Chapter 221: Dressing the Wolverine
The yukata itched. Logan tugged at the collar, grumbling under his breath as he slid the door open. Traditional garb never sat right on him. Too neat. Too clean. He felt like a wolf trying to pass for a pet dog.
But when he stepped into the corridor, the chatter outside died down.
The X-Men had gathered, waiting. Nightcrawler was the first to whistle, low and sharp. His golden eyes widened, tail curling like a question mark. "Mein Gott… I did not expect you to appear cool in something like that."
Logan smirked, toothy. "That's 'cause I ain't serious, elf. If I were, I'd be a damn supermodel."
Nightcrawler clutched his chest theatrically. "You wound me! Already I struggle living in the shadow of your rugged manliness, and now you mock my one true dream."
"Supermodel?" Kitty piped up, giggling. "You? In those ears and tail? What would you even pose for? Cat food commercials?"
"Better cat food than dog collars," Kurt shot back, eyes sparkling at Logan.
Logan just grunted, stepping past them with heavy, deliberate strides. His boots thudded against the polished wood, each echo a reminder that today was no battlefield — but it sure felt like one. His claws ached in their housings, like even they didn't believe in suits and ceremony.
Storm tilted her head, regal even in simple silk. "You wear it well, Logan. Don't scowl. The day is yours."
"Yeah, weather witch, the day's mine." He tugged at the sash again. "Doesn't mean I gotta like the package."
Colossus stood behind the group like a mountain in a pressed jacket, arms crossed. "Tradition is not for liking, comrade. It is for honoring."
Logan snorted. "Easy for you to say. You look like you were born wearin' stiff collars."
A ripple of laughter ran through the team — even Rogue, standing back as usual, let out the faintest chuckle. She quickly hid it, biting her lip, but Logan's ears caught it. His eyes flicked toward her.
"You laughin' at me, darlin'?" His voice carried no bite, just a low growl of curiosity.
Rogue froze. "Ah—no, sir. I wasn't—"
"Relax." He waved a hand. "World needs more laughter. Don't waste it hidin'."
Her shoulders loosened a fraction. She gave him a shy glance that said thank you without words.
Xavier cleared his throat, serene as ever. "Shall we?"
Logan nodded. He rolled his shoulders, letting his heightened senses spread. The scent of incense already lingered in the air, wafting down from the hall ahead. His hearing picked up the steady rhythm of drums, faint, like a heartbeat waiting for him to match it. The whole mansion was alive with energy — nervous, excited, suspicious. Every relative's breath, every shifting footstep behind a sliding door. All of it pressed against his skull like a stormfront.
He gritted his teeth. Focus. It's not a battlefield. Not yet.
The team walked with him down the corridor. Kitty kept bouncing ahead, then back again, nerves and curiosity spilling out of her like sparks. "Do you think the bride's kimono matches yours? I read they're usually coordinated! Ohmygod, Logan, what if she—"
Logan cut her off with a low growl. "Kitty. Deep breath. You're buzzin' louder than a mosquito in July."
She pouted, but Colossus placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Calm, Katya. Let Logan have his moment."
"Sorry," she whispered, cheeks pink.
Nightcrawler leaned close to Logan, voice low but teasing. "Still, I must say, mein freund… you clean up well. Who knew the savage could pass for a prince?"
Logan's lip curled into a half-smile. "Keep talkin', elf, and I'll show you just how savage I can be."
The banter eased the tension, but Logan's senses never stopped working. His nose twitched at the faint, cold tang of steel hidden beneath a servant's sleeve. A dagger. Not drawn, not aimed at him, but there. His hearing traced a pair of hurried whispers behind a sliding door they passed. Words blurred by accent, but the tone was sour — disapproval, disdain.
Gaijin. Outsider. Not worthy.
The words weren't said aloud, but he smelled them. Fear mixed with pride, bitter like burnt rice.
He ignored it. For now.
---
The wedding hall opened before them like a painted scroll come to life. Tatami mats stretched across the floor, lanterns casting warm light, and the scent of cherry blossoms heavy in the air though it wasn't their season. Rows of family, elders in dark robes, eyes sharp as knives. The kind of eyes that cut deeper than steel.
And at the front, under the veil of silk, Mariko.
Logan's chest tightened. Even hidden, her scent struck him like a hammer — jasmine and ink and quiet strength. His claws flexed beneath his skin. His whole body told him to move, to claim, to protect.
Nightcrawler nudged him with an elbow. "Go on, Logan. She waits for you."
Logan's boots felt heavier than lead as he stepped forward. His breath slowed, instincts pulling him to catalog every detail. The slight tremor in her hand where it gripped the ceremonial fan. The steady but shallow rhythm of her heartbeat. The veil that fluttered when she exhaled.
She's nervous. But so am I.
Storm's gaze followed him like a blessing, calm and proud. Kitty clasped her hands, nearly bouncing again. Rogue lingered in the back, biting her lip, watching with wide eyes as though she couldn't believe she was witnessing the Wolverine in something like love.
Logan stopped before Mariko. For once, he didn't feel like an animal pretending at civility. He just felt… human.
The priest began the rites, voice low and steady, the cadence of tradition filling the hall. Logan's mind wandered in and out of the words, half anchored by his senses. He smelled the incense, the paper walls, the faint smoke curling from outside braziers. He tracked the heartbeat of every person in the room — fifty-seven in total, calm, except…
Mariko's. Hers was too steady. Too calm.
Like it wasn't hers.
Logan blinked, jaw tightening. He shook it off. Nerves. That's all. Don't ruin it.
"—do you, Logan-san, take Mariko Yashida—"
The priest's voice cut through his thoughts, anchoring him. Logan drew a deep breath, ready to answer.
But Mariko raised her hand.
"Stop."
The hall froze. A hundred eyes widened. The silence rang like a struck bell.
Mariko's voice trembled, but the words were clear. "The wedding will not continue."
Logan's blood turned to ice. He stared at her, face calm, unreadable. But his gut twisted like claws in his belly. "Why?"
Her hands clenched around the fan. Her voice dropped to a whisper only the nearest could hear. "You are not worthy."
The words hit harder than bullets.
Logan didn't flinch. He reached out, plucked a cigar straight from the trembling hand of a guest nearby. He bit it, lit it with a match struck on his own belt buckle, and smoked the whole damn thing in one drag. He exhaled, slow and heavy, smoke curling like ghosts into the rafters. Then he flicked the stub away.
Inside, his nose burned with truth. Now that he was this close, calm enough to smell past his own nerves, he knew. Her scent wasn't right. Her soul smelled… strange. Not hers. Not Mariko's.
It's like she's speakin' with someone else's mouth.
Logan's pupils narrowed. His breath hitched. And then the memory snapped like a trap around him. That stink — that psychic rot, sweet like perfume masking decay.
His face went feral. Teeth bared. Snarl rising from deep in his chest. He bent, scooped Mariko into his arms like she weighed nothing. She gasped, veil trembling.
"Mari," he growled, voice thick. "I'll show you my worth."
Gasps echoed through the hall as he turned and strode away, bride in arms, ignoring her whispered protests.
The hunt had begun.