Chapter Text

Setting: alternative crime universe inspired just a little by the John Wick world. Inspired by x-men evolution, x-men movies and x-men comics characters.

Warnings: dark, possessive Remy, Controlling Remy, Threats, Manipulation, Hints of child abuse [sexual and non-sexual] but never directly mentioned [children at the shelter]

Rating: Teenagers+

Disclaimer 1: Neither X-men nor its characters belong to me. The plot and other ideas not found in the X-men universe at the time of publishing were drafted by the author’s imagination for which the author lays claim. This story is for entertainment purposes.

Disclaimer 2: AI/Chat GPT was used to support the production and editing of this work. We all have our burdens and worries. For me, that’s working, studying, taking care of a family and taking care of a house: cooking, cleaning, etc. etc. I simply don’t have the time or patience to write every single line of a story or pick at every grammatical error or inconsistency although I will endeavor that I produce quality work. Hence, the support from AI.

I’m literally sitting on heaps of Rogue & Gambit Stories, mostly completed. Some were written purely by me with no AI support, others were supported by AI.

 Should AI be used, I will always label the relevant disclaimer.

I welcome all constructive criticism. I love feedback but I won’t tolerate criticism not grounded in logic.

This story is being shared simply because I love this pairing and it’s my outlet for when life becomes difficult.

Chapter 1 – The Life She Chose

The bell over the bookstore door had a tired sound.

Rogue liked it that way. It wheezed when people came in, protested when they left, as if the metal itself resented the interruption. She understood that feeling.

“Morning, Rogue,” Mr. Henley called from behind the register.

He was older, soft in the middle, gray curly hair, cardigan fraying at the sleeves. The kind of man who loved books for their smell as much as their stories. He’d hired her three years ago and never asked why she flinched at raised voices.

“Morning,” she answered, balancing a stack of hardcovers against her hip.

The store was narrow and tall, shelves climbing almost to the ceiling, ladders on wheels leaning at lazy angles. Light filtered in through the front windows in thin shafts, catching dust in the air and turning it soft. It was quiet enough that she could hear pages turning in the back where one of the regulars sat cross-legged on the floor, lost in fantasy.

Safe.
That was the word she never said out loud.
The only place that felt anything close to it.

She shelved the new arrivals, fingers trailing over spines out of habit. Crime, thriller, psychology. She paused at a title about trauma and the brain, thumb resting on the cracked cover.

You should read it, a voice in her head suggested.
She put it back.

The bell wheezed again. A pair of teenagers shuffled in, arguing softly about which manga series was better. A suited man came and went, barely glancing at her. A mother drifted through with a stroller and left with three picture books and a tired smile.

Rogue moved through it all like a ghost. Helpful enough, but distant. Polite with customers, sharp with anyone who pushed. Nobody here knew her last name. She liked it that way.

“Got somethin’ for you,” Mr. Henley said when the afternoon lull hit. He shuffled over with a mug of tea. “You look like you’ve been chewing on nails all week.”

“Just my face,” she said lightly, taking the mug. “It rests mean.”

He snorted. “Mean faces buy books like everybody else.”

She sat on the little stool behind the counter, wrapping her hands around the warmth. Outside, the street buzzed faintly with traffic and voices. In here, the only sounds were a quiet jazz playlist and the soft, repetitive scrape of pages turning.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She didn’t have to look to know who it was—the shelter used that tone. She pulled it out, thumb flicking over the screen.

A message from Serena.
He’s back. Same kid. Same bruises. You coming?

Rogue swallowed a mouthful of tea that burned going down.

“Henley?” she called.

“Mm?”

“Mind if I cut out on time today?”

“You actually want to leave on time?” He peered over his glasses. “Mark the date. World’s ending.”

“I got a thing.”

He studied her a second longer, then nodded. “Go save whoever needs savin’. I’ll close up.”

She didn’t argue with that wording. It wasn’t true, not really. She didn’t save anyone. She just stood in the doorway and snarled until worse people backed off.

But it was something.

The shelter was four blocks away, the paint peeling around the stairwell entrance. The hallway smelled like detergent and old carpet. Rogue climbed the stairs two at a time.

Inside, the noise hit first—kids talking over each other, the clatter of plastic dishes, an ancient TV muttering in the corner. Serena stood near the kitchenette, arms folded, curls piled on top of her head, worry etched between her brows.

“He’s in the back,” Serena said without preamble. “Bathroom. I told him you were coming. Don’t know if that helped or scared him more.”

