The Last Command
Chapter 1
by
Tygerzeye
Author's Note: The story takes place in Germany during the last days of World War Two. I may have taken some liberties with places and dates but I've tried to stay as accurate as I can.
"How great in strength is the side of man,
from which God produced the form of woman."
Hildegard von Bingen.
May 6th 1945 1.30 am
The shelling had stopped but Logan's ears still rang with the sounds of destruction. He tried to shake the noise away, frantically trying to pick up any kind of signal or indication that his unit were still with him, but the woods were silent and dark. He was alone, disoriented by the bombardment that had rained down all around him. He couldn't even be sure which direction he was walking in. In the inky blackness of night the forest appeared to continue on forever in every direction, the massive trunks of oak and elm loomed over him as if intent on suffocating him beneath their tightly woven blanket of branches. He felt a momentary stab of fear, an irrational feeling that he might be lost in this alien land forever, may never get to see the snow-laden beauty of the Canadian wilderness again. He had never longed for the peace and tranquillity of his own country as much as he did at that moment. Slumping down next to the shattered stump of a felled chestnut tree he reached into his pocket for a cigarette. Better to wait for daybreak, he told himself, find your bearings; get back to the Allied line, away from the fleeing enemy, away from the dark forces which approached from the East. His eyelids drooped. Unable to fight the exhaustion anymore, his mind drifted away amongst thoughts of home.
Hannah awoke to the sound of muffled whispering and running footsteps. It was still dark outside; she guessed it was the early hours of the morning but she had no way to check her watch. That would require switching on a light, but the oil lamps were stored outside as a fire precaution. Struggling out of her sleeping bag she pulled on her fatigues which she had left in a crumpled heap on the floor, and opened the door to her cabin.
Outside, the camp was buzzing. It seemed as if everyone was awake, milling around on gangways and platforms, voices murmuring excitedly in the warm spring air.
"Hannah." She heard someone call her name and turned to see a small woman in her early fifties running along one of the gangways towards her.
"Ruth, what's going on?" she hissed.
"It's Sierra Patrol." The woman replied, barely able to catch her breath as she skidded to a halt at her friend's feet. "They found someone out in the forest. A man. He's unconscious."
Hannah felt her heart leap in her chest. Over the past few days they had seen a number of people pass through these woods, mostly in small groups. They were refugees from the east, escaping the onward march of the invading Russian army as it closed in on Berlin. But none of these poor souls had stopped long, driven on by fear, preferring to take their chances with the Allies who lay to the west, than wait out certain death at the hands of Stalin's butchers.
"Is he wounded?" she asked.
"Doesn't appear to be." Ruth said with a shrug. "Looks like exhaustion. They stretchered him in a few minutes ago. He's in Medical."
Hannah sighed. They were only thirty-six hours away from launching what might be their last mission. A German defeat was already inevitable but they had all vowed to fight on until they were certain, until that announcement crackled out across the radio that Berlin had fallen, that the hated Reich had been defeated. Now it seemed she had a patient to deal with. It couldn't have come at a worse time for her, but she had taken her Hippocratic Oath and she was bound by it to help, even if her unconscious charge turned out to be the Fuhrer himself.
"OK." She said, more to herself than anyone else. "I'll go take a look."
The man lay motionless on a hospital gurney in the warm dimly lit silence of the First Aid tent. The only sign that he was still alive was the steady rise and fall of his chest. Hannah let her gaze travel up and down his body, looking for any sign of obvious injury but there was none. She took his pulse. It was slow and steady. His forehead when she touched it was warm, but not feverish, he showed no signs of hypothermia, or exposure. Her fingers traced lazily the line of his jaw, her nails rasping quietly through the stubble that sprinkled his cheeks as she turned her attention to his scalp and neck. His hair was unusual, thick and glossy and black, more like the coat of a wild animal than the hair of a human man but there were no wounds to his head. She continued her exam. His dog tags bore the name 'Wolverine'. The insignia on his uniform told her he was a Corporal with a Canadian Unit. He must have gotten separated from them and wandered into the woods. As far as Hannah knew the nearest Allied Force was still fifty miles away. Carefully, she unfastened the buttons of his jacket and let it slide open, pushing the thin material of his t-shirt upwards to expose his stomach and ribs. His skin was tanned and covered with a fine downy coat of hair the like of which Hannah had never seen before. Cautiously she reached out with her hand and touched the taught ridges of his abdominal muscles. They fluttered and tensed beneath her fingertips, his skin, with it's covering of dark hair felt like velvet, warm and smooth and sensuous.
