The Widow

by The_Anxious_Chords01

Summary:

Wanda Maximoff is sister to one of the most powerful man in New York. Eastern European Mob Boss Pietro Maximoff. She has the wealth and the status of all that she. wants. After a failed shopping spree with her girlfriend, she is nearly killed and from that moment on, Pietro decides that she is not to be alone anymore, having her tailed at all times, by a brooding redhead with the eyes of a killer.

Chapter 1: The Hit

Wanda Maximoff liked to make people stare. That was the thing about her — she understood the game. The way attention moved like currency, traded in glances and whispers. A flash of a smile could buy her an evening. A careless look could ruin one. Tonight, though, she wasn’t after destruction. Just indulgence.

The city glimmered around her, all chrome and exhaust and glass. The high-end shops on Madison hummed with low music and soft perfume, a playground for the beautiful and bored. Wanda fit right in — though she always carried an edge, something too sharp to belong entirely to this world.

Sharon Carter waited for her by the entrance of a boutique, already looking like sin dressed as an angel. Blonde hair tucked behind her ears, a trench coat in pale beige, one hand in her pocket and the other holding a coffee. She looked like she could shoot someone and then apologize beautifully for the inconvenience.

Wanda smiled, slow and lazy. “You’re early.”

Sharon’s eyes flicked over her — over the black velvet dress that hugged Wanda’s hips like a secret, the red lipstick, the coat draped over her shoulders just for show. “You’re worth being early for,” Sharon said.

The words weren’t new. Sharon always said things like that. Wanda always pretended not to melt at them.

They started in Valentino. Sharon picked out dresses with the cold precision of someone assembling a crime scene — methodical, unsentimental, and exacting. Wanda didn’t mind; she liked the way Sharon’s fingers brushed against her bare shoulder as she zipped her up, the way her gaze lingered too long on the curve of her thigh when she stepped out of the fitting room.

“I think this one,” Sharon said, running her hand over a backless red dress that looked painted onto Wanda’s body.

“You think?” Wanda teased, watching Sharon’s reflection behind her. “Or you know?”

Sharon leaned in close enough that Wanda could smell her perfume — something expensive, faintly citrus and smoke. “I know I’d like to take it off you later.”

Wanda bit back a smile. “You’ll have to buy it first.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sharon murmured, her voice brushing Wanda’s ear like silk. “You don’t buy what you already own.”

That was the thing about Sharon — she made everything sound like a promise and a threat at once. Wanda liked that. She liked people who could make her heart race without even raising their voice.

They bought the dress. Then another. Then a pair of shoes Wanda didn’t need but couldn’t resist. By the time they stepped back out onto the street, the sky had begun to fall — the golden edges of dusk bleeding into the dark.

“Where to next?” Sharon asked.

“Dinner?” Wanda suggested. “I’m starving.”

“Starving,” Sharon echoed, eyes flicking down to Wanda’s throat. “I bet.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, smirking. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

They walked arm in arm down the street, the city’s pulse moving beneath their feet. Wanda felt light, almost free. The kind of free that came only in stolen hours — when she could forget that her last name meant something whispered in fear. Pietro’s men were never far behind her, even when she couldn’t see them. There was always someone watching, shadowing her.

Tonight, she hadn’t seen them. It should have worried her. Instead, she felt reckless.

When Sharon stopped in front of a smaller boutique — all dark glass and gold lettering — Wanda frowned.

“Here?” she asked.

Sharon smiled, that particular smile that made Wanda want to both kiss and slap her. “You’ll like this one. Trust me.”

Wanda glanced at the sign, her stomach tightening. She recognized the name. The store was across the invisible line dividing her brother’s territory from Fisk’s. Kingpin’s territory. Pietro had made it very clear she was never to cross that line.

“Sharon,” she said quietly. “This is Fisk’s district.”

“So?”

“So my brother will kill me.”

Sharon tilted her head, amused. “You think Pietro will find out about a little lingerie shopping trip?”

“You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.” Sharon stepped closer, her voice dropping low, intimate. “You want to be good. You want to be loyal. But you also want to see how far you can go before someone stops you.” Her fingers trailed up Wanda’s arm. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Wanda swallowed hard. The air between them thickened, heavy with perfume and danger.

“I just want to shop,” Wanda said, but her voice wasn’t convincing even to herself.

“Then come on.” Sharon smiled, and Wanda followed her inside.

