced around the room, aloofly looking at books here and there.

—“I want to stay for dinner, if that’s alright with you, Mischa” she abruptly stated and turned to face me.

“I don’t think that would be appropriate—”

“I want to meet your lovely wife Yvette and your little one. Ephram was it?” she interrupted and sat across from me and smiled with chilling pleasantry.

“I hate it when you do that, countess.”

Her smile only widened. “He’s six now, isn’t he?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t because it was all playful rhetoric. She was the worst kind of predator; the kind that would let you think she was domesticated and friendly, even when she was gnawing your throat out. You would never see her coming—

To be quite frank, countess de Winter was an intimidating woman. Her sheer presence could make a man feel like he was a wounded animal just waiting to be preyed upon. Even after the years of analysis, a didactical insecurity still arrested my ability to remain objective.

She wasn’t human. It was the most conclusive hypothesis after compiling all of the data and researching my findings of seven and a half years. The countess’ reaction had weighed upon my conscience, as it was during today’s session when I hesitantly asked her to tell me more about her years of isolation.

Could you explain why you went into the rainforest?

“…that’s not what you really want to know. At least not at this moment”—her eyes always focused intently when she was pensive. The bright russet rings around her pupils would dilate as if she could see into my soul—“you want to talk about my origins more. That psychoanalytic nonsense of yours is such a waste of time, Mischa. What does it matter? It has nothing to do with my being.”

I explained to the countess that it wasn’t knowledge for the sake of it—she detested talking about her ‘first life’, as she called it. It took me 3 years just to get her to tell her story. I managed to convince her; compiled her story into a written testimonial; her point of view, her awareness and retrospection…but I won’t include it in my research. Not until she has finished telling me everything. Getting it out of her has been the hardest part of this undertaking, aside from the ‘field’ observations—but for the necessity of awareness and retrospection.

“Just tell me.”—I didn’t want to. Didn’t know what it entirely meant, nor did I want to lose her. She’d threatened to destroy my research if I kept anything from her and I wasn’t sure how to tell her. “It tore my womb barren, didn’t it…there’s nothing human left.”

“Your womb has scar-tissue. It seems that…the trauma caused a benign form of atrophy that rendered you infertile. Your ability to heal was still fledging in comparison to what it is now, so scar tissue was able to develop. It happens to many women who suffer trauma and have a breech birth—”

She laughed. It wasn’t bitter or cold. If anything, it was self-disparaging. “Just science for the spawn tearing out of the mother” she glanced out the window; saw Ephram and Yvette walking up to the house. “My mother bled out. Dead before my father stepped into the room. Oh, the irony…I suppose I was destined to be inhuman.” She looked up at me and smiled. “That’s your answer. I went into the rainforest because whatever human part of me died that night.”

My family was up the walkway, so she stood and softened before my very eyes. It was her real mask. She looked in the direction of the foyer, her demeanor pensive.

“Never took a breath.”

---------------

Hours later, Victor did a double take at the last page, flipped it over and back, before reading the last paragraph in confusion. It just stops. He wondered if Dan fucked up.

It couldn’t just end like that.

He chucked the pile of papers onto the closest table as he started pacing, irritated and stuck with more questions than answers. All he had were bits and pieces of her. Sure a lot of it was intriguing as hell, but he wanted to know what made her so goddamned different. He wondered if that testimonial was still out there; if it’d survived somewhere and was just waiting to be read. But if it did, Dan would’ve found it. Huffing, he paced towards the door and stopped. Could just ask…

“Feh” he sneered at the thought and opened the door to his den.

The tantalizing smell of seasoned meat was wafting through the air as he padded towards the living room.

The television’s ambient light was flashing out of the corner of the room from across the fireplace, the sound lowered almost to nothing. She was sitting on the couch nearest the wide picture window, her legs folded underneath her and a thick fur blanket wrapped around her. She had a glass of whiskey cupped loosely in her hands as she gazed pensively out the window, her back to him.