"Well now there's something you don't see every day."
Hannah jumped back as if scolded, feeling a flush of embarrassment burn her cheeks. She hadn't noticed Ruth arrive. The older woman stood under the single oil lamp with two mugs of steaming liquid in her hands.
"Hairy fellow isn't he." She said, passing one of the mugs to Hannah.
"Male hair patternations come in all sorts of varieties." Hannah tried to cling to her professional manner as best as she could. "Its unusual, but not unheard of." She took a sip of her drink, wincing at its taste. "Acorn coffee again?"
"The real thing is proving to be hard to come by." Ruth replied. "I can't remember the last time I tasted it." She nodded towards their patient. "How's he doin?"
Hannah sighed.
"Seems to be fine, he's just passed out, but I need to make sure there are no broken bones anywhere else." She set her cup down on the bedside table. "You'll have to help me."
"With what?" Ruth looked sceptical.
"I haven't checked his legs yet." Hannah replied. "We'll have to get his pants off."
Ruth looked down at the slumbering form that lay between them; his handsome face, the perfectly sculpted lines of his chest and stomach.
"Oh my. . . " she whispered.
8.05 am
Logan drifted gradually back into reality, struggling against the echo of artillery that still pounded in his ears. He forced open his eyelids, waiting until the world stopped spinning before he dared to move his head. He was no longer in the forest. Instead of branches and leaves swaying above him, he saw the canopied roof of a field hospital, felt the soft yielding warmth of a mattress supporting his body, where previously there had only been hard, wet soil. He pulled himself into a sitting position, aware of the nausea that washed over him in wrenching waves. He was alone; the other half dozen gurneys were empty. His head swam, the air inside the tent was stale and hot, and he could barely breathe. He had to get outside.
Hannah had been awake all night, except for a couple of hours when Ruth had stayed with their patient so that she could get some rest, but she had been back at the First Aid tent at 6am after seeing off the first of the days reconnaissance patrols. She desperately needed sleep, they had an important two days ahead of them and she couldn't afford to be tired but something kept drawing her back to their mysterious visitor. She could still sense the warmth of his skin against the palm of her hand, smell the musky odour of his body and feel the thick smoothness of his hair between her fingers. The last time she had touched a man, it had been her husband, her Johannes. He had been gone five years now, tortured and eventually killed in the laboratories of Belsen Concentration Camp, taken from her because he was different, because those in power decided they had to know what made him what he was and if they killed him in the process it didn't really matter, he was Polish, barely human in their eyes. Perhaps that was what kept her coming back; the instinctive knowledge that this stranger was different too, that within him lay the genetic code that would be his curse in this world.
She sipped at her filthy acorn coffee, swallowing quickly before the taste could register on her tongue. The thick canopy of leaves above her made them invisible to over flying aircraft but still allowed enough sunlight through to keep the tents snug and cosy. She tilted her head, allowing the first rays of morning to warm her face.
Behind her, the opening of the First Aid tent flew open and the stranger exploded from the darkness as if shot from a cannon. Hannah felt the coffee mug slip from her grasp as he stumbled into her arms, nearly knocking her off her feet. She braced herself against one of the gangway supports, bearing most of his weight on her arms as he wretched violently over the side of the platform, his whole body heaving as he gasped for breath. Then slowly, his legs seemed to give way. Unable to hold him upright, her own knees buckled and they collapsed together onto the floor, his head heavy against her shoulder, his arms draped limply around her waist. She ran her hands over his broad back, feeling the frigid sweat that soaked his skin, the tremors that shook his muscles. He was dehydrated. She slumped back against the support post; he was too heavy for her to lift herself. She would have to wait until he came round enough to make it to his feet on his own. Then she felt the vibration in the support post and heard the sound of footsteps running in her direction. Twisting her head round she saw Ruth, sprinting towards her down the gangway, her face a mask of concern. Hannah felt the relief wash over her. Clutching the man's body tightly to her own, she stroked his dark, thick hair.