The boutique was dimly lit, warm light spilling over glass tables and velvet displays. Everything was silk and lace and whispers. It smelled like rosewater and sin. The kind of place where every mirror made you look like a secret.

Sharon wandered ahead, pulling a piece of lingerie from the rack — deep crimson, all lace and cutouts. “This,” she said, holding it up. “This is you.”

“It’s… expensive,” Wanda said, mostly for show.

“I’ll buy it,” Sharon replied.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” She met Wanda’s eyes. “Let me spoil you.”

Wanda hesitated. She liked gifts — especially the kind she shouldn’t accept. She liked the way Sharon’s generosity felt like power disguised as affection.

“Fine,” she said, plucking the hanger from Sharon’s hand. “But I’m not modeling for you.”

“Liar,” Sharon murmured, smiling as she followed her to the fitting rooms.

Inside, Wanda undressed slowly, teasing herself as much as she teased Sharon. The red lace fit like a dare — hugging every line of her body. She looked in the mirror and saw someone dangerous. Someone alive.

From outside the curtain, Sharon’s voice came, low and soft. “How does it look?”

Wanda smirked at her reflection. “Like trouble.”

“I like trouble.”

“Then you’ll love this,” Wanda said, drawing the curtain back slightly.

Sharon leaned against the wall, eyes dark, lips curved. “You’re going to get me arrested.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

They were laughing — low, wicked laughter — when something broke the rhythm.

A sound, distant but wrong. A shout. Then another.

Wanda froze, one stocking halfway up her thigh.

“Sharon?” she said, the playfulness draining from her voice.

Sharon didn’t answer immediately. There was movement outside — hurried, deliberate. A sound like metal against tile.

Then Sharon’s voice, sharp, commanding: “Wanda, stay where you are.”

The tone was different — the flirtation gone. This was the voice of someone trained for war.

“What’s going on?” Wanda whispered.

“Quiet.”

Wanda pressed against the fitting room wall, her heart slamming in her chest. She heard the boutique door crash open, glass shattering. Male voices, thick accents. The sound of panic.

Her mind raced — Fisk’s men.

“Sharon?”

“Don’t move,” Sharon hissed.

Then — a sound Wanda had only heard in nightmares. A single gunshot, close. Then a thump.

Everything went silent.

Wanda stood stocking-clad on the cold tile, her body shaking. Her fingers dug into the red lace at her thigh until the threads tore. She tried to listen, to breathe, but all she could hear was the ringing in her ears and the steady drip of water from somewhere behind her.

For the first time in years, Wanda Maximoff was afraid. And somewhere, deep inside, she knew that her life — the one she’d built on rebellion and charm and pretense — had just shattered, as surely as the glass on that boutique floor. Outside, a woman screamed. Wanda didn’t move.

For a long, unbearable moment, Wanda couldn’t move.

The silence that followed the gunshot felt stretched thin, like the world had forgotten how to breathe. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror — wide-eyed, half-dressed, trembling. The red lace that had seemed daring only minutes ago now looked obscene under the dim light. It clung to her skin like a wound.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to believe it had been a bottle dropping, a slammed door — anything ordinary. But somewhere deep inside, she knew better. She’d grown up in the shadow of guns and men who carried them. She knew what that sound meant.

“Sharon?” she whispered.

No answer.

Her breath came too fast, too shallow. She pressed a hand against her ribs, willing herself to stay still. Every instinct screamed at her to hide, but her body wouldn’t listen.

Another sound — a groan, faint, human.

“Sharon.” Louder this time.

Wanda’s fingers shook as she reached for her coat. She couldn’t find it. The black fabric had fallen somewhere on the floor, tangled with her dress and the velvet curtain. She wrapped her arms around herself instead, bare skin against the chill air. The perfume of the boutique — rosewater and leather — turned sour in her throat.

She crouched low, inching toward the edge of the fitting room. The carpet muffled her movements. Outside, something scraped against tile. Heavy footsteps. Voices — male, rough, foreign. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable: taunting, cruel.

*They’re still here.*

Her pulse spiked. She slid to the floor, crawling forward on her hands and knees. Her stocking caught on the corner of the bench, ripping down the side. The sound seemed deafening in the silence. She froze, holding her breath.

No one came.

She moved again, slower now, inch by inch, the carpet burning against her knees. The curtain swayed faintly behind her, the air cold against her back. Every step closer to the front of the boutique made her stomach twist tighter.

