In those quiet moments, as the first rays of muted sunlight filtered through the window and lay an illusory blanket of peace over the room, Logan found his mind turning inward. Turning to those few, tightly guarded memories he still had. . .
When he'd awoken, cold and naked, in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, he'd been little more than a nameless beast, trapped in the body of a man. He had stumbled through the snow for miles - his mind a roiling mass of terrified pain as sensory images bombarded it. How could a man. . . yes, he was a man. . . he remembered that much now. . . How could a man know, from smell alone, that there was a deer in the woods fifty yards off to his right, and not know his name? He remembered staring at the backs of his hands, knowing there was something there.. something else he should know. . . With a spasm of the muscles in his forearms, six gleaming claws had shot out from between his knuckles and he'd cried out at the sudden pain. Had stared down at the claws, his mind screaming that this was part of him, and not part of him. And then the images of a tub filled with liquid, of scalpels reddened with his own blood, of a champagne toast to the success of the experiment while he screamed in agony, slammed into his overloaded mind and he'd passed out face down in the snow.
He'd come to again and still remembered that he was a man. The name 'Logan' had flitted across his barely conscious mind and he'd latched onto it with desparation. He rolled over in the snow and the sensation of cold metal pressing against his chest had brought his hand up to find the source. Numb
fingers closed around a chain and he lifted it to peer at the bright metal. Dogtags. Stamped with a series of numbers and one word - 'Wolverine'. That was him, somehow he knew this. But he was 'Logan', too. So he'd climbed to his feet and staggered onwards to the nearest cabin. Clutching those names
to his soul, wrapping those shredded remnants of an identity around himself as a ward against the pain he could still feel inside. The pain and the terror. . .
The following years had seen a slow progress in discovering who he now was. Who he had been only came to him at night, in nightmares that brought him screaming and shaking out of sleep. In frightening images that faded to a dull haze in his subconscious the moment he was fully awake. . . With all that, the unfocused anger he'd first felt in that desolate forest had steadily grown into a rage that continually threatened to swallow the tattered vestiges of his humanity. And with that rage had come hate. . . hate
for the faceless people who were responsible for what was done to him. The rage and hate had driven him to spend those years in constant movement, from town to town, bar to bar. Making a living venting that terrible anger on whoever dared to oppose him in the fight cage, spending most of his nights trying to fend off the nightmares with large quantities of alcohol and the occasional woman. But always, always he'd moved on after less than a week. Always chasing after a past he was desperate to piece together. . .
And now, here he was - fifteen long years later, lying on a cold wood floor, with his arms wrapped around a living, breathing part of his past. A woman whose soft, amber eyes soothed the pain, brought him a level of wholeness, of completeness, that he'd not felt in all the time he could remember. A woman whose love he hadn't even known he'd lost until a twist of fate had led him to her again. With that thought had come the memories of seeing her lying on that lab table, of her tears washing down her face, of the Professor's compassionate voice telling him the words he'd never wanted to hear. Telling him of what had been done to her, all because of him. . . And of opening his eyes, the sharp ends of his claws still cutting into the skin beneath his jaw, to see her own eyes staring back at him. Filled with love, forgiveness and pleading. Pleading not to leave her alone. Not again. . .
His arms tightened around her still body, a low growl building in his chest. Never again. Never again would he let them take her from him. He'd rather die first. . . He closed his eyes against the panic that surged through him, his arms tightening further as he buried his face in her hair. Never again. . .
Soft waking sounds and the stirring of the body wrapped in his arms brought him back to himself with a start. He lifted a hand to gently brush the hair back from Kiara's forehead and found her eyes open, looking up at him. Watched as the sleepy smile on her face died beneath the returning memories of what had happened. . . Her gaze dropped to focus on the floor next to them.
"Logan, I'm sorry. . . " The eerie echo of her tormented words from the night before sent a kiss of fear racing through him and his own voice was hoarse in response.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Kiara," he whispered against her hair. She slowly raised her head to stare at him, her pained eyes lingering on the dried blood stains that still graced his chest and arm.
"I hurt you." Those three simple words held such a wealth of torment and regret in them, Logan felt like his heart was being squeezed in a vise. He forced a small smile onto his face and cupped her cheek with his hands.