"It's going to be ok." She whispered.
Logan sipped at his water, watching silently as the young woman went about her work. How he had managed to stumble outside he didn't know; his head had been swimming, his stomach lurching uncontrollably as he struggled to breathe. He remembered the blinding light of morning searing his eyes and the scent of damp soil and spring flowers filling his nostrils, then nothing until he came round again, his exhausted mind registering the soft sound of her voice, the warmth of her body pressed against his and the gentle caress of her fingers on the back of his neck. For one sweet moment, the rest of the world seemed to melt away; there was no war, no fighting, no deafening gunfire, just the two of them lying under the swaying canopy of the forest ceiling. Then, suddenly he had been pulled away, strong hands grasping his shoulders and hauling him to his feet. He had stumbled for a moment, his vision blurred; then her arm was around his waist, her shoulder bearing the weight of his body as she helped him inside and back into bed. She had given him water to drink and a few small squares of bitter tasting chocolate, then without a word she had left, returning minutes later with what appeared to be a large map tucked under her arm. She had used safety pins to fasten it to the inside wall of the tent and now she sat with her back to him on a rusty old bar stool, a child's felt tip pen balanced between her lips as she studied the contours of the map. She was dressed in khaki fatigues but her clothes bore no sign of rank and she wore no dog tags around her neck. The only insignia on her shirt were two small badges on the left sleeve. The first was unknown to him. It showed the silhouette of a small black spider woven onto a dark red background. The second patch, sewn directly below the first identified her as a medic; the twin serpents entwined around the sword was a symbol he had seen in many field hospitals but the woman herself was unlike any army doctor he had come across before. Her hair, held away from her face by a knotted black bandana, tumbled down her back in a stream of loose auburn curls, ending just above the gentle swell of her hips. Her skin seemed pale for someone who lived and worked outside but her face, without a hint of make-up was handsome and strong. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, the pen bobbing up and down between her teeth. Slowly she leaned forward and with careful precision, marked a small cross on the canvas map.
Logan took another sip of water.
"How long before we get to Berlin?" he said, his voice a barely audible croak.
"We're not going to Berlin." She replied, her attention never leaving the map.
Logan didn't understand. How long had he been out for? Could the plans have changed so dramatically overnight?
"The Russians?" he whispered hoarsely.
She turned to look at him. Her dark green eyes were filled with concern but he could see to that she was on the verge of exhaustion.
"They'll get there before the Allies do." She replied. "In a couple of days these woods will be full of refugees."
Logan frowned. He had assumed he was back behind Allied lines, that somehow, someone from his unit had caught up to him and taken him back but something in her words didn't ring true. He hauled himself into a sitting position feeling an uncomfortable fluttering in the pit of his stomach.
"Where in hell am I?" he asked.
She got to her feet and crossed over to him. Resting a cool hand against his forehead, she checked his temperature and then his pulse. Finally, after what seemed like an age to him, she spoke.
"Our current position is about 20 miles west of the outskirts of Berlin. The nearest Allied Unit on the Front Line is 46 miles to the northwest, an American company I think. The Russian Front Line is about 40 miles to the east although they're moving fast. They'll be within the boundaries of Berlin in about 48 hours. These woods are just about the only part of German controlled territory left."
Logan's heart hammered behind his ribs. He was nearly fifty miles inside enemy territory. How the hell had he gotten this far? He struggled to remember where he had been when he became separated from his company but his memory failed him, all he could recall was the pounding of artillery fire and the stench of burning grass. Who had found him and what kind of place had they brought him to? The woman seemed to sense his fear. She took his hand in hers, her slim fingers lacing through his.
"You haven't been captured." She said. "This isn't a Prisoner of War Camp; it's a Resistance Unit."
Logan stared at her in disbelief. The French Resistance Movement was well known but he had heard of no similar activity within Germany's own borders. The woman laughed at his expression her tiredness gone for a moment. The smile that lingered on her lips radiated a warmth and beauty that at once soothed him but also stirred his desire.
"C'mon." she said patting his leg playfully. "I'll give you the guided tour."