Rogue exhaled slowly. “We’ll find out.”

The bathroom door was cracked open. She knocked once anyway.

“It’s Rogue.”

There was a pause. Then a soft, cautious, “You gonna be mad?”

“Depends.” She leaned against the doorframe. “You hit anyone?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not mad.”

The door opened wider. Malik, fourteen, too thin for his hoodie, looked up at her with eyes that had seen too much. His lip was split. There was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.

“Same story?” Rogue asked.

He nodded. “He was drunk.”

Rogue’s jaw tightened. Always the same excuses. Drunk. Stressed. Tired. Male.

“You hit back?” she asked.

He shook his head like that was ridiculous. “He’s my uncle.”

Rogue crouched so they were eye level.

“An’ you’re Malik,” she said. “That supposed to mean you deserve it?”

He looked away.

She didn’t touch him. Didn’t crowd him. Just stayed where she was, her voice low.

“You got somewhere else to go tonight?”

He hesitated. “If I don’t go home, he’ll get madder.”

“If you do go home, he’ll get his hands on you now.”

His shoulders hunched.

“I’m tired,” he whispered.

“I know.” She swallowed. “You stay here tonight. Serena will spin what she has to.”

He looked at her, eyes shiny. “He’s family.”

Rogue’s mouth twitched, bitter.

“So?” she asked softly. “You think that’s ever stopped anybody from hurting someone?”

He flinched like she’d hit him.

She stood.

“I’ll talk to Serena,” she said. “We’ll figure something out.”

“You can’t fix everything,” Malik said behind her, voice small but old.

She paused.

“I know, sugar,” she said. “Doesn’t mean I let it slide.” Rogue made it two blocks, fists held tight in her pockets before she paused, turned and headed towards Malik’s place.

It was late when she finally climbed the stairs to her apartment. Malik’s uncle hadn’t been home.

The building was nothing special—peeling paint, buzzing lights, the occasional neighbor yelling at a sports game. Her door stuck in winter; now it opened too easily with the turn of her key.

That was her first warning.

The second was the smell.

Cigarette smoke.
Her brand.
But she hadn’t lit one in years…since she’d first ran.

Every muscle in her back went tight.

“Rogue?”

The voice came from the kitchen. Male. Familiar. Tired.

Rogue closed the door behind her without taking her eyes off the shadowed doorway.

“Didn’t say you could come in, Daddy.”

Owen D’Ancanto stepped into view, older than the last time she’d seen him, finer suit, same eyes. He looked at her like she was both stranger and disappointment.

“This how you greet your father?” he asked.

“This how you break into your daughter’s apartment?” she shot back.

“I still pay for it.”

“I told you I’d take over the rent.”

He smiled thinly. “You told me a lot of things but you barely make ends meet.”

She dropped her bag by the door, kept herself between him and the exit. Old instinct. Hard to shake.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He flicked ash into the sink. Her mug was in there, unwashed from that morning. The sight of his cigarette hovering above it made her stomach twist.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“We don’t.”

“It’s important, Anna.”

“Don’t call me that.” Her voice sharpened. “Use the name I gave you or leave.”

He studied her a moment.

“Rogue,” he corrected. “We need to talk.”

She folded her arms. “Talk.”

He looked tired suddenly. Older. Like the weight he carried finally cost him something.

“You know I’ve had… business troubles,” he began.

“I know you’ve been stupid,” she said. “Same as always.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it.

“There are people,” he said carefully, “who don’t forgive debts.”

She snorted. “Everyone forgives debts. Or they kill you. Either way, it’s done.”

“This is different.”

“Let me guess. You gambled with the wrong devils.”

His eyes flashed. “You don’t understand the kind of men I’m dealing with.”

“I understand enough to stay the fuck out of it.”

He took a breath.

“The LeBeau family,” he said softly.

Silence dropped like a stone.

Rogue’s fingers dug into her own arms.

She’d heard that name whispered at the edges of her childhood. Not in her father’s loud bragging tone, but in the hushed, wary cadence men used for hurricanes and cancers.

“They don’t forgive,” Owen said. “They don’t forget. And they don’t waste time with threats.”

“So why are you still breathing?”

He looked at her then, really looked, and she saw the answer before he spoke it.

Her stomach turned to ice.

“No,” she said.

“You haven’t even heard—”

“No.” Her voice cut the air. “Whatever you did, I’m not your way out.”

He swallowed.

“You already are,” he said quietly.

It felt like a knife sliding in between her ribs.

