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White Rose	By : CeeCee Category: X-men Comics > FemSlash - Female/Female Views: 10605 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men fandom. Marvel Entertainment owns these characters. I make no money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
Summary: Emma's dreams haunt her. And her brother's nightmare has just begun.
"Wake up, wretch." Christian groaned over the dry, pasty feel of his mouth, too long denied fresh water. He stretched tortured muscles forced into cramped positions on the hard, tiny cot all night. His sleep was fitful and troubled by dreams of rain and blood, riddled by shrill screams. His days were indiscernible from his nights in the dark cell that he'd occupied for the past three days.
"I said, wake up." The hard voice was familiar and despised. Thompson, the burly, unshaven prison guard, had it in for him the moment he arrived. Christian's finely tailored yet soiled clothing was stripped from him, exchanged for the dull gray garb with the label of "Murderer" stitched by hand onto the breast in rough black thread. Christian rolled himself upright, planting his stocking feet on the cold wooden floor.
"What now?"
"Don't give me any of your cheek, wretch," Thompson warned. "Come along quietly, now. They're waiting for you."
"Who?"
"It doesn't matter who. Up. Now."' His voice hardened, and his beady black eyes narrowed over flaring nostrils. The gesture made the large, dark mole on his cheek stand out even more, and Christian eyed him with poorly disguised disdain. Thompson was greasy and ill-kempt, and he didn't trust him, having heard him taunting the other prisoners. Christian had the misfortune of waking up to relieve himself in the chamber pot in the corner while Thompson "visited" his neighbor two cells down to his left the night before. There was no justice for the prisoners, no matter what their story. They were left to rot, less than human, not worthy to be stamped like dust from society's feet.
Christian shuddered over the sound of the muffled cries and curses from the corridor, recognizing the tear of rough fabric and low panting easily. Revulsion consumed him, remembering Pierce and Shaw's taunts, the feel of their hands pulling at him, forcing him to submit... They unmanned him, making him feel soiled and helpless.
The only thing that kept him going was Emma. A part of him felt relieved that his sister hadn't suffered at Shaw's hands in his stead, which was surely that bastard's intention. Winston might have done her a favor taking her out of his reach. Memories of her plagued him. Was she well? Safe? Did she have a stable roof over her head? Did she have food to warm her belly? Christian's dark thoughts slowed his pace down the corridor. He stopped short, only to have Thompson run up on his heels.
"MOVE IT, WRETCH!"
"Blast," Chris hissed at the feel of the foul guard's boots chafing his flesh. He stumbled, only to be caught up and jerked aside. Thompson manacled his upper arm in his beefy grip and shoved him against the rusting bars of a nearby cell, waking its occupant harshly. "Nnngggh... whuzzat! Who?" he muttered. The prisoner squinted up at Chris, and his eyes narrowed sagely.
"Mind your own business, filth," Thompson snarled at his spectator. The prisoner shrugged and rolled over, burrowing under the coarse blankets, but he felt pity toward Christian, hating to be in his shoes at the moment. Thompson wasn't finished showing him who the boss was, and his breath was fetid and sour, misting over his face as he jerked him close enough for Christian to count his pores.
"When I tell you to step lively, you make haste, wretch," Thompson reminded him on a low growl. He gripped Christian's jaw, fingers denting his flesh. "Your pretty face won't save you here. You're nothing. Even if anyone hears you cry out, they won't truly hear you. You have no voice here unless I let you speak. Go ahead, little mouse. Hnh? Say something." Christian grunted in protest, trying to shake off the repugnance of his touch.
"Let go of me - OFF!" Thompson grinned at him and pressed Christian back, lewdly closing up the space between them. Christian was cold from the drafty cell, but Thompson's physical warmth was unwelcome and made his flesh crawl.
The sudden rush of cold, fresh air and the squeal of the door hinge made Thompson hiss and break his grip on him. The second guard, Flynn, made a sound of disgust and impatience.
"Shaw's waiting," he informed them. "And he's not happy. Move it along." Christian's face went ashen.
"He's dragging his feet."
