I watch them as they pass by the windows, dark shadows in the brightness of what could be my life. They are the reason I am who I am. What I am. But they know nothing. They are not allowed to know anything.
Still, I must be fair. It is not their fault. They are not aware of being the cause of anything worse than a star system destroyed or so many Morlocks, dead. They are not aware of anything but their leader's possessiveness over his wife, at the moment. It is this last that I can find no forgiveness in my heart for. If I had a heart. I object to any man having any kind of control over a woman. I don't care whether or not that control is sanctioned by the metal band on her third finger.
I look down at my hands. The flash of gold there is muted by the darkness.
Again, I watch him, their leader, staring at his wife from behind the glasses he uses to shield himself from the world, and they from him. His wife is aware of his scrutiny, but still she stares blankly out the window, as though she searches for her lover and remembers the scratch of his rough palms on tender pink skin. Did Jean scream for it? Did she beg? Did she like it?
I shake my head, startled. This last caustic thought was plucked from his head. He is stupid; a mortal and a fool, a common combination. His dark, bitter thoughts will corrode his soul like acid until the acrid, bilious taste rises in his throat and coats his tongue so that he is afraid to kiss his wife or tell her that he loves her, afraid that she will taste the bitterness and realize what he has become.
The dreams of youth are the regrets of maturity. That is the first lesson I learned. Once, I dreamed of a simple life; reasonable comfort and a family. Children. But He doesn't know that I've already killed three of them. I refuse to bear Him children. I might have been able to get away with the lie of barrenness, before, but He was too clever for me. He has me tested regularly now, precisely one week after each of our... copulations. I could remove the possibility of pregnancy altogether, with a coat hanger or some other equally cruel instrument, but that would only be another perverse victory for Him if I made a mistake and bled to death. If I can still bleed. Sometimes, I wonder if I can do anything without His permission anymore.
He is impatient now. If I do not become with child soon, He will impregnate me artificially, and then I will be trapped. He will know if I destroy it.
There is one other option. It is a betrayal I relish carrying out. If all goes well, I shall bear him a child of one of those He despises most in all the world. He will never know. I still have enough power to make Him believe that the child's DNA is His. I could have been so much more, once. But He has broken me, made me afraid to see who I really am. What I am.
Lately, I cannot look in the mirror.
There was a whisper of awareness behind the woman, a sad victim of
matrimony. Her thoughts have ground to a halt. She turned, half-expecting
Him to have found her out and tracked her here, to end her pitiful
existence and find another animal to pose as his mate. But, no, it's
someone else.
His eyes are beautiful; I don't care what anyone says, she mused, cloaked in silence. He stood beside her then, quietly smoking, unaware of her presence. As he exhaled, the smoke curled over her shoulders and drifted away.
We were meant to be together.
He walked away, carelessly brushing against her invisible body. Her mouth opened of its own accord and the first word she has said in three days emerged, rough and softly spoken, "Gambit."
She crouched there in the darkness, watching him pass by the windows. The outsider had spent much of her life staring through these same windows, wondering what it was about these people, especially their leader and his wife, that fascinated her husband, made him cruel and evil and twisted. She still did not know.
Now, tonight, she did not care.
Her thoughts drifted uselessly as she waited until, one by one, the lights wink out, leaving frightening, gaping holes in the house's smooth, white face. She could still see them, though. The brightness of their souls shines through the darkness like the star that had brought the wise men to Bethlehem.
When all was quiet and the short, wild one, the one called Logan, finally came outside to resume his guard over the mansion, she slipped inside before he closed the door behind him. She drifted down the hallway, walking an inch above the floor, as was her habit. She paused before an elegant gold-framed mirror.
She was beautiful, she supposed, but she could see no radiance about her. Others had radiance; the bright, sparkling, beauty that came from the light of their souls, but she had none, none that she could see, anyway. Her features were illuminated by a square of pale moonlight from the window at her back. She was tall and evenly featured, with waist-length reddish-brown hair and her eyes... She spun away from the mirror before she could see them. She didn't want to see the fear shining, vivid and alive, in their depths.