"I was stupid - I tried to wake you from a nightmare. You had no idea what you were doing, Kiara. You didn't mean to hurt me."
"No, I meant to hurt someone else. . . " Her reply was barely audible and before he could question her on it, she was smiling up at him. "Well," she said, a small glint in her eyes, "I think someone needs a shower, then." The teasing tone of her voice surprised him and he hesitated. A moment ago, she'd been
wracked with guilt over hurting him, and now she was all smiles and mischief. He arched an eyebrow and stared deep into her eyes for a long moment. The smile remained on her face, but a hint of pleading crept into her eyes. Yielding to her unspoken desire to let things be for now, Logan grinned back at her.
"But the shower's all the way across the room. . . " She laughed and slapped him lightly on the chest, before rolling off him and climbing to her feet.
"Come on, you big baby - if you don't keep me waiting, I promise I'll wash your back. . . " With an impish look over her shoulder, she sauntered across the floor and into the bathroom. Logan chuckled low in his throat and padded silently after her.
By the time he reached the bathroom, she had the shower running and was in the process of pulling her nightgown over her head. The sight of the smooth expanse of her back sent an immediate shiver of lust rolling down his spine, and a corresponding tightening in his groin. He started to move forwards when another, stranger feeling swept over him. Guilt. The strenghth and shock of it stopped him in his tracks, eyes widened. Guilt. . . Why the hell should he suddenly feel guilty for wanting her? Before the thought had even finished itself, he knew part of the answer. Some part of him still felt irrationally guilty for what was done to her. For the brutal rapes she'd endured. . . And that part of him was terrified to touch her. To have any remnant of those horrible memories associate themselves in her mind with *his* touch. To cause her any more pain than she already bore. . .
"You going to stand there all day?" The surface of her words were soft, velvet-coated passion. But beneath that, he could hear the uncertainty, the nervousness, and that decided him. In a few short strides, he was behind her, his arms rising to pull her gently against him as his mouth fell to her bared neck.
"Just enjoying the view. . . " he murmured against her sweet skin and felt a tremor run through her body in response. His kisses grew bolder, as a soft moan whispered past her lips, and he slid a hand down to rest against the small of her stomach. Strong fingers stretching and kneading at the skin there, as lips and teeth bit and caressed a line along her left shoulder. She moaned again, shifting her hips to rub against him, and his arms tightened around her in response. Holding her more tightly to him as his
kisses became more urgent and his hand fell lower. . . Suddenly, he felt her body start and stiffen. He lifted his lips from her shoulder, about to ask what was wrong, and then she was pulling free from his embrace. Her arms rising to hug herself as she turned to face him. The unshed tears in her eyes and the barely hidden fear on her face stole the air from his lungs.
"Logan, I'm sorry. . . I just. . . I can't. . . I'm sorry. . . " Her voice cracked and she grabbed up a towel, wrapping it around herself as she pushed past his rigid form. Stopping next to him to whisper once last time, "I'm sorry. . . ", and then she was gone. Leaving him standing alone in the bathroom, hands clenched in fists at his side. With a groan of frustration, he forced his hands flat against the smooth tiles of the counter and stared into the mirror. Struggled against the rage sweeping through him at the damage that had been done to Kiara, and lost the battle when an image of her broken and bruised body flashed through his mind. His fist was connecting with the glass before he was even aware of it, and he felt the sharp relief of pain as it shattered. As the ragged edges sliced and tore at the skin of his hand. . . Felt frustration return as the wounds knit and healed instantly and he was left staring down at bloodied, unbroken skin. Heard the slam of the bedroom door as Kiara left and felt a pang of regret that she'd heard the breaking glass. The physical frustration he could deal with, that wasn't what was eating at him. No, it was the loss of trust. A trust that had come to be a part of him, something he didn't need to think about. Until now, Kiara had felt the same way. But the awakened memories of the trauma she'd undergone had damaged that trust. Had damaged *her* to the point where she wasn't even able to bear the intimate touch of the one person who would gladly die for her at the drop of a hat. Who never, ever wanted her to hurt again. . . Who had no idea how to undo the damage that had been done. . .
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