The sight that greeted Logan outside was the most breathtaking he had ever seen. The camp to which he had been brought was hidden in the forest canopy, a good fifty feet from the undergrowth below. A series of large platforms had been constructed around the trunks and in the branches of the sturdiest trees, each platform supporting a variety of tents and small wooden slatted cabins. The whole complex was linked together by a spider's web of narrow wooden suspension bridges and was hidden from the ground by an artificial canopy of thickly woven branches. He recalled the faint sense of claustrophobia he had felt the night before, looking up at the trees as they seem to press down on him, and he realised that he must have passed out very close to, if not right under the camp itself. The woman, who had introduced herself as Hannah, explained that the entire structure had been built by its occupants over the course of several years, expanding outwards as more people joined their cause until eventually it covered nearly a quarter of a square mile of forest and provided shelter for nearly thirty resistance workers and a dozen school age children. In fact Logan could see for himself that the camp was buzzing with life. Everywhere he looked, people in forest coloured fatigues were wandering from tent to tent whilst others stood on watch or sat outside the mess cabin drinking mugs of coffee, but there was something strange here, something missing that puzzled him for a moment.
"The men all out on patrol?" He asked.
"No." Hannah replied; her voice hushed with sadness. "There are no men here."
Logan gazed out at the complex again as if seeing it for the first time.
"This whole thing was built by women?"
Hannah decided to tactfully avoid the implication in his remark not knowing if he meant it to come out the way it sounded. Instead she explained,
"This country has been at war for six long years. Most of the people didn't want to fight but the men were conscripted and when, after a few years the casualties could no longer be replaced by men of fighting age they started taking the boys too. Every woman here has lost someone, some of them have lost entire families and not just to conscription." She paused; the words were difficult; the grief stabbed at her heart. She had never had to explain to an outsider before. "We have Jewish women here, Gypsies, women whose husbands were poets, journalists, politicians. They were taken away, put to death because their mere existence was offensive to the state." Her voice was shaking now, her grief mingled with anger, with hatred for the men who had left her a widow at 23. Her hands trembled. She had been fighting for so long, it suddenly felt as if she hadn't slept for 5 years. The pain was overwhelming, her mind reeled with the memories of a life lost forever, her body sagged under the weight of countless women's sorrow.
His arms caught her just as her legs gave way. She felt the warmth of his chest on her cheek, the pounding of his heart filling her senses; so strong and so alive. She pressed herself against him, feeling his embrace tighten around her waist, his breath blowing cool against the sweat that pricked her brow. She had always been the strong one, the one that people turned to in their grief but now, as the stranger held her in his massive arms she felt so frail and small she was afraid that if he let her go the wind would take her as easily as it took the dying leaves from the trees every autumn. She felt his hand stroke her hair, just as she had caressed his in the darkness of early morning when he had been unconscious and vulnerable. Now the roles were reversed and she didn't want him to stop, wanted him to keep touching her, longed to have those hands explore her body, to feel his lips on hers, they were already so close; she needed only to lift her head. Her desire sprang from nowhere and washed over her in a powerful tide, ripping away her breath, making her pulse pound. But she couldn't do it, it had been so long, no, it hadn't been long enough. She backed away from his embrace unable to meet his gaze.
"I have work to do." She murmured.
Logan watched silently as she walked away, knowing that nothing he could say would make any difference. The warmth of her slender body still lingered on his skin and his arms ached to hold her again. He knew he could never take away the pain that bore down on her, his own anguish had followed him across a century, but even if it was only for a few hours, he wanted so much to help her forget.
Ruth watched as Hannah strode purposefully down the gangway towards her. She was sat outside the stores, and had been pondering what to serve for lunch when she saw the two figures emerge from the First Aid tent, pausing at the guardrail that ran around the edge of the platform. Hannah was a tall and athletic woman but even she appeared to be dwarfed in the presence of this man; his handsome profile and the hard lines of his powerful body radiated a strength and sensuality that even Ruth, in the twilight of middle age couldn't fail to notice. Her breath had caught in her throat when she had seen them embrace, her friend's body seeming to melt at his touch but then her hope had died as Hannah had pulled away, leaving the stranger to gaze after her as she had turned her back on him. Ruth sighed, how much longer was it going to be?
"I know what you're thinking, so don't say it." Hannah slumped down next to her on an apple crate seat and buried her head in her hands.