He didn’t know if she even knew he was there. Watching her for long moments, he thought about before—in his bedroom. She had fought him only to acquiesce. No retaliation, not even a word of anger or question once he’d ravaged her. It baffled him, pissed him off to constantly be second guessing every action and expression of a creature that was supposed to be his plaything. He shouldn’t be flustered by his own possession, no matter how sly and experienced she may be. The viper was his to fucking reign over, so he had to figure her out; crack her, see what was really inside of her dangerous wit and cunning eyes to know her marrow deep.

Victor was good at figuring frails out. They were stupid, banal cowards that could be peeled away to nothing but raw mortality: pleas, screams, and wails of agony before his very feet—by his very claws. They were mindless puzzle sets that he could throw together for his vicious purposes before he tossed them apart once he didn’t need them; once he was bored.

He got bored quickly, but he figured them out, every single fucking time.

Even Jimmy couldn’t hide. He was part of Victor, and part of the animal. But figuring out Isabela was like trying to play chess, blindfolded. Not that he’d ever played chess, but shit it was the closest analogy he could fucking think of without getting too annoyed. Just when he thought he had her cornered, she morphed before him; the feral beauty would soften and look painfully mortal, distorted and raw until her frondy eyes took on a faraway gaze that looked through him and she became the sultry viper he knew and wanted again. He wanted to own her emotions—wanted to be the source and cause of them.

Victor wanted the pain inside of her.

His dog tags clattered against his chest when he sat behind her on the couch. She exhaled through her nose when she sensed him silently sizing her up.

“The roast is almost done. I made a few side dishes; nothing fancy” she stated before raising the glass to her lips and sipping the amber liquid.

Victor’s fingers combed firmly through the back of her hair before fisting the silky strands and lightly tugging. Her breath hitched, but she still didn’t turn to regard him, so he growled deep in his chest and shifted to loom around her.

“Who the fuck is Eric?” he rumbled against her ear, his breath hot and his claws impish as they skated across the nape of her neck. He felt her stiffen. It was incredibly subtle; if he hadn’t had his hands on her he wouldn’t have even perceived it.

“Eirik” she corrected, pronouncing the Norse name with her fluid Spanish accent.

Victor’s nostrils flared, but he held his impatience at bay. “Spare me” he growled.

“Fine” she spoke and leant back against him.

When she didn’t answer his question, Victor wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed warningly. “Cute, but you’re not getting off that easy, viper. Not unless I want you to” he hissed viciously into her ear, his double entendre scalding.

She shifted so she could give him a sidelong glance. “He’s just a name—!”

“A fucking name you moaned in my bed!” Victor corrected with a snarl and bared his teeth in a sneer. “So who the fuck is he?”

She blinked at the hostility that was rolling off of him. The hostility was real, but so was the jealousy that clung to his scent. Her hand came up to cup the back of his skull as she shifted to crane her head and reply, “he was memory, Victor. No one for you to be jealous of…”

Victor jolted at that and squeezed her throat more firmly. “Who the fuck said anything about being jealous?!” he barked with cynicism. “Watch what you say, sweetheart, or I’ll have to punish that pretty little mouth of yours” he snapped sinisterly before taking the glass out of her hand and emptying it in a swallow before dropping it down on the coffee table next to the bottle.

Her heart ached. Ached for the man she had lost, and ached for the feral she was growing fond of. They were polar opposites in some respects, and two sides of the same coin in others. She was pretty sure that if they’d ever met, they would’ve hated each other’s guts. It would’ve been like putting a wolf and a mountain lion in the same cage. They would’ve never understood each other, even when they shared commonalities.

She’d never understood Eirik…but she’d loved him with everything she had.

She understood Victor, understood him so much that it jarred her.

“I’ll tell you about Eirik if you let me leave.”

Isabela turned to face him then, her eyes earnest and guileless.

Victor openly laughed at her. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t look more than un-amused.