When she reached the doorway, she risked a glance around the corner.

The shop looked like a painting overturned. Racks of silk and lace had been torn down, glass shattered across the floor. One of the mannequins lay broken, its plastic face split in half. The smell of blood threaded through the perfume.

Then she saw her.

Sharon was on the floor, half-hidden behind a display table. Her coat was dark with blood, her hair matted. Her face was almost unrecognizable — one eye swollen shut, blood streaking down her cheek.

But she was breathing.

“Sharon,” Wanda whispered, the word catching in her throat. She crawled toward her, hands shaking, the carpet damp with spilled perfume and blood.

Sharon’s head turned slightly. Her lips parted, a wet sound escaping. “Wanda—”

“Shh.” Wanda pressed her fingers gently against her shoulder. “Don’t move. I’m— I’m going to get you out.”

Sharon’s fingers twitched, brushing against Wanda’s wrist. Her skin was cold.

“Stay with me,” Wanda whispered. “Please.”

From somewhere near the front of the store came a low laugh — male, harsh.

“Found something, boys!”

Wanda’s blood turned to ice. She ducked down, instinctively pulling Sharon closer, as if she could shield her.

Footsteps approached, heavy and unhurried. The sound of broken glass under boots.

“Pretty little store,” one of them said. “Shame to ruin it.”

Wanda pressed her forehead against the floor, heart hammering so loudly she was sure they’d hear it.

A hand grabbed her hair and yanked.

She gasped as her body was hauled upright, pain flaring through her scalp. A man stood before her — tall, broad, face half-shadowed under a cap. Tattoos snaked down his neck. His breath reeked of alcohol and smoke.

“Well, look what we got here,” he said, his accent thick. “The princess herself.”

Wanda’s heart dropped. He knew who she was.

“Let go of me,” she spat, even as he dragged her closer.

He laughed. “You Maximoffs think you own the whole city, eh? Not tonight.”

He shoved her forward. She stumbled, catching herself on the display counter, shards of glass cutting into her palms. The sting barely registered — she was too focused on the gun glinting in his other hand.

“Where’s your guard dog now, little girl?” he sneered. “Brother send you shopping alone?”

She said nothing. Her throat had closed up.

He grabbed her by the jaw, forcing her to look up. “You got his eyes,” he said. “Same arrogant look. Don’t worry. We’ll take that out of you.”

He shoved her again, harder this time, until she fell to her knees. Another man appeared near the door, his grin yellow under the flickering light. Behind them, two more. Five total, all armed, all watching her with the kind of hunger that made her skin crawl.

The first one — the leader — bent down. “You Maximoffs think you’re untouchable. But Kingpin wants to send a message.” He tilted her chin up with the barrel of his gun. “You’ll do nicely.”

Wanda’s body shook. She wanted to fight, to claw at him, to scream. But fear rooted her in place.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

He laughed and spat, the saliva hitting her cheek. “Begging already?”

“Please,” she said, hating the way her voice broke.

He stood, still holding her hair. “We’re gonna have fun first,” he said to the others. “Then we’ll take her for a little drive. Public send-off, yeah?”

The others laughed — harsh, echoing.

He yanked her toward the door. Her bare feet slipped on the broken glass, slicing open. She bit back a cry, stumbling as he dragged her across the floor. The boutique alarm blared as they crossed the threshold, the shrill sound mixing with the chaos of distant sirens and honking cars outside.

The cold air hit her like a slap. Night had fallen — the street slick with rain and neon reflections. People had already scattered. The city’s cruelty had many forms; indifference was one of them.

He pulled her toward a waiting car, a black van idling by the curb. The others followed, laughing, shouting things she didn’t hear. Her vision blurred, her ears ringing.

“Let me go!” she screamed, twisting in his grip.

He backhanded her. Her head snapped to the side, blood filling her mouth.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “Don’t ruin that pretty face yet.”

She tried to claw at his hand, but he only tightened his grip, dragging her by her hair. The world tilted, her knees hitting the pavement. Rain and blood mingled on her skin.

And then — headlights.

A dark sedan turned the corner fast, tires screeching. It stopped hard, blocking the street.

“What the hell—” one of the men began.

The driver’s door opened. A figure stepped out — tall, dressed in black, face masked. Another emerged from the passenger side, smaller, just as armed.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the gunfire started.