"Likely story, suet sack," Flynn sneered. "Come along, precious." He grabbed Chris's sleeve and kept his other hand on the pistol tucked into his waistband, preferring quiet intimidation over brute force. Christian quickened his pace. "I've got him. Finish your rounds, man."
"He's part of my rounds," Thompson argued.
"Nay. Go on, sack." Flynn's eyes measured him and found him lacking. Christian didn't trust him any more than the plump guard, since Flynn was known to be just as cruel, but not with such base appetites. Thompson cleared his throat, and Christian didn't breathe until he heard his clomping footsteps retreat before the door slammed behind them. Flynn sighed. Christian's dread grew as they continued toward the holding chamber.
The room was brighter than the prison's interior, lit with several lanterns and sconces, but there was still no window. The furnishings were spare, which was just as well; Sebastian Shaw seemed to take up all the space in the room. He leaned against he escritoire, paring his nails with a small knife. He wore a fine, black wool coat and heavy leather gloves. His breeches were charcoal wool, their finish dull against his polished Hessians. The lanterns threw odd shadows over his face, sharpening his hard bone structure and giving his dark eyes a skeletal look. Christian recoiled.
"Here he is," Flynn told them cheerfully, giving Christian a little shove.
"Sit," Shaw entreated. He nodded to Flynn, and to Christian's horror, he adjourned from the room, locking it behind him.
"No, don't!" Chris yelped.
"Have a seat. I don't stand on ceremony most of the time, but it's impolite for my guests not to make themselves comfortable when they seek an audience with me."
"Which I didn't do," Christian reminded him. Donald chuckled behind him, and Christian froze at the familiar sound.
"Insolent," Shaw sighed, shaking his head. "That won't do." He nodded to Donald, who grinned and closed the distance between them in quick strides. His backhanded stroke cracked across Christian's jaw, knocking him back into the chair he'd refused. His head rang with the impact and he tasted a salty trickle inside his lip.
"Stay a while."
"Basta-" Crack. Donald struck him again, and fire pulsed through his right eye.
"Your father wasn't very cooperative, either. I'll mark it up to the stubbornness of encroaching age. He was raving, too. That concerned me."
"Raving..." Christian glared up at him. "What did you do to him?"
"Merely had a chat. But as I said, he was rather distraught when I asked after your younger sister's health."
Christian's eyes narrowed and he spat at Shaw, the blood-tinged glob landing just short of his boots. The tavern owner tsked and shook his head. Donald nodded at him and slammed his fist into Christian's ribs. When he tried to take a breath, his chest felt squeezed by an enormous steel fist. "Have I struck a nerve?"
"Go to... hell." Christian's eyes were watery and blazed with hatred. "Leave her alone. Keep your filthy hands off of her."
"How droll. Therein lies the problem, Christian. She's out of my reach, for the moment. Your father... I don't know how to describe the strange mixture of confusion and amusement I felt when he told me sent her away. He just babbled on about some bizarre bargain that he made."
"He's mad! Don't listen to that old fool." Chris felt sick betraying his father, but he was grasping at straws.
"He told his account so passionately that no matter how extraordinary it seemed, I wanted to believe him. Winston said he bartered your sister away to pay off a debt. Seems to run in the family, doesn't it?"
Christian said nothing.
"Doesn't it." Sebastian's voice hardened, and his smile thinned a bit. "Where is she, Christian?"
"Tell him," Donald growled. He backhanded him again, and he bit his tongue.
"Never," Christian gasped. "Father was lying to you."
"Then you know where she is."
"No."
Donald took a more direct approach and kicked over Christian's chair, bowling him out of it. His hard, shining leather boot found his ribs, making Chris fight to hold his gorge. "You know."
"No. I swear, I don't..." His voice came out a tortured whine when Donald kicked him again.
"You're as bad at lying as you are at cards. Do you want to pay me my due once more?"
"Slit my throat instead." Christian's eye was swelling shut. His body remembered too well Shaw's violation; Donald's assault in this drafty chamber was more merciful.
"Be careful what you ask for. Such cheek from a man in your position." Shaw sighed and knelt beside his quivering body. He reached down and casually slapped his cheek. "Emma's whereabouts. Tell me."