She turned to face back toward the window when he snickered and pulled her back around. “C’mon, did you honestly think that’d work, Izzie?” she glared at him, but he continued, “Instead of sulking and looking out the damned window like you’re in a prison tower, humor me” he cupped his palm around her cheek and combed his retracted claws through her hair before muttering, “accept it; it doesn’t have to be so unpleasant. Hell, it could be an arrangement you grow to want if you stop being so fucking stubborn.”

“So, you intend to keep me here like your little pet? Really, cub” she mused and leaned in closer, their faces so close that their noses brushed together and their breaths were mingling together. “Going to settle down? That’s a laugh. Two ferals playing house. I wonder how long that would last” her sarcasm was cool and sultry, until she mocked, “You’re not the first man to think he could make me his. Either the desire will fade, or you will. That’s what time has shown me, cub. Give it a bit longer, and it’ll teach you the same.”

Not missing a beat, he chuckled. “That’s a pretty stupid thing to say, Izzie” Victor smiled condescendingly at her, his fangs wicked and his eyes mischievous. “You said it yourself, sugar: I’m as permanent to this world as you are. I ain’t going anywhere” he purred scathingly and pulled her onto his lap. She yelped and wriggled, fighting to keep the blanket around her waist. He laughed and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her waist and hoisting her up. His palms dragged down to cup her voluptuous ass and instead of the satin he’d expect he got bare skin.

The oven dinged in the kitchen, and Isabela pulled away from the kiss and wriggled off of his lap, yanking his sweater down her thighs and standing before he could reach to pull her back down.

“So anxious for me that you went commando, eh?” Victor teased and leered at her with a smug smirk as he sat back and draped his arms along the back of the couch.

She raised a mocking brow at him. “My panties are drying in the laundry room, since I can’t commandeer any of your boxers” she offered dismissively as she strode to the kitchen and disappeared around the corner.

He chuckled to himself and reached for the bottle of whiskey. He filled the glass and brought it to his lips before he realized how atypical it was. Snorting, he took a long drink and propped his bare feet up on the coffee table. The sounds of clattering and the shifting of pots and pans carried over into the living room, so he reached for the remote and turned up the volume on the television. A weather report was droning on when she came back into the living room with two plates of food. Shoving the plate at him, Isabela sat down next to him and folder her legs under her. His mouth watered at the succulent rare meat and he grunted his approval before digging in. He picked the meat with his claws, sucking the juices off his fingers before he noticed her staring disapprovingly.

She shoved the fork that was shucked into the potatoes into his hand and raised a brow when he swallowed and grinned.

“Such a cub” she mused lightheartedly as she ate daintily from her plate. “Did your mother let you shovel everything into your mouth with your fingers?”

Scooping the last bit of vegetables and potatoes into his mouth with the fork, Victor pointedly tossed the fork onto the table before and licking the plate clean, giving her a puckish sidelong glance with every long lick.

Isabela gave him a rueful smile before laughing and shaking her head at the juvenile sight. He liked seeing the sardonically amused expressions she made. Her eyes would become glimmering crescents when she laughed, her mouth softening with her melodious laughter. She took the glass of whiskey held between his knees and drank before offering it back to him and snatching his plate away from him.

“—Due to the blizzard, tonight’s game has been canceled. In its place, the network will broadcast the Silver Screen classic: Gold Diggers of 1933, starring Ruby Keeler, Dick Powell, Ginger Rogers…”

Isabela’s head went to the television screen. “Hah! I can’t believe it” she laughed and stared at the opening credits of the movie.

Victor looked at the screen and back at her. “What. Just some old ass movie…”

“My favorite movie” she corrected and smiled at him and hurried to take their plates back to the kitchen and brought him back a second helping. Handing off his plate back to him, Isabela climbed onto the couch and sidled close to him, her eyes glued avidly to the screen as the movie’s opening song played.

Victor watched her, enjoying the feel of her sitting so close to him without any pretense or tension. “A musical about showgirls?” he quipped dryly and watched her snicker.

“Don’t tease” she hissed and squeezed his thigh. “Don’t you have a favorite?”