"I was fifty one when they shot my husband." She said, completely ignoring her friend's gruff command. "At that age you don't really expect to find somebody new. Who's going to take a second glance at a tired old woman with callused hands and creaking joints?"
"A tired old man with callused hands and creaking joints?" Hannah replied and Ruth laughed.
"The thing is," she whispered "One day, you might wake up and find you're not the handsome young woman you were. There'll be lines where there used to be freckles, fat where there used to be muscle. You'll have wasted half your life, mourning for a man you can't bring back. Do you really want to be alone when that day arrives?"
Hannah lifted her head and looked at her friend, her eyes glistening with fresh tears.
"No." she murmured, her voice barely more than a stifled sob.
Ruth gazed back across the camp to where the stranger still stood, his arms resting on the guardrail, one hand supporting his chin as he stared down at the ground below.
"He reminds you of Johannes doesn't he." She whispered.
"A little." Came the reply.
"Because he's one of their kind?"
Hannah stared in surprise at the older woman. It hadn't occurred to her that Ruth might have realised too. Her friend responded with a smile, reaching out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"It takes courage for a human woman to love one of them." She said. "You had the world at your feet, the pick of all the men but you married Johannes and made yourself an outcast."
"I loved him." Hannah replied, the tears burning her cheeks.
"I know you did." The older woman stood, wincing at the audible click of her bones. "But the time to mourn is over." She cast one last glance in the stranger's direction. "He could have left by now," she murmured, almost to herself. "His kit bag and rifle are still in the First Aid tent. Perhaps he's found himself with a reason to stay."
6.30 pm.
The smell of freshly cooked rabbit stew was permeating the entire camp. Hannah was ravenous. Real food, not soggy army rations. Her stomach growled with anticipation. They had been setting small traps out in the forest for some time without success but that afternoon Ruth had persuaded the stranger to go out and see what they had caught, supplying him with a roughly drawn map showing the locations of the traps. Hannah had felt a momentary sense of apprehension. What if he didn't come back? But he had, returning not more than an hour later with a dozen fresh rabbits. Hannah suspected that the animals had not been snared at all and that the stranger had caught them with his bare hands. She had stood outside the radio cabin, where she had been working for most of the day, and watched from a distance as the man skinned and boned the carcasses on a table set up outside the mess hut. The more she watched, the more curious she became. She had wondered about the word on his dog tags. 'Wolverine.' It had to be a nickname of some kind. It couldn't be the name he was born with, although it seemed to suit him rather well. When she had first touched him he had been unconscious but despite that she had still felt the raw, wild energy that flowed beneath his human exterior. She could see it in the confident stride of his powerful legs and in the flexing of his muscles as he stripped the pelts from the dead animals. Once he had looked up, having sensed her gaze, and she saw the passion that burned in his dark eyes, as limitless and beautiful as the wilderness itself. She had looked away, embarrassed, feeling like a schoolgirl that had been caught gawking at a handsome teacher. For these past five years she had clung to her memories of Johannes, shutting out everyone and everything else, thinking only of the love they had had and the revenge she so badly wanted. But now, they were probably only hours away from victory and when it came there would be nothing left for her, nothing to sustain her and nowhere for her to go. Johannes was gone and Ruth had been right; when this all finished the last thing Hannah wanted was to wake up alone.
Logan staggered out of the mess hut, his arms laden with food. Ruth had piled the two mess trays with enough stew and mashed potatoes to feed a small squadron of grown men. She'd also added a mug of coffee to each one, and then, jamming two slices of unleavened bread under his arm had pointed him in the direction of Hannah's cabin. The look on her face had said, "Don't come back till breakfast." Logan set off with a tray in each hand. He could see the young doctor in the distance, her silhouette illuminated in the dusk by a single oil lamp that hung from the roof of her cabin. She sat alone on the edge of the platform, her legs swinging lazily over the side, her forehead resting against the guard rail as she stared at the ground far below. Other camp inhabitants passed him on their way to dinner but most of them were too engrossed in their own conversations to pay him much attention, for which he was silently thankful. In the past he had always found it easy to talk to women, but this time it was different. He had been drawn to Hannah, not just by her beauty, but also by a bond of shared sorrow. When he looked into those deep green eyes he saw a reflection of his own pain, of the anguish of a soul forced to witness the death of its mate. The desire to hold her, to comfort her, to love her was overwhelming, not only because he wanted to banish her grief, but also because he wanted so much to be rid of his own. His stomach churned when he remembered the way she had turned from him that morning. What if she rejected him again? He would be forced to leave, to walk away, when what he desired more than anything was to lie with her and watch the flickering light of the oil lamp dance on flushed, moist skin.