"No, curse you! I don't know! She's been gone over a fortnight! I don't know where she is! Father gave her away!"
"This isn't amusing anymore."
"Listen to me," Christian demanded as he rolled back onto his elbows, but Donald ground his boot into his chest to force him back down. "Emma is where you cannot get to her. I have no means of reaching her, myself!"
"You seriously mean to tell me she's a bartered bride? And you expect me to believe it? Why not Cordelia? Or Adrienne?"
"Please," Christian huffed. He nodded his head toward Donald. "Adrienne isn't worth a plugged nickel. She's a useless little baggage, and soiled, to boot, thanks to your man here."
"She was soiled and useless long before I came along," Donald countered smugly. His smile was ugly and hard. "She knows how to fuck. I haven't tired of her yet. Yet."
"Emma's the only one your father wouldn't have to offer a dowry for," Sebastian pointed out. "He's never seemed eager to marry her off before."
"Emma isn't a bride. Emma was bartered. But not to a man." Christian reveled in the impatience and confusion that twisted Shaw's mouth.
"Donald. Christian's not being very social. Show him some manners."
*
�@
Emma woke up more exhausted than she was when she went to bed. Her head felt muzzy and heavy, as though she had drunk too much wine, but she only had some chamomile tea after her supper. The only reason she could finger for her sorry state were the dreams.
The images were scattered and broken. She saw the crackle of lightning, almost feeling it sizzle down the length of her arms. She heard strains of beautiful music, waltzes woven from at least a half a dozen violins and a fine pianoforte.
She rose groggily from bed and put on a soft silk wrapper over her modest nightgown. Emma padded barefoot down the corridor to check on her patient. She chased those fragments of her dreams, which threatened to dissolve at threat of daylight. If only she could pin them down...
She wasn't involved in them; she was a spectator instead of a player, that she knew. Shadowy images of people swirling around her, gossiping and canoodling. For some reason, she dimly remembered the flavor of marzipan and sweet cream, but Emma couldn't remember the last time she'd had any. She saw swirling skirts in gaudy colors, cluttered with ribbons, ruffles and pearls.
She put the strange images aside as rapped on the door frame; the door itself rested end-up along the wall inside the chamber. Emma peered inside, alarmed that the room was so dark. The curtains were drawn on every window; the fire had burned down to cinders, and it was drafty inside. Emma shivered as she scanned the room. The vanity was still cluttered with Emma's herbs and tools. She made a face at bloody needle and small metal probe that she'd used to repair the creature's wing; she needed to dispose of that before-
"Nnnnggghh..." Emma saw her stirring on the bed, watching the massive wings twitch. The Wind-Rider lay sprawled on her belly, and the covers were thrown completely off. What astonished Emma was that her robe was missing.
"Oh, dear..." she tutted before she could stop herself. The sight of that body still intrigued and shocked her. Emma watched her slowly stretch and readjust herself, and then her breathing resumed a low, deep rhythm, telling Emma she wasn't finished sleeping yet. Emma fought the urge to open the drapes, not wishing to disturb her if she wanted to rest a bit longer. Emma watched her unhindered, examining her hostess in slow, silent detail.
Her left hand lay curled near her mouth, talons curled under and digging into the sheets. Those long, fine whiskers twitched and fluttered with each breath. Emma held her breath, studying her face. There was something elegant about it, despite the beastly features. Below the curved, sloping horns, her hairline was slightly widow's peaked, and her hair was lustrous and thick, not coarse like a horse's mane the way Emma assumed. Gingerly she reached for a tendril that had fallen over her eyes and smoothed it back, and the creature didn't stir. Yes, it was soft and plush, not what she'd expected. The color was unique, a brilliant white, not the yellowed silver of the elderly. Emma lifted the fall of thick tresses away from her face, smoothing them behind her long, graceful neck. The Wind-Rider was a woman, after a fashion; her previous examination while she treated her wounds established that.
Her cheekbones were high and her eyes held a natural slant, giving her face that feline quality. Her nose was long and flat, something that initially unnerved Emma, particularly when her muzzle - if Emma could indeed call it that - drew back in a grimace or a snarl of warning during her rages. The nostrils were those of a big cat, and the plane of her upper lip was cleft down the middle. What Emma did notice of her mouth was a hint of soft fullness in her lower lip. Her mouth looked capable, she supposed, of smiling widely, but so far the Wind-Rider had shown no such inclination.
