@strangenewworldsanthology
The bar wasnât anything specialâdim lights, a jukebox in the corner rattling out half-broken blues, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey and old cigarettes. But Lucile Xavier had never cared much for âspecial.â What mattered was that it wasnât the mansion. It wasnât the sterile quiet of endless hallways and watchful eyes. It wasnât her grandfatherâs endless lectures or Loganâs constant, gruff shadow at her side. Here, in this nowhere-place, she could breathe. Or at least, she could pretend.
Her red-painted lips curved into a sly smile as she leaned across the counter, one elbow resting against the sticky wood, the neckline of her black silk top catching the glow of the neon beer sign overhead. The man beside herâbroad-shouldered, tanned skin, laughter lines crinkling around dark eyesâwasnât particularly interesting. But he was interested, and sometimes that was all that mattered. âYouâre not from around here, are you?â he asked, voice warm, words slurred faintly with whiskey.
Lucile tilted her head, letting a loose strand of raven hair fall across her cheek. âWouldnât you like to know?â she teased, lifting her glass to her lips. Bourbon burned its way down her throat, steadying the faint hum of energy that always crackled beneath her skin. A dangerous reminder of what she wasâwhat had been forced into her veins, what Logan was tasked with keeping under control.
But here, she wasnât the granddaughter of Charles Xavier. She wasnât the lab experiment, the fractured girl with a target on her back. Here, she was just another pretty face in the dark. And if Logan ever found her here, pressed close to a stranger, laughing like the world wasnât endingâwell. That was his problem.
Her hand brushed against the manâs as she reached for her drink, her smile widening when his gaze flickered briefly down her frame. âTell me,â she murmured, voice low enough to curl like smoke, âare you always this charming, or am I just lucky tonight?â