He was almost standing over her before she noticed his approach; her gaze as she turned to look at him seemed to be focussed on something much further away. He hesitated, wondering if he should leave, but then she was smiling at him, her dark eyes betraying the fierce passion that he had ignited within her as one hand reached up to take a tray whilst the other beckoned him to join her. He sat down at her side on the warm wooden boards of the platform and together they began to eat. Neither of them felt the desire for the kind of small talk people normally made during dinner. They ate quickly, hungrily, both of them feeling a strange, exciting urgency; a need to finish with the mundane task of eating. The air around them seemed alive with energy, it crackled with the tension of unconsummated desire. Logan could feel the hair on the back of his neck tingling and there was a warmth in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with hot food. He glanced over at Hannah. She had already put down her tray and was sat, cross legged, her eyes closed, the coffee mug grasped in both hands, as she listened, engrossed, to the sounds of the forest. He allowed his gaze to wander down the fine straight line of her neck, pausing to study the gentle contours of her breasts as they pushed against the thin material of her shirt. Her stomach was flat and toned from regular work, her hips flared with the soft curves of womanhood. He wanted her so much at that moment, the temptation to touch her was so great but he couldn't bring himself to disturb her from her contented daydream. Quietly he put down his tray and picked up his coffee mug.
Hannah was startled from her reverie by the sound of retching. Her eyes snapped open. The stranger was choking. His shoulders lurched as large, painful coughs racked his body and he gasped for breath. She crawled over to where he sat, his head buried between his knees.
"You OK?" she rubbed her hand over the quivering muscles of his back.
He nodded, his hand holding up the offending mug.
"That's the worst coffee I ever tasted."
Hannah smiled, her concern giving way to amusement.
"Don't let Ruth hear you say that." She replied. "She makes it to her own recipe."
He looked up at her, his face flushed from coughing.
"Makes it from what?" he said.
She hesitated, her eyes drawn to the foul tasting liquid that still steamed in his mug. It was only acorns and a little chicory, definitely an acquired taste, but for some inexplicable reason she couldn't bring herself to tell him so. He sensed her apprehension and put the mug down on the boards. Turning his body towards her, he lifted a hand to her face and stroked the soft skin of her cheek.
"You're right." He whispered. "I don't need t'know."
His fingertips caught in the deep red curls that framed her temples and he brushed them away, feeling the silky fineness of her hair as it flowed across his palm. Her eyelids fluttered at his touch, her lips parted as her mouth brushed against his thumb. For a moment he felt the heat of her breath moistening his skin, but then her hand was on his, drawing him away, her anxiety obvious in the downward cast of her eyes and the subtle trembling of her body.
"I don't even know your real name." She whispered.
"It's Logan." He replied, although he was sure that the real reason for her hesitation had nothing to do with the lack of a proper introduction.
She looked up at him, frowning.
"Is that first or last?" she asked.
"Neither, it's just Logan."
She nodded, accepting his response without further question, her gaze drifting to her lap, where his hand was still clutched in hers, his fingers gently massaging the inside of her wrist.
"You ain't scared of me are ya?" he whispered, the thought crossing his mind that perhaps he was asking too much of her, she had known him less than a day. But she shook her head.
"No I'm not scared of you." She responded, a rosy blush blossoming on her cheeks. "Its just, well. . . it's been a while since I had someone around that's all." Her eyes flickered over his face for a moment and he saw the faint hint of an embarrassed smile. "I suppose I'm just a little rusty."
"Hmmm." He laughed, a low rumbling chuckle that made Hannah's stomach flip over. "Well then, I guess that makes two of us."
He drew her hand up to his lips and gently kissed the tips of her cool fingers.
"Don't go goin' away." He got to his feet.