Her body was athletic, possibly from hunting game, and, Emma supposed, from flying. Her limbs were long and taut with muscle and her shoulders were broad. Every inch of skin was covered in fur, the rich, deep brown of mink, contrasting sharply with her hair. Emma smiled at the memory of Rahne and Dani, how their fur felt brushing against her skin during their... bath. Emma never would have guessed that she would be wasp-waisted beneath the homely, plain robe if she hadn't tended her wounds. Lush, full hips and large, ripe breasts made Emma feel a twinge of envy, and something else she couldn't name. A strange shiver swept over her the longer she watched her sleeping hostess, fluttering in her belly, a feeling she couldn't indulge in the heat of her panic.
The urge to touch her was strong, but her slender white hand hovered over her, hesitating. Emma swallowed and snatched it away. The Wind-Rider's breathing changed and her whiskers twitched. Inadvertently, she scanned the creature's surface emotions, worried that she had disturbed her rest-
The Wind-Rider flipped over so quickly that Emma had no time to react, yelping as one taloned hand snapped around her wrist. Emma tumbled forward against her captor, an undignified "OOF!" forced from her chest with the momentum of almost having her arm yanked out of the socket. She landed roughly across the Wind-Rider's body, and she found herself staring into the cloudy, eerie eyes, her breath misting hotly over Emma's face.
"Good morning," Emma gasped. "It's... it's morning. You can't tell, with it being so dark in here."
"What are you doing in here?"
"Checking on you. I wanted to make sure you were... all right. You, er... seem to have lost your covers." Emma swallowed. "And your robe."
"Lost my robe," the creature growled. "Silly wretch. I always sleep in my natural state."
"You don't... get cold?"
"What do you think? That my fur is just for show? I find myself shamefully out of style during the warmer seasons." Emma tried to catch her breath and her inhalations snatched up the rhythm of the warm, firm body beneath hers. The Wind-Rider had a strong grip on her wrist.
"Sorry," Emma murmured. "I assume you slept well?"
"Well enough," she allowed with a sigh. The dreams had troubled her, and Ororo was almost relieved that Emma woke her from the frustrating memories.
"I didn't mean to disturb you."
"Ridiculous. You came into my chamber to do just that."
"I wanted to check your wounds."
"Don't fret over them," the Wind-Rider snorted.
"I want to freshen your bandages and make sure they aren't infected," Emma reminded her. "If you'll just let me up, I can..."
"I don't think so," was the cavalier reply. Emma was rolled to her back before she could finish her sentence. They changed vantage points, and the creature's weight pressed her into the mattress, enveloping Emma in her body heat. A brief yelp escaped her, and amused, feline eyes bore into hers. "I'm not ready to let you up just yet, Emma."
Emma cleared her throat, hating the sudden dryness of her mouth. Her heart pounded as she squirmed slightly, wondering how to get herself out of this predicament. "I can't help you when you do such things, Wind-Rider."
"You can help me more in this position than you can by changing my bandages, darling." The Wind-Rider still gripped Emma's wrists, and her thumbs gently stroked her pulse. "So much more." Emma's cheeks flushed beneath her calculating gaze and she squeezed her eyes shut.
"This is rather... inappropriate."
"Hardly. It suits your role in my home to the letter." Emma's eyes snapped open, and she shook her head.
"My role? Surely this wasn't what you made my father agree to?"
"Not in so many words. The intent was... veiled. Call it a silent clause in the contract."
"But... this... I'm not a courtesan, or..."
"I don't want a courtesan. Please. I've traveled that road, Emma. I want someone fresh and unspoiled, not some jaded wretch with her hand in my purse."
"Yet you would still ply me with luxury," Emma said coldly. The creature's nostrils flared, then she huffed a laugh.
"For all the good it's done me so far. But this gown's a start. It suits you." The soft ivory peignoir and matching wrapper were trimmed in lace; the wrap was concealing, but the neckline of the gown dipped low, revealing the tops of Emma's breasts. They were heaving, and so tempting. Emma squirmed and struggled slightly, but with each shift, her body arched and cleaved to her mistress' warmth. It was... disconcerting.