She ambled down the hallways aimlessly, walking first through the women's corridor. She had read everyone's dossier; it amused her husband that she took an interest in these people. He didn't understand, unless He understood all too well. The printed photos and listed accomplishments of these heros are the closest she has to friends. He allowed her no other companionship.
Someone's radiance flickered in the night as her erotic dream shattered and she startled awake. The intruder paused. It would not do for the dreamer to come upon her, hell-bent on seducing the X-woman's sometimes-boyfriend. Poor Rogue. The interloper would pity her, if she didn't already envy the woman. She wass trapped, certainly, but not like the trespasser. She was trapped within her own body, slowly dying inside as she ached to be held and touched. But the trespasser, who already had a man who came to her in the night, would give anything to be like Rogue - untouchable. Safe. The fact that she was not was precisely why He chose her to be his bride. The interloper was the perfect subject, you see, right down to the last skin cell.
I don't think he chose me because I give good head. That would be inconceivable, for Him anyway. The woman shook her head, shoving sarcastic thoughts from her mind. I'm praying Gambit doesn't have such high standards. I'd rather be in and out before dawn. My husband makes his first appearance at seven-fifteen sharp.
She wandered across the halls and down the other wing of the mansion. The temperature dropped slightly as she passed Bobby Drake's door. Warren was snoring softly. She crept past Logan's empty bedroom before finally reaching her destination. She paused before the smooth wooden portal, her hand trembling as she reached for the brass knob.
I hate sex, I had learned the truth of it on my wedding night. It was a cold, barren affair to be endured silently and stoicly, she mused. How am I to get through this with a strange man? A few of my husband's men have tried to coerce me into some kind of indiscretion - they know better than to try to rape me. If their employer found out, He would have their heads for tainting the goods. Instead, they devised crueler ways to break me of my femininity. I am nothing to them.
Her teeth clenched. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.
She stood numbly for a moment, frozen in her tracks. Nervously, she
slipped around the door and closed it behind her. Now, how to begin? She
crept closer to the bed, sheepishly realizing that she would at least have
to be within arm's reach. Remy was sleeping on his back, sprawled across
half the bed, one arm thrown across his eyes. She shook her head and
squinted at the bright silvery moonlight pouring over the floor and across
the bed from the room's large French windows that led out to the balcony.
Quickly, she went over and closed the curtains before slipping out of her
clothes. She was dressed simply, in a black, one-piece body suit and boots.
She moved closer to the bed, perching herself on the edge of the bed, next
to his pillow.
The sound of her convulsive swallow was audible in the silence. She hadn't even touched him yet and she wished it were over. She leaned back, pulling her legs from the floor, thrusting them beneath the covers. Pressing her naked body against him, she sighed at the first contact of flesh on flesh. Her husband's skin was cool and impersonal; she was rather shocked to find herself enveloped in such heat.
Gambit, Remy, turned instinctively toward her, his arms banding her hips. Pausing again, she scrutinized his radiance. It was dimmer than the others', granted, but it burned hot and red. It was also fluid and constant, unwavering. He was still in the thrall of deep sleep. Quickly, she imprisoned him in the grasp of his dreams, mentally weaving a light, glittering cage around his soul. She took a deep, timid breath. Now, how would a real woman instigate this?
"Remy?" she whispered into the darkness, "Make love to me, Remy." He twitched in his sleep, his hands moving up her back and she froze again. Her body was reacting in ways it never had before, and it frightened the trespasser. Goose bumps broke out over her skin. Her nipples hardened against his chest. She dropped her lips to his throat, flicking the pulse at its base with her tongue. He shifted, dragging his nails up her sides lightly. Heat pooled in her belly, her stomach muscles clenched tightly. By rolling over, he pinned her beneath him, beneath his heat.
Her breath caught in her throat as he slid his calloused palms up her arms, then down again as he caressed her neck, cradling her head as he surged upward to seize her lips. It was scalding and thorough; the kiss should have been a sex act all by itself. His tongue roved her mouth the way his hands did her body.
The adulteress made a small whimper, deep in her throat. It was a confused sound, for her lover was moving his lips down her body. His lips sought her breasts, she arched against him at the pleasure that assaulted her.