“Pfft, do I look like I spend a lot time watching movies?” he grumbled and shoveled food off the plate into his mouth with his clawed fingers.

“No, I’m sure you traded them in for etiquette courses instead” she jabbed and glanced at him playfully.

He licked the corner of his mouth clean and raised his brows derisively at her. When he was done, she snatched the plate out of his hands before he could scornfully lick it clean to get a rise out of her. Chuckling, he licked his fingers clean instead before picking at his teeth lazily with the tip of a lengthened claw. When she glanced at him again, she giggled at the smear of mashed potato that was clinging to the whiskers close to the corner of his mouth. What a handsome slob.

She leaned over and open mouth kissed said corner, licking up the smear and reaching for the glass of whiskey clutched in his other hand over the armrest, the movie forgotten.

“So much for etiquette, huh” he husked lasciviously before he turned his head and kissed her hungrily. She hummed into his mouth before pulling back and bringing the whiskey to her lips. As she drank, he picked her up and pulled her onto his lap. She straddled him, the hem of the sweater riding up towards her waist as he shifted her over the bulge in his jeans.

Sighing softly, Isabela brought the glass to his lips and Victor let her feed him the rest of the whiskey before he took the glass and distractedly placed it on the table. The movie played on while they passively indulged in animalistic courtship, nuzzling and primitively pair bonding by scenting each other and kissing whenever enticed to. When she pulled away coyly, Victor growled and clamped his mouth onto her throat, worrying her skin between his teeth and tearing before laving the wound with his tongue. Isabela shuddered and clutched his bare shoulders before rearing back and forcing his back against the couch.

“W-Wait, Victor. We need to talk—!”

“Hah—are you fucking joking? First fuck, then maybe talk” he grunted and snaked his hands up the sweater to caress her curves and cup her perky tits.

She growled and slapped his hands down before sashaying off his lap and onto the couch. When he protested and went to prowl over her, she held him at bay by bracing her foot against his shoulder. “Talk, then fuck” she announced, and sternly eyed him. “You said the other night I was sabotaged by my employer. If that’s true, then I have a few scores to settle. The way I see it…I need to repay you.”

He braceleted her ankle and dragged his hand down to grip the back of her knee. Her words weighed the air for a short moment before he smirked and flashed his fangs. “And how would you ‘repay’ me, Izzie?” he growled lazily and loomed over her. “By promising to be a good girl if I let you go? I don’t think so, sugar. I like you exactly where you are: here, naked and wet for me” he purred. Her scent was spiced with anger and arousal, a combination that had him straining against his jeans.

“So, you expect me to let you walk out of here? Think I’m going to sit here obediently while you stroll out the front door? Oh please, Victor. You’re not stupid. Don’t pretend to be” she chastised sarcastically, sitting up on her elbows when he pinned her against the armrest and the back of the couch. “Because you got in the fray, that black ops team has targeted you too. So if they’re looking for me, they’re looking for you as well.”

“What d’you suggest then” he remarked conversationally as he leaned and nuzzled her temple before nudging his head against hers.

“We make a truce. Work together” she murmured, hooking her ankles along his haunches so she could guide him back onto his heels. “Taking care of my problem will take care of yours. I settle my score, give this government unit what they want, and its business as usual” she propositioned, toying with his dangling dog tags as she gazed into his smoky eyes.

His chuckle was like liquid velvet to her ears as he yanked her down onto the couch and settled between her thighs. “Only one problem: You’re mine. If I go with this deal, there’s no insurance that you’ll behave; don’t need you being insolent and trying to double cross me, princess” he mused with snide sweetness and scraped his mouth down her neck. “Now, the subject is close—”

“If you consider it, I’ll consider being yours…”

Victor snapped up to look down at her. Her eyes were glowing up at him, the russet rings blazing in the palm green irises. He didn’t know what to say; needed time to wrap his mind around it all.

“If you’re done talking…” he rumbled as he leant down.