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"You asked for a rose. A single, white rose that could never rival your beauty. You accepted my gift. I don't ask for much in return."
"You don't realize how much you're truly asking me for," Emma protested. Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes pricked.
"You don't realize how much you're denying yourself by denying me."
"And what would that be?"
"Pleasure. An opportunity for intimacy. A release from some of your boundaries."
"Now you sound like Shaw," Emma said bitterly.
"Why do I feel so insulted?" the Wind-Rider mused. "Your attentions have been solicited before, Emma?"
"Unsuccessfully. By another who thought to buy me."
"Shaw." The Wind-Rider tried the name, frowning. "The man who tried to ruin your brother?"
"Tried," Emma scoffed. "He broke him."
"No. If he's anything like you, Chris has spirit." The scent of Emma's hair proved too much for Ororo's self-restraint. She dipped her head and inhaled deeply, nuzzling Emma's temple in a light caress. Emma stilled her movements and shivered at the sensation of the creature's warm breath misting over her. Briefly, she lowered the psychic barrier between them and felt a jolt of lust and longing from her, and she moaned in response. The emotions filtered into her consciousness, and Emma felt vulnerable and exposed.
"There are benefits to being with me, Emma." The Wind-Rider's voice husked against the crest of her ear. Fine whiskers tickled her, causing more shivers.
"I don't consider being locked in a dank cellar a benefit."
"Never again," she vowed, and Emma heard contrition in her tone as she drew back. Those eyes probed hers, searching for all of her secrets, willing her to believe her words. "I was... hasty in my actions."
"You will never lock me up again?"
"Not unless you wish it. I have a fine set of iron shackles tucked in that trunk that you might find intriguing, Emma, if you've a taste for something more exotic." Emma shook her head nervously and stammered.
"N-not really."
"You might like it." The creature's long, tangled tresses fell over her shoulders in a snowy curtain, the tips brushing Emma's neck. Emma reached for a tendril of it and stroked it, taking the liberty with no guilt this time. Her mistress glanced at her hand, noticing her action, and she released Emma's wrist. "Emma?"
"What?"
"I never thanked you properly for mending my wing."
"You were hurt. I couldn't leave you in such a state."
"You were afraid of me." Ororo sighed, and Emma felt her shame.
"I had reasons." Emma reached up and smoothed back a lock of hair from the creature's face. Intrigued, she touched one of the broad, curling horns, tracing its curve all the way to the tip. The creature's eyes closed, and Emma felt her shiver against her.
"They're sensitive," she murmured. Emma ran the backs of her fingers over the graceful bone again, and the Wind-Rider purred in response. Before Emma could repeat it, her wrist was caught in her mistress' grip once more. "Don't tease."
"Apologies."
"There's one way that you can make amends, sweet." Ororo settled herself against Emma, grinding her pelvis against Emma's suggestively. Emma gasped at the gesture, and at the sensations it caused in her belly. Heat consumed her and her nipples ruched into hard little pebbles, straining against the confines of the fragile silk gown. "I won't hurt you. I'll be gentle. You will know pleasure in this bed, Emma."
"I don't know you," Emma argued, but her voice was showing the strain of trying to resist her urges. "You won't let me in."
"Into my mind? I can't. You're lovely, darling, but you won't trap me that easily." The haze of desire between them dissipated. Ororo's grip on Emma's wrist tightened.
"I'm the one who's trapped," Emma corrected her. The Wind-Rider huffed. Suddenly she took her intoxicating warmth away, and Ororo tugged Emma upright, destroying the last of their rapport. The Wind-Rider's thoughts and emotions were locked up more tightly than before.
"Go, then, if you feel that way. Go bathe. Amuse yourself in the library, if you wish, but stay out of my garden."
"Fine." Emma abandoned her original purpose of checking on her wounds and hurried from the chamber, indignant and frustrated.
Her body remembered the feel of her mistress' soft, sleek fur tickling her skin. Damn it.
- 13
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- 15
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White Rose