It was fast — precise. The kind of shooting that spoke of training, not chaos. The first man dropped before he could lift his weapon. The second went down with a hole clean through his chest. Wanda hit the ground, instinctively covering her head as bullets tore through the air above her.

Glass shattered. Tires screeched. Someone screamed.

When the silence returned, it was worse than the noise.

Wanda lifted her head slowly. The rain had started again, fine and cold. The five men who had dragged her out were all down — sprawled across the pavement, blood pooling under them.

The masked figures approached. One of them lowered their weapon, crouching beside her.

“Maximoff?” a husky voice said. Distorted by the mask, but steady. Controlled.

Wanda nodded shakily.

“Can you walk?”

She tried to stand. Her knees buckled. The person caught her easily, one arm around her waist. Their gloved hand was firm but careful, steadying her.

“Wait,” she said, voice breaking. “Sharon— she’s inside—”

The other masked figure had already gone into the boutique. After a moment, they returned, carrying Sharon’s limp body in their arms. Her face was pale, but she was still breathing.

“She’s alive,” the figure said. “Barely.”

The one holding Wanda nodded. “Get her in the car.”

Wanda tried to speak — to ask who they were, to demand answers — but her throat refused. Her vision blurred as they guided her to the sedan, the rain mixing with the blood on her hands.

The car door opened. Warm air and the smell of leather enveloped her. She was pushed gently inside, Sharon laid across the backseat beside her.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The taller figure hesitated.

“Friends,” the distorted voice said finally. “For now.”

The door shut.

The sedan pulled away, fast and silent, disappearing into the rain-slicked streets. Wanda leaned back, her head spinning, the city’s lights smearing past the windows. Her fingers brushed against Sharon’s cold hand.

Outside, sirens wailed somewhere far away.

Inside the car, all she could hear was her own heartbeat — fast, uneven — and the quiet murmur of voices in the front seat.

One of them spoke Russian. Her mother tongue. And though she couldn’t make out the words, she recognized one name whispered between them — a name Pietro had mentioned only in warning, years ago. Widow. Wanda’s vision darkened. The last thing she saw before the world faded was the rain sliding down the glass like tears.

Wanda sat on the edge of the couch, the world still spinning in and out of focus. The room around her smelled of smoke, whiskey, and expensive leather. Her head throbbed, her lip stung where it had split, and she could still taste blood when she swallowed. The red lace clung to her skin like shame — torn, damp, a reminder of everything that had gone wrong.

Pietro stood across the room, pacing like a caged wolf. His shirt was half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, silver chain glinting under the low light. He was angry — not the cold, strategic kind of angry that made him dangerous, but the wild, unthinking kind that made him cruel.

“What were you thinking?” he roared, his voice sharp enough to slice through the silence. “You were told never to go into Fisk’s district. Never.”

Wanda didn’t look up. Her hands were clasped tightly between her knees, knuckles white.

“I just wanted to shop,” she said quietly.

He laughed — a bitter, humorless sound. “Shop? In their territory? Do you think they wouldn’t notice the Maximoff princess prancing into their backyard in heels and perfume?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever I damn well please!” He turned, slamming his palm down on the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. “Do you have any idea what they were going to do to you?”

Her throat tightened. The flashes came back — the gun, the laughter, the blood. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Pietro saw it. “You don’t even deny it,” he hissed. “You walk around like you’re untouchable, like the world owes you something. And now—”

He stopped in front of her, eyes blazing.

“Now I’m supposed to clean up after my whore of a sister again.”

The word landed like a slap before his hand even did. When it came, it wasn’t hard enough to knock her over, but it was enough to make her cheek burn.

Wanda’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered.

He leaned in close, breath hot with anger. “Don’t what? Tell the truth? You open your legs for anyone who looks at you twice, and you think you can walk through life untouched? This could have been a fucking cop. I don't trust Sharon, that dyke is using you. You almost got yourself killed tonight, Wanda. And I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”

Her chest heaved. “I didn’t ask for your pity.”

“No,” he spat. “You never ask. You just take. You take and you leave a mess for me to bury. You think because you have my last name you can do whatever you want?” he spat. “Parading around like some spoiled debutante, walking into Fisk’s territory wearing your brother’s blood on your back—”

“Sharon said—”

“Don’t you dare,” he roared, cutting her off. “Don’t you dare use the Dyke's name right now.”

Wanda’s fingers curled into her knees. “She was just—”

“She was a liability,” Pietro growled. “A stupid, careless distraction, and now she’s almost dead because of you.”