She forced a laugh she didn’t feel. “What did you do, sell a kidney? Promise them the house? What, Daddy?”

He crushed the cigarette in the sink with too much force.

“I promised them my most valuable asset,” he said.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“You don’t have anything valuable,” she said. “You never did.”

His eyes met hers.

“I promised them you.”

The world didn’t shatter.

It narrowed.

Down to the sound of her own breathing. Down to the drip of the tap. Down to the faint ringing in her ears.

She didn’t move.

“Promised me to what?” she asked, voice too calm.

He hesitated.

“To who,” he corrected, as if that made it better. “To their son.”

A name she had never heard and would learn to hate slid into the room like a shadow.

“Remy LeBeau,” her father said.

Rogue’s hand closed around the edge of the counter to keep herself upright.

“You sold me,” she said.

“It’s not like that—”

“You sold me.”

He flinched. “It was the only way. The debt was too big. They’d have killed me. They’d have come after you anyway. At least this way—”

“At least this way I’m a payment plan?” Her laugh broke. “What are you even sayin’? They expect me to… what? Be some pretty little offering they can tuck away?”

He didn’t answer.

She realized then that the deal was worse.

“What did you promise them, exactly?” she asked.

He looked at the floor.

“An engagement,” he said. “A marriage. Thirty days.”

The bell from the bookstore echoed in her head.

She stepped back like he’d struck her.

“No,” she said.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I always have a choice.”

His voice hardened for the first time. “You say no, you sign my death warrant.”

“You signed it yourself.”

“And yours,” he added calmly. “Don’t you get it? They know your name now. You’re not some ghost in a bookstore. You’re a D’Ancanto.”

Her jaw clenched.

“Not for long,” she said. “Tomorrow I’ll change it.”

He laughed once, bitter.

“You think a different word on paper keeps the LeBeaus from what’s theirs?”

“I’m not theirs.”

“Not yet,” he agreed softly.

Her skin crawled.

“You think I’ll just walk into some rich boy’s castle and let him put a ring on me?” she demanded. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“He sent something,” Owen said, ignoring her outburst. “Came earlier today.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small black velvet box. He set it on the counter between them like it was nothing.

“I didn’t open it,” he lied.

Rogue stared at it.

Didn’t touch it.

“What is that?” she asked.

“A promise,” he said.

She didn’t like the way he said it. Didn’t like that his hands shook.

“I’m not doin’ this,” she said. “I don’t care who he is, how rich, how dangerous. I don’t belong to him. I don’t belong to you. I don’t belong to anybody.”

“You belong to the debt now,” Owen said quietly.

She wanted to throw the box at his head. Wanted to smash it. Wanted to see nothing come out of it, no ring, no symbol, no proof.

Before she could move, her phone buzzed against her thigh.

Unknown number.
No name attached.

A message.

She flicked it open.

I hope the bookstore wasn’t too busy today.
You looked tired.
– R

Underneath was a picture.

The front of the bookstore. Taken from across the street. Her, through the glass, shelving books, unaware.

Her blood turned to ice.

She looked up slowly.

“How long?” she asked.

Her father frowned. “How long what?”

“How long has he been watchin’ me?”

Owen didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Outside, down on the street below, an engine purred.

Rogue moved to the window and peeled back the curtain.

A black car idled by the curb. Not flashy. Not loud. Just there. A presence.

The headlights blinked once, like a greeting.

Her phone buzzed again.

Come downstairs when you’re ready.
We have a lot to discuss.

She stared at the screen.

At the car.

At the box on her counter.

At her father.

And for the first time in a very long time, Rogue felt something she hated more than anything.

Cornered.

The car didn’t move.

Rogue watched it for a full minute, curtain pinched between two fingers, heart beating too loud in her ears. No one got out. No door opened. No impatient honk.

Just the steady idle of an engine that wasn’t going to burn out before she did.

“Say something,” she muttered without turning. “Tell me this is some kinda sick joke.”

Owen didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

She let the curtain fall back into place and faced him. The kitchen light was too bright, yellow and unforgiving. He looked smaller than she remembered, though he’d gotten thicker with age. Softer in the wrong places.

“You knew he was watchin’ me,” she said.

He rubbed his forehead. “They had to check you weren’t—”

“Weren’t what?” Her voice snapped. “Ugly? Useless? Already married?”

“Don’t be vulgar,” he snapped back. “This is serious, Anna.”

“Stop callin’ me that.” She pointed at the door. “You let him watch me at work. That store is the one place he doesn’t get to touch. You hear me? That’s mine.”