Hannah leaned her shoulder against the guardrail, watching as he strode away into the dusk, heading in the direction of the First Aid Tent. Her flesh still tingled from his touch and her breath was coming in short fast gasps as she breathed in his scent. Her tongue flicked out over her lips, tasting the faint hint of his skin still lingering there. How she wanted him. Every molecule in her being was on fire for him. She ached to feel the weight of his body pinning hers, his hands caressing her breasts, his thick dark hair brushing the skin of her stomach. She longed more than anything to let him make love to her, but every time he drew close to her, every time he touched her, her first reaction was to pull away. She had been shunned by her townsfolk for marrying Johannes. He had been feared and hated by them for what he was and so they feared and hated her too. The young men who had previously courted her had looked at her with distaste, the women had gossiped behind her back. When Johannes had died she had reconciled herself to growing old alone, assuming that no man would want her again. She had come to believe that she carried his mark upon her, that, like the badges her Jewish countrymen had been forced to wear, it marked her as an outcast, someone who did not live up to the physical standards of the world she inhabited. After a while she had come to feel secure in her solitary world, taking comfort from the notion that if no-one wanted her, she would never have to feel that pain again. But now there was Logan and he did want her. The untamed animal that had looked at her with such ardour from within those dark eyes, had reached out its claws and shredded every defence she had erected in those last years and it had done it all with the sweet, gentle caress of a man. She sighed. Knowing that she couldn't resist him any longer made the butterflies swarm excitedly in her stomach. She wondered what he would be like.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke into her reverie. Logan was returning, carrying his knapsack in one hand. He sat down on the cabin stoop and began rummaging through it, eventually pulling out a large hip flask. Hannah saw the smile on his face as he shook it, listening to the sound of liquid sloshing around inside. He looked at her, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Bring those coffee mugs over here."
"I hope you're not thinking of getting me drunk." Hannah laughed.
"Now where would be the fun in that?" He replied.
She got to her feet. Retrieving the mugs from the floor she emptied them of the last few drops of coffee before wandering over to the stoop where she sat down in front of him, her back resting against the inside of his thigh. The smell of whiskey wafted up on the evening air as Logan poured a large measure into each mug. Hannah stared at the amber liquid as it swirled and glistened in the flickering light. Breathing in its sweet heady odour she could already feel a comfortable warmth spreading through her muscles even before she took a sip. It had been a long time since she had Scotch and the first taste made her wince as it burned her throat.
"Don't tell me you'd prefer coffee." Logan said with a smile.
She laughed and shook her head.
"We just don't get many luxuries around here."
Logan took a sip of his own drink, his eyes travelling down the mane of curls that tumbled over her shoulders and cascaded over his leg. In the light of late sunset it looked like a river of burnished copper, enticing him, tempting him in with its deep, fire-like glow. He reached out a hand to touch it, feeling its softness, like strands of silk between his fingers. The sound of her contented sigh drew him onwards. He ran his hand up her back to the bare flesh of her neck. Her muscles were tense, not from apprehension, but tiredness, from working all day hunched over maps and reports. Setting down his mug, Logan brushed her hair to one side, gently massaging her warm skin with his fingertips. She responded to his touch, moving closer, grasping his legs tightly, her breathing becoming deeper, louder. He stroked her throat and the line of her jaw; the sensation of her pulse pounding against his hands was hypnotic, he could already feel the smouldering heat of his own arousal, burning deep within his groin. Her head pressed against his shoulder, one hand sliding up through his hair. Her breath scorched his cheek.
"I thought you said you were rusty." She whispered, guiding his lips towards her own.
Logan felt the exhilaration course through his body as they kissed. He had expected her to pull away at any moment, but now her lips were pressed against him, her tongue exploring with a passionate abandon. Her fingers laced through his as she urged him to touch her, directing his hands downwards, beneath the thin material of her shirt to the softness of her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra, and the unexpected feel of warm naked skin made him gasp. He held her gently, his fingers exploring every contour of her flesh, his thumbs rubbing the tender buds of her nipples until she whimpered with pleasure. His own excitement was almost unbearable now but the passion with which she responded to his caresses was intoxicating and he couldn't stop; couldn't destroy the moment for her. He wanted to know what it would be like to hold her as she came, to see the ecstasy on her face, to feel the orgasm surge through her body. For that, his own pleasure could wait.