"N-!" She yelped, the sound sharp in the oppressive silence. Remy's teeth raked over her tender skin, and there was a loud sucking sound as he left a mark on her breastbone, pulling the delicate skin between his lips and biting down. He moved up, kissing her throat tenderly, as though he sensed her distress and wished to atone for it. His change in tactics startled her into submission, willing her to follow where he led. She rubbed herself against him, her nails scoring his back with malicious intent. He growled, she hissed, they continued.
Remy's hands closed harshly over her hips as she continued to lave her breasts with his tongue, moving doggedly along her body.
She stiffened, unsure of how to stop him. What was she to do? How was she to make him stop? What was happening to her? Oh, God...
His hands wedged under her backside, he held her positioned where he wanted her and finally lowered his damnable mouth to her sex, separating the thick folds with his agile tongue, sliding in and out in a luscious tongue-fuck.
No no no no no no no no no no no no no! This can't be happening to me!
Her head tossed on the pillow as she gripped desperate handfuls of the sheets on the bed, fighting to dislodge him and close her legs, feeling disoriented and gooey inside.
Remy grunted and pulled his hands from under her, ignoring the fact that she surged against him convulsively. If she didn't loosen her hold, she was going to crush his skull, damn it. Forcibly prying her knees apart, he pushed up further so that she could grip his shoulders (instead of his head) with her thighs. His hands covered hers on the bed, stilling their nervous fluttering, their fingers interlacing as she bucked against him, rhythmically now.
He wasn't stopping; he had hardly slowed down!
Oh God Oh God Oh God. What have I gotten myself into?! Is this man even human?! I have to make him stop! He has to stop, before I... before I--
And then she did. She shattered in his arms, into a million glittering pieces. He slid up over her, slick with sweat, plunging into her body before the last shudder had passed. She had little time to do anything more than wrap her legs around him as he slammed home, over and over, with such force that she was lifted off the bed with each thrust. He lifted his head and pushed past her lips, imitating the strokes of his body with his tongue.
She recoiled, tasting herself on his mouth, but had no place to go. She gripped him again, dimly struggling to remember her own name. This was sin! Blasphemy, in its purest form! And she was enjoying it! What was wrong with her?! Remy's fingers dug into her wrists as he clutched them; that small spasm of pain sent her over the edge.
He spent his desire between her legs and collapsed on top of her, breathing in hot, dry gasps against her neck. Still caught in the gleaming, crystalline cage she had built for him, a lovely prison of pleasure and promise, he whispered the name of his dream-lover, the woman he thought he held now in his arms, "Rogue."
The outsider stiffened, then went limp. No, she was not Rogue, she was Shani O'Rhian... Essex. The wife and dependant of Nathaniel Essex. The exclusive property of Nathaniel Essex.
That thought faded into a haze of feverish denial as she turned on her side squeezed her eyes shut, falling into a deep, torturous sleep.
Shani awoke to a strange buzzing sound, an unwelcome intrusion into her rest. Pushing herself up on her arms, she cast a hunted glance around the room. The alarm clock! Its flickering red numbers read 6:30! Oh, God. She was never going to make it back in time. Nathaniel allowed her certain freedom of movement, but he expected her to be present when he appeared in her chambers. He would be displeased when he found her missing this morning. She would be punished. Shani bounded from the bed and scooped her clothing off the floor, shoving her feet into her boots and her arms into her sleeves in a mad frenzy of motion. Grappling at her back for the zipper that snaked down her spine, Mrs. Essex shrieked aloud when warm hands performed the maddening task for her, pulling the tab of the zipper up in a single fluid motion.
It wasn't every day he woke up with a goddess in his bed and the peculiar feeling that he had fucked her without finding out her name first. That wasn't his usual style.
Before he could ask her anything or utter a word, she jerked away from him and bolted from the room.
Gambit stumbled into his jeans, lying forgotten on the floor, and followed.