Something broke in Wanda then — a soundless crack deep in her chest. “She saved me.”

“She had to,” he said. “Because you were too busy opening your legs for anyone who looks at you twice!”

The slap came before she even saw his hand move. Her head snapped to the side, hair falling into her face, the second of the night. The sting, harsher than the first, blossomed hot across her cheek, the metallic taste of blood returning to her mouth.

She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t give him that. Pietro stared down at her, chest heaving. His voice dropped, low and venomous. “You’re lucky you’re my sister. Anyone else, I’d have put a bullet in their head for less. But you—” He stepped closer, his hand gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “You’re my burden. My responsibility. My whore of a sister.”

Wanda glared up at him through her hair, jaw tight. “Then maybe you should’ve let them kill me.”

For a second, she thought he might hit her again. Instead, he shoved her back against the couch and turned away, dragging a hand through his hair.

The door opened.

Wanda turned, her heart lurching.

A woman stepped inside.

She was short — Shorter than Wanda, but broader, more muscular, toned and lithe like something sculpted out of quiet violence. Her red hair was cropped just above her shoulders, curling slightly where it brushed her neck. Tattoos covered her arms, dark and intricate — spirals, Cyrillic, shapes Wanda couldn’t quite read — and one crept up the back of her neck like a shadow. Her face was calm, unreadable, the kind of stillness that came from knowing she could end a fight before it began.

She wore a dark tank top, black cargo pants, and boots that clicked softly against the marble floor. Her eyes were grey — cold and assessing, the kind that saw everything.

The air seemed to tighten around her.

“This,” Pietro said, gesturing toward the woman, “is the Widow.”

Wanda blinked. The name sounded like a threat more than a title.

“She’s been with us four years. Enforcer. Cleaner. She doesn’t miss.” Pietro’s tone softened only slightly, as if he were proud to parade his weapon. “She’ll be your bodyguard from now on.”

Wanda’s head snapped toward him. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about family.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” she said, rising to her feet.

Pietro crossed his arms. “You’ll have one anyway. You’ll eat when she eats. Sleep when and where she sleeps. If she leaves a room, you leave with her. If she tells you to move, you move. She doesn’t answer to you. You answer to her.”

Wanda’s blood boiled. “I’m not a child, Pietro!”

“Then stop acting like one, you fucking useless bitch.”

She turned to the woman — the Widow — trying to find some softness, some hint of humanity in her expression. There was none. The Widow simply stood there, arms loose at her sides, gaze steady.

“I don’t need a sitter,” Wanda said coldly.

The Widow tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Good,” she said. Her voice was low, smooth, but with an edge that could cut glass. “Because I’m not here to babysit. I’m here to keep you alive,pet.”

The word landed like a slap.

Wanda froze. “What did you just call me?”

The Widow’s eyes flicked down, deliberately slow, tracing the lines of torn lace and bruised skin. “You heard me.”

Pietro watched the exchange, unimpressed. “You can test her all you want,” he said. “But if you push her, she’ll break you. She was one of the ones who pulled you out of that alley tonight. Maybe thank her before you start another tantrum.”

Wanda’s stomach twisted. “That was you?”

The Widow’s gaze didn’t waver. “It was.”

“You killed them.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

A pause. “Orders.”

Something in Wanda’s chest faltered. “So I’m just another job to you.”

“Exactly. You're making me rich, pet”

Wanda turned on Pietro. “You think this is helping me? Locking me up with your killer?”

“I think it’s keeping you alive,” he said flatly.

“I’d rather die.”

”Don’t tempt me,” Pietro muttered.

That was all it took. The air snapped between them.

“Go to hell,” Wanda hissed.

“I’m already there,” he snarled back. “Thanks to you.”

Her eyes burned. “You don’t get to blame me for your life, Pietro.”

“Oh, I do when you make it harder every damn day! When you let a cop crawl into your bed without realizing it!”

She froze. “What?”

Pietro’s expression turned cruel. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about your little girlfriend? Sharon Carter. Pretty name. Pretty face. Pity she was feeding information to the police the whole time.”

“Liar,” Wanda whispered.

He laughed, sharp and humorless. “I should’ve known. You always pick the ones who’ll destroy you.”

She lunged.

For one blind second, rage drowned everything. She wanted to hit him, to claw at him, to make him stop saying her name like it was dirt. But before she could even reach him, a hand clamped around her wrist.