Her hands raked down his chest and stomach to work his jeans undone once his mouth took hers in a savage kiss. Once his erection was free, Victor was hiking the sweater up and off of her while she shoved his jeans down with her feet. In seconds they were reveling in each other, all the anger, frustration and tension melting out of them as they coupled passionately on the couch.

Nothing was forgotten, though. Victor wanted to own her. He felt like something stood between him and his goal. The pensive retrospection that arrested her kept her locked away from him. He’d break through, sooner or later. For now, he took pleasure in having her body, flushed and writhing under him, as well as the sultry moans and mewls that preceded and followed the gasp of his name.

Isabela basked in his heat, in the carnal ferocity he gave her that blocked out the past, including the lover she never understood.

Just under the sounds of their passionate coupling, the movie’s ending credits scrolled with the musical accompaniment. The national anthem played on the television as they climaxed almost in unison, the screen crackling and going directly to static while the ferals collapsed in sensual repose.

---------------

Ephram was crestfallen when the curator called him and told him of the theft. As soon as he’d gotten off the phone, he’d rushed up to his attic, spending the last days and evenings sifting through trunks and boxes.

He’d been conflicted about keeping the testimonial, but not about keeping the journals. The journals had been years of work that detailed amazing and frightening things, things that he hadn’t witnessed as the young precocious child who would eavesdrop on his father’s sessions with her. He couldn’t believe that the woman his father had introduced to him and his mother was the same woman his father had written about in those journals.

The only thing he believed was that she wasn’t human.

She had been otherworldly to him. An ethereal being with dark and exotic features who’d showed him the fondness of a guardian angel, so the fact that his father believed her to be an immortal being had resonated with him. At almost 50 years old, Ephram could still remember her visits.

When he found the thickly bounded book with his father’s handwriting scrolled on the front tag, he’d gingerly brought it to his chest. It had been part of the sack his father had lugged throughout Nazi occupation. He had wrapped them in water resistant plastic slips and buried them in with rubbish so the SS wouldn’t look through the sack and confiscate his precious journals. Mischa Krause, his father, had carried them in that sack for 2 years until the ghetto had been emptied out and all the Jews of Berlin had been shipped to concentration camps.

His mother and father had been strong, teaching him everything they could up until the day they were separated. His parents had been placed on a train to Auschwitz, while he’d been taken to Dachau. Sensing the immanency of their separation, his father had entrusted Ephram with the sack before they’d been physically separated and put on different trains.

The last time he saw his mother and father, they had been forced onto the line for the train to Auschwitz.

He’d survived. Spent 3 years in Dachau until the Allies liberated the camp. He’d made his trip to America with the sack, save for the rubbish of course. Now the only thing he had left of his life before the war, of his parents and his father’s work was the book he clutched to his chest.

Climbing down from the attic, Ephram walked through his home, narrowly avoiding his grandkids that ran around the halls playing hide and seek. He went to his study and left the book on top of his desk, staring at it but unable to open it. He’d never read the testimonial. After reading the journals, he’d been too afraid to. So for over 30 years, he carried the book, having never read it.

He promised himself that as soon as the holidays were over, he’d finally read the testimonial his father and Izzie had poured into from the times of his childhood, when he’d been a bright-eyed boy who cherished everything life showed him.
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THANKS FOR READING! PLEASE REVIEW!

Oh wow *frets* I hope I didn't put you guys off with the last chapter! =( No reviews makes me a dull girl.

So the song I used was Johnny Cash's "Sunday Morning Coming Down". Thought it was very appropriate. I might make a "man-in-black" reference sometime lol I mean anyone wonder why Victor chose to dress all in black like a certain rock star? lol

Anyway, as always, please please PLEASE don't hesitate to give feedback and/or critique! I have most of the story fleshed out in my head, so hopefully there'll be another update or two soon. Thanks to all of you who have faved and watched the story!

Liev...my love for him is as unbound as my love for Victor Creed. Much love to him, as usual~

-ROGUEFURY