Shani fled down the hall, her stride lengthening as she ran down the stairs and around corners, through hallways and past doors. Finally, she reached a paneled set of mahogany double doors, with Gambit mere steps behind her. Plunging through them like a rabbit pursued by a pack of wolves, she slammed the doors shut behind her and braced herself against them, wincing as Remy plowed into them from the other side. She was in the dining room, just a short dash from the sliding doors that led to freedom.
"Well, it seems we have a breakfast guest." A smooth voice, shaded with the rich tones of British blue bloods, cut across her frenzy. Psylocke, Betsy Braddock, finished buttering her toast and continued, "Are you from Avon, by any chance?"
Shani ignored Bets and instead focused on the other redhead, the one who shared a similar but far less volatile fate than she. "Forgive me," she cried, her feet sliding as Gambit shoved against the doors. "But you must understand... " Electricity flamed and heat flared between the two women as Shani thrust the truth at Jean.
"Oh, my God," Jean breathed, aching for the woman's pains, shared through
a brief bond. Shani nodded, her eyes desolate. She opened her mouth, as if
to say more, but shrieked and hurried away when Remy crashed through the
room's other set of doors. She passed through the glass doors leading
outside and ran across the grounds, outdistancing Remy, who was hindered by
the wet, slogging grass. In a flash of panic and searing triumph, Shani
sailed over the wall and disappeared into the glare of the early-morning
sun.
Shani's pulse raced dangerously as she crashed back into her own
chambers. It was 7:12. Peeling off her clothing, she tossed it into the
wardrobe and yanked her fine silken nightgown over her head, the robe
sliding over her shoulders. Pulling an ivory-handled brush through her
hair, she worked to calm her breathing, flopping down on the cushion in
front of her vanity table.
7:13. She had already been spotted. Scalphunter, one of her husband's damned "Marauders", had seen her scrambling through the entrance hallway. Perhaps he would not mention it to Nathaniel.
7:14. At times like these, her thoughts often strayed to Nathaniel's first wife; the lovely bride he had loved and lost so many years ago. At least, that's what the rumors said; that he had once loved her. If he was capable of such an emotion, Shani doubted it.
7:15. Alarm bells rang in her head as she flicked a last, harried glance at herself in the mirror, ignoring the shudder of revulsion she felt at doing so. Her face was flushed with exertion, her eyes glowing with triumph. She blinked rapidly, and her eyes went cloudy, murky and unremarkable. Her breastbone! What in the bloody hell was that odd, red mark?
"Good morning, my dear." Nathaniel walked into the room, looking with pride on his young wife. She started, her brush clattering to the tabletop, nervously clutching her wrapper closed at the throat. She turned and gave him a shy smile.
"Good morning, Nathan. I'm sorry. You startled me." Her voice was lovely, carefully modulated and delightfully toneless. Even the chambers he had designed for her were still pleasing to him, painstakingly decorated in muted shades of white, grey and black. The nightgown she wore was pearly white, accentuating the blaze of her hair, virtually the only spot of color in the room.
His inhuman red eyes narrowed as he pursued her lithe form, gauging the effect of his next words, "I was informed last night that you were not abed by midnight. That is unfortunate."
Shani flinched but found herself helpless to look away from his eyes. "I'm sorry," came to her lips immediately.
"Where were you?" He spoke almost conversationally, as though her freedom did not hinge upon her answer.
"I... I'm sorry, Nathan," she moved closer, almost close enough to touch him. "I was out taking a walk and I lost track of the time. I'm sorry." That wasn't a lie. She had been out taking a walk, before she-
"Ah." She was lying, somehow. "I understand, my dear. You need not look frightened." If I were you, I would look terrified. She smiled up at him. "I also see by the calender that tonight is our night. I shall see you at midnight, Shani." He disappeared from the room, closing the door to her cage with a soft click.
Shani slid to the floor in a boneless heap, one fist pressed to her mouth until it was bloodless, trying to muffle a scream.
Nathaniel paused at the head of the stairs, addressing the men clustered below. "Watch my wife. Check on her suite periodically. If she leaves her room, do not take your eyes from her. See that she does not leave this house."
She was lying, somehow. That was unfortunate. For her.