“That store,” he said tightly, “was staying open on my money while you played at being normal. Don’t pretend you’re not still living off the crumbs of my world.”

Her jaw clenched. “You brought me back into this when I tried to run.”

“You were on the streets, Rogue.”

“I was free!” Rogue took a deep breath. “I’m only here because of the shelter, daddy…” She took another trembling breath.

“I’ll find another job.” She grabbed her bag from the floor, digging for her wallet like she could erase the last few years with numbers. “I’ll pay you back too. With interest. Just give me time.”

“You don’t have time,” he said.

“He doesn’t own me.”

“You think this is about ownership?” Owen laughed once, bitter and humorless. “This is about survival. And not just mine.”

She froze. “Don’t.”

“You think the LeBeaus don’t know you volunteer at that little shelter?” he asked quietly. “Think they don’t know those kids by name? Photos. Schedules. Staff. All of it.”

Something cold slid down her spine.

“You’re bluffin’.”

He met her eyes. “Am I?”

Her phone buzzed again. She didn’t look at it. Couldn’t.

She swallowed hard. “You gave them my life.”

“I gave them a daughter,” he corrected. “One daughter, to spare everything else.”

“You’re not tradin’ sons and wives, Daddy, you’re tradin’ me.” Her voice went softer, more dangerous. “Don’t you dare dress it up like a sacrifice you made.”

His shoulders sagged. For a flicker of a moment, he looked ashamed.

Then he straightened. “They would have taken you regardless,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? A LeBeau wants something, they get it. They’re one of the four family dynasties that control the global crime network. The only difference now is whether you go as a bride… or a message.”

Her stomach twisted.

“Why him?” she asked. “Why their son? They got all these men with guns, with fancy titles, and he… what, he just happened to be looking for a wife at the exact moment you needed an out?”

Owen hesitated.

Rogue’s pulse kicked harder. “Daddy.”

“He asked for you,” Owen said finally. “By name.”

Her fingers went numb.

“That ain’t possible,” she said. “He doesn’t know me.”

“He knows enough.” Owen nodded toward her phone. “Check your messages.”

Her throat was too dry, but she picked up the phone anyway. One new notification from the same unknown number.

She tapped it open.

You’re kind with them.
The boy in the gray hoodie.
Malik.
You’re not kind with yourself.

A second image.
Not the bookstore this time.

The shelter hallway.
Her, standing outside the bathroom door, back turned, head bowed toward Malik inside. The shot was taken from the far end of the corridor, through the gap in the open door, like the photographer had all the time in the world to line it up.

Her chest tightened.

Another message slid in before she could think.

I won’t touch your shelter.
Or your boss.
Or your kids.
Your father’s debt will be paid in one place only.
You.

Her vision tunneled.

He was already in everything.
The bookstore.
The shelter.
Her apartment.

“See?” Owen said softly. “You can hate me all you want. But I gave him a structure. Rules. Without that…”

He let the sentence trail off.

“You made a deal with a wolf and think a leash makes you smart,” Rogue whispered.

“He’s not a wolf,” Owen said quietly. “He’s worse. Wolves get hungry. Men like him… they’re patient.”

She wanted to scream. Throw something. Hit him. Hit the wall. Hit herself for thinking she could outrun the blood in her veins.

Instead she set the phone down carefully on the counter, like it might explode.

“Tell him no,” she said. “Call whoever you called, tell them you were wrong. Tell them I refuse.”

“They’ll kill me.”

“They’ll kill you anyway.”

“At least this way,” he said, “they have a reason not to hurt you.”

A humorless laugh slipped out of her. “You honestly think a man who watches me at work, at the shelter, in my home, is plannin’ not to hurt me?”

Owen didn’t answer.

Outside, the car remained.

Not revving.
Not honking.
Just existing.

A pressure on the street.

“Don’t go down,” Owen said suddenly.

She blinked. “What?”

“Don’t go down tonight.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Stay here. Lock the door. I’ll… I’ll tell them you need time.”

She stared at him, stunned. “You just told me they don’t care what I want.”

“They don’t,” he said. “But he might. Men like that… they like the chase. Might give you a few days if he thinks you’re skittish, not defiant.”

“Is that your strategy?” she asked. “Hope he finds me cute enough to play with before he drags me off?”

Owen’s eyes glistened with something she refused to name.

“It’s the only leverage we have,” he said.

Her phone buzzed again.

It’s late.
You should eat.
I left you something.