He ran his fingers over the tight muscles of her stomach, feeling them flutter at his touch. Her thighs when he gripped them were firm and taught; he could feel the heat between her legs, radiating through the material of her fatigues. The smell of fresh sweat, evaporating from her skin was like a drug to his senses. He slid his hand along the waistband of her pants until he came to a line of fasteners. Slowly, almost teasingly, he began to undo them, listening as her breath quickened; her grip on the nape of his neck tightening with anticipation. His gaze soaked up every detail of her body; the indentations left on her skin by her clothes, the small crescent-shaped birthmark just below her navel and the dark glossiness of her pubic hair that seemed to gleam as he touched it. He slid his hand further, feeling the moisture that drenched her hot skin, the tremors of pleasure that contracted her muscles. Her whole body shook as he stroked her; every breath that escaped her lungs was a gasp of ecstasy. He felt her lips brush against his cheek once more. Tearing his eyes away from the sight of her flushed skin, glistening under the touch of his hand, he kissed her again, tasting the smooth sweetness of the whiskey that lingered on her breath. She moaned into his mouth, a deep low purr that made his breastbone tingle. The outside world seemed to slip away, receding into the darkness until all he could see, feel, smell was her; all he cared about was satisfying her.
His mind didn't even register the first alarm call, though it pierced the stillness of the evening air with its cry. Only when the sound came a second time and Hannah pulled away from him did he realise what it was. He saw the fear creep into her eyes as she stared out into the darkness, her body suddenly tense in his arms. The call came a third time, like the wail of a wild bird, though he knew its source to be human. Hannah was gone before he even realised she'd moved. She bolted past him into the blackness of her cabin, reappearing seconds later, her clothes fastened, a rifle clutched in her right hand. He watched her as she strode out to the edge of the platform, not making a sound as she took up a snipers position at the guardrail, her attention fixed on the ground below. His stomach cramped painfully as he felt his excitement begin to fade. If only they had had a little more time. He got to his feet, arching his back to ease the discomfort in his muscles. Part of him wanted to follow her, to pick her up in his arms and carry her inside, to close the door on the pain and the anger that haunted them both, but he let her stay. He of all people knew what it was like to crave revenge. He edged forward slightly, staring out into the darkness around him. All through the camp, as far as he could see, the fighters had taken up similar positions, bracing themselves against railings as they studied the undergrowth below, the barrels of numerous weapons held steady, ready to take aim at the first sign of trouble. The forest was in silence. Then he heard it; the sound of approaching footsteps. Not a single person, but many, crashing and stumbling through the undergrowth, with no apparent regard for stealth. He knew immediately that it was not the approach of soldiers he could hear. These people, whoever they were, were untrained. They probably had no idea they were being watched or targeted by the silent force that stood above them. Hannah seemed to realise too. Her finger slid from the trigger guard as she lowered the barrel of her rifle and slid it over her shoulder. Silently he walked over to her. The 303 Enfield looked massive pressed to her side and he wondered how she found the strength to handle the gun with the confidence she did. He slid his arms cautiously around her waist, still uncertain as to what her reaction would be, but instead of pushing him away, she drew him closer, pulling his body in against her shoulders as her fingers slid across the backs of his hands. The butt of the rifle dug uncomfortably into his ribs but he ignored it, his mind preoccupied with the warmth of her embrace and the caress of her breath on his cheek as she tilted her head upwards to kiss him.
Below them, the forest floor was illuminated by the beams of a dozen torches, as the small ragged band made their way underneath the camp. Logan could hear the sound of a small child, sobbing in fear at the unknown, the gentle cajoling of its mother doing nothing to allay the terror.
"They're refugees." Hannah whispered, watching with saddened eyes until they passed out of sight and into the blackness of the forest once more.
Logan felt her grip on his hands tighten and he pulled her closer, sensing her sorrow and her desire to be held. Sheltering her body with his own, protecting her from the cool night air he waited in patient silence as her anguish ran its course. He knew what she was feeling; the anger and the sense of helplessness were all too familiar to him. Finally the trembling of her muscles seemed to subside and with a heavy sigh she rested her head against his shoulder.
"You got anymore of that whiskey left?" she murmured.
He smiled, unable to resist the temptation to press his lips against her own.
"We got plenty." He replied.
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