Tears dripped from Mrs. Essex's chin, falling into the froth of bubbles
that covered her bath. The soap was unscented; her husband detested perfume
and preferred her to be scrubbed free of scent, almost sterile. Trembling
hands lifted from the water and she parted the froth of bubbles, staring
down at her body. Besides the pink bruise between her breasts, there were
ten lines framing her hips, perfect imprints of long, elegant fingers.
Also, there was a dark bracelet around her right wrist, distinguishable by
the large thumbprint over her pulse. How was she to conceal this from her
husband, he who saw everything and missed nothing?
She had failed in her petty attempt to get back at her husband for the torment he had caused her. Instead of being broken and forgotten, as she had been before, Remy LeBeau had healed something in her. Last night, her soul had been free to dance with his. She was in worse shape than when she had simply been broken, because now she had had a taste of ecstacy and then lost it.
She had failed in spades. She could feel no life inside her. She had gone through such sharp, tremulous torment for nothing. She was dead inside, more dead than she had ever been. She wished to still her thoughts, to join her body and spirit in death. One was useless without the other, after all. She had denied herself that simple truth for too long.
Standing quickly, water poured from her body in gleaming sheets as Shani reached behind her for a towel, loathe to turn around, for she knew there was a mirror behind her. A towel wrapped around her from behind. Shani gasped and spun around, clutching the thick cloth protectively.
He grinned mischievously back at her, a choir boy who had wandered into her bathroom. Wrapping the cotton sheath guardedly around her body, she stepped from the water and strode into the bedroom. "Mr. Creed," she acknowledged softly.
"Mrs. Essex," he returned, his voice harsh and grating in the calm morning silence. He no longer worked for her husband, officially, but he often appeared in Sinister's dealings. Although surprised, she was hardly shocked that he had found his way aboveground, all the way to her bathroom.
"Did he tell you to spy on me?" She asked lightly, stepping behind a painted silk screen to dress. Creed didn't seem to be concerned with viewing something he shouldn't.
The screen was black, but Shani didn't realize that when she flicked on the lamp beside her neatly folded clothing, it became translucent.
Sabretooth's obsidian eyes narrowed on her curvaceous shadow as she removed the towel, carefully hanging it on the rack. He watched her fluid hands reach over her head, lifting her firm breasts while she unpinned her messily bound hair. It tumbled down her back in a dark, sinuous wave, all the way to her waist. "Yeah. Not me, specifically, but he told all o' us t'keep an eye on ya." His breath came faster, the blood rushing to his groin.
"Lovely. I'm officially a caged animal. This just makes the failure of my life all the more vivid." She shimmied her hips, efficiently working her way into a bra and panties.
Victor Creed watched her with a wide, fixed gaze. The animal inside, never far from the surface, surged against the fragile leash that held him, frenzied with lust. It would only take one more tease to send him over the edge.
Smoothing a slate gray body suit over her, The zipper was in the front this time, she pulled the tab into place and stepped from behind the screen. Shani raised her hands again, running tired fingers through her hair. Her body was outlined faithfully by the fabric, and the provocative pose of her with her arms over her head finished him. The animal's leash snapped.
Her eyes went wide and alarmed, watching him rise swiftly. She read the ungodly intent in his eyes before she turned and ran for the door. He was upon her before she could open it, slamming her against it. Her jaw connected with the hard wood and she moaned, hurting as he spun her around in his arms, holding her shoulders in a crushing grip. He dragged her to the bed, throwing her down on it savagely.
Shani opened her mouth to scream, but he slammed one hand over her mouth.
"If you scream and bring Sinister in here, I'll tell 'im you seduced me, that y'invited me in here an' int' your bed. Now who do y'think he'll believe: his slave or his partner?"
Shani was beyond caring about her husband or his reaction; all she cared about was saving her body. She opened her mouth, terrified when she saw Creed draw back his fist.
He changed his mind. "I can't make any marks on ya, can I? He'd notice those." Instead, he reached over her head to the curtains, ripping free the tasseled white cords that held them open. There were four. Tossing her fully onto the bed, ignoring her pitiful, panicky struggles, he bound her wrists to the headboard. Using two ropes, he bound each of her feet to the corresponding bedposts. She screeched and kicked at him, hitting him in the head before he could get her left foot knotted in place. He gripped her foot and pressed it to the post, tying it tightly. Then he reached under her and pulled her silk nightgown from the bed, stuffing it into her mouth.