She frowned and glanced toward the door, heart climbing into her throat.

“There’s nothing out there,” she whispered.

Owen moved past her, opened the apartment door, peered down. The hallway was empty. No footsteps. No shadows. Just the familiar chipped linoleum and dim bulb.

Then he looked down.

A small white box sat neatly on the doormat.

Rogue’s skin prickled.

“Don’t touch it,” she said sharply.

Owen ignored her. He bent, picked it up with the same care he’d given the velvet ring box earlier, and brought it inside. There was no logo. No return address. Just a plain box with a single black ribbon tied around it.

He set it on the table and stepped back, as if distance could absolve him.

“You open it,” Rogue said.

“It’s for you.”

“You brought me into this. You open it.”

He hesitated, then tugged the ribbon loose and lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled on black tissue paper, lay something folded. He reached in, fingers trembling, and pulled it out.

Fabric.

Soft, expensive. Dark green with a faint pattern that caught the light.

A dress.

Owen stared at it. “They sent… clothes.”

It was her size. She knew that without touching it. Could see the way the waist cinched, the line of the skirt, the neckline that echoed the cut of the one dress she let herself like in the storefronts she passed but never entered.

There was a card at the bottom of the box. Owen picked it up and read out loud before he could think better of it.

“Dinner,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

He swallowed.

“With the family.”

The room tilted.

Rogue reached for the card, snatched it out of his hand.

Three words, written in clean, precise handwriting:

Wear this.
– R

Her fingers tightened until the edge of the card bit into her skin.

“Give it back,” Owen said. “I need to show—”

She tore the card in two.

Then into four.

Then into eight, dropping the pieces onto the table like confetti at a funeral.

“Anna—”

“Stop,” she said quietly. “Just stop talkin’.”

She picked up the dress. The fabric slid over her knuckles like water, cool and smooth and guiltless.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Hangin’ this up,” she said. “If I leave it in the box, it’ll wrinkle.”

He stared at her like she’d spoken in tongues.

“That mean you’re goin’?” His voice shook.

“It means I don’t like things bein’ ruined before I decide what to do with them.”

She walked past him to the bedroom and hooked the dress on the back of the door. It hung there like a sentence, dark and patient.

When she returned, Owen was at the window again, peeking through the curtain.

“He’s still there,” he said.

“Yeah,” she replied. “He will be.”

“You’re not goin’ down, right? You’ll wait?”

She looked at the clock over the stove. Listened to the car rumbling below. Felt the pressure of eyes she couldn’t see.

“No,” she said.

“No you’re not goin’ down, or—”

“I’m not waitin’.”

She grabbed her jacket from the chair.

“Rogue—”

“If I let him sit out there all night,” she said, sliding her arms into the sleeves, “then he controls the first move. Watches me hide. Judges how scared I am. Writes it down in whatever fucked-up little file he’s keepin’ on me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know men like him.” She met her father’s gaze with a hard steadiness that made him look away. “He wants a show? He’s not gettin’ mine.”

“You can’t win this,” Owen said.

“I’m not tryin’ to win,” she replied. “I’m tryin’ not to crawl.”

She picked up her phone, slipped it into her pocket, and walked to the door.

“Lock up when you leave,” she said. “And don’t ever let yourself in here again.”

Then she stepped into the hallway.

The air felt different. Thinner.

By the time she hit the stairs, her hands were shaking. She shoved them into her jacket pockets and forced her feet to keep moving. When she pushed the building door open, the night wrapped around her all at once—cool, faintly damp, streetlight painting the sidewalk in dull gold.

The car was still there.

The street looked different from ground level.

From her window, the car had been just another dark shape on the curb. No flashy emblem, no vanity plate. Down here, under the thin wash of the streetlight, it was a presence. Too clean. Too still. Money that didn’t need attention. Like it had been parked there not for minutes but for the rest of her life.

Rogue forced herself to walk.

One step.
Then another.
Hands shoved in her jacket pockets so he wouldn’t see them shake.

The back door of the car opened before she reached the hood.

A man stepped out.

He wasn’t tall in the way that intimidated on sight, but he carried himself like height was irrelevant. Auburn brown hair. Dark suit, precise, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, coat opened. Face composed, unreadable. Red on black eyes. He was undeniably handsome. Rogue’s eyes narrowed. And dangerous.

His eyes found her in an instant, like he’d been waiting his whole life for her to step onto this patch of concrete.

“Bonsoir, Rogue,” Remy LeBeau said.

And smiled like she was already his.