Shani's screams reverberated in her own head, the harsh, desperate sounds muffled by the gag and doomed to quiver in her throat, unheard by any savior.
He wasted no time with foreplay; he ripped the cloth from her body at the seams and thrust his fingers inside her, his long, sharp fingernails spearing the vulnerable flesh in more than one place. Broken sobs echoed between them at the pain of his assault. He grinned, as though he enjoyed it, and removed his hands from her and reached up to curl one palm around her neck, digging his nails into the flesh, to make sure she would be unable to turn her face away. He wanted to watch her.
Sabretooth heaved into her, filling her savagely. Shani screamed again at his dry intrusion into her body. His nails dug into her neck and her eyes snapped open obediently. He thrust in and out, the bestial noises that came from his throat polluted the air between them. Her wrists and ankles chafed brutally as she fought against the ropes. He was merciless in his determination to spill himself in her before he would allow her some small, charitable respite from the pain.
By the time it was finished, Shani had gone quiet and resigned, no longer struggling. Creed took his hand from her neck, leaving bloody welts there. He pulled free of her legs, carelessly noting that harsh, stinging fluid oozed from her in his wake. Her eyes dropped closed and she sighed, making no sound while he pulled her wrists free of the ropes.
Humming to himself, he sauntered from the suite, closing the door reverently behind him.
Shani lay unresponsive and uncaring for a long time.
"I still don' know how dat woman coulda got in here wit'out anybody
noticing."
"Aw, hell, Gambit. We weren't exactly armed and ready. She coulda slipped right in, easy."
"Yeah, but I thought you were outside last night."
"I was." Logan sipped his beer and didn't elaborate.
"And she still got in? You must be losin' your touch, mon ami."
"Shove it, Cajun."
Remy fell silent, still pondering the woman's appearance in his bed. He
wondered, too, if he would ever see her again.
Mrs. Essex sat up, flinching at the sharp sting of her muscles in protest.
Moving mechanically, she pulled her feet free. When she swallowed and
almost choked on the cloth in her mouth, she slowly drew the silk out,
dropping it listlessly on the bed.
Moving jerkily, in short bursts of activity, she made her way toward the bathroom. Once there, she saw that she had forgotten to drain the tub. How careless of her. Nathaniel would not be pleased to find a bathtub ring. She stumbled toward it, needing to wash, to be clean again. Pure. Untouchable. Safe.
But those were things she could never be. Never again. Shaking now, Shani turned away from the bathtub and skittered to her vanity, collapsing on the velvet cushion. Her breathing was gasping and ragged. She ran trembling hands over her face. Her fear of death was no longer stronger than her fear of life. True fear was knowing that she would have to bear this sacrilegious existence every day until she drew her last breath. As far as Shani was concerned, that glorious day had arrived.
In a sonorous epiphany of movement, she rose to her feet, walked across the plush carpet to scoop up a heavy black lacquered jewelry box, and hurled it across the room.
The impact shattered the mirror into a thousand shining, jewel-bright pieces that cascaded to the vanity top and the floor like starlight. The jewelry box burst open, the hinges cracking. Beautiful diamond rings, necklaces, bracelets and precious baubles spilled to the floor, flashing and twinkling in the muted, somber light.
The silence surged forth again. No one rushed to the door to see what had happened. No one cared.
Shani's tears welled up in her throat and flooded her eyes, thick and bitter. She knelt on the floor, reaching out a calm hand to pick up a perfect sliver of glass. It flashed and sparkled, beckoning her. Taking one last look at her forlorn visage in the mirror, Shani sighed, plunging the razor-sharp glass into and across her throat. It fell from her hand and Shani fell beside it, welcoming the loving blanket of oblivion that stole over her. As it had been once before, her soul was free. It danced upward, beyond the reach of mortal men, beyond the reach of even Nathaniel Essex.
Shani O'Rhian Essex died with a smile on her face; no longer able to see
the desolation that surrounded her.