The Widow moved faster than Wanda could see — spinning her effortlessly, pulling her back against her chest, one arm pinned behind her.

“Enough,” the Widow said softly.

“Let me go!” Wanda struggled, twisting in her grip.

”You’ll only hurt yourself.”

”Let me go!”

The Widow’s hold tightened — not cruel, but unyielding. Wanda could feel the strength in her arms, the controlled precision. She kicked, clawed, but the Widow barely moved.

“Stop,” Pietro ordered.

“Make me!” Wanda spat.

”Gladly,” the Widow muttered, lifting her clean off the floor.

”Put me down!” Wanda shouted, thrashing in her grip.

But the Widow didn’t. She carried her down the hallway as if she weighed nothing at all. The men stationed by the door stepped aside without a word.

”Where are you taking me?” Wanda demanded.

“To your room.”

“I can walk!”

“You weren’t.”

“I hate you!”

“Good,” the Widow said. “Makes it easier.”

When they reached Wanda’s room, the Widow kicked the door open and carried her inside. The lights were still on, the air faintly perfumed from the candles Wanda had lit earlier that evening — an echo of the life that felt a hundred years away.

The Widow set her down on the bed, firm but not rough.

Wanda immediately pushed herself up, glaring through her tears. “You don’t get to touch me!”

The Widow’s expression didn’t change. “Then stop needing to be saved.”

Wanda’s breath hitched.

The Widow turned toward the door, her tone final. “Sleep. You’ll need it.”

“Go to hell,” Wanda whispered.

The Widow paused, just long enough for Wanda to catch the faintest flicker of something — amusement, maybe.

“Already been,” she said softly. “Didn’t like it much.”

Then she left, the door closing behind her with a quiet click.

Wanda sat there, shaking, the sound of her own heartbeat filling the silence. The red lace clung to her like a secret she couldn’t take off, and in the back of her mind, she heard the Widow’s voice again — calm, cold, unbothered.

Pet.

Wanda wanted to scream, but the tears came first.

Chapter 2: Wet Escape

Summary:

Wanda tries to escape the clutches of the mysterious Widow.

The walls of Wanda’s room were painted in shades of grey that matched her mood—concrete dullness hiding something dangerous beneath. She hadn’t slept. The bed felt like a cage, too soft to hold her anger, too still to drown out the noise in her head. She stared up at the ceiling until it blurred, the memory of her brother’s voice replaying again and again, slicing through the dark like a knife.

Her cheek still stung faintly from where Pietro’s hand had connected. She could almost hear his words echoing off the walls. Whore. Disgrace. You think you’re untouchable because you’re pretty?

Wanda turned on her side, curling into herself. The window across from her bed showed the faintest glow of dawn—barely there, more smoke than light. Somewhere outside, a car rumbled down the street, and she imagined freedom humming in its engine.

The Widow had left her alone after locking the door from the outside. Wanda hadn’t seen her since, though she’d felt the woman’s presence everywhere—the phantom of her grip on Wanda’s arm, the quiet weight of her stare.

The air smelled faintly of gun oil and perfume, an intoxicating mix that Wanda hated for how it lingered. She didn’t know if it came from the Widow’s skin or her weapons, but it stayed. It stayed like a hand on her throat.

She pushed the sheets off and sat up. Her body ached—bruises forming like constellations across her hips and shoulders from the way she’d been dragged, shaken, thrown. She was alive, and Sharon was somewhere in a hospital bed, maybe dying, maybe already gone.

She couldn’t stay here.

Wanda rose quietly, crossing to the small dresser by the wall. Her reflection caught in the mirror—tired eyes, smeared mascara, hair tangled from hours of restless movement. She looked nothing like herself, and maybe that was good. Maybe she could disappear if she wanted to.

The plan formed easily enough: she’d tell the Widow she needed to shower. Then, while she was inside, she’d slip out through the window and run. She didn’t know where she’d go—maybe to the hospital, maybe nowhere—but anywhere was better than being locked under someone else’s orders.

She found a towel on the chair, wrapped it around herself, and crossed to the door. When she opened it, the Widow was there, sitting in a chair just outside, legs stretched out, cleaning the barrel of a pistol.

The woman looked up at her without surprise. “Shower?”

Wanda nodded, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. I need to wash off everything.”

The Widow’s mouth curved—barely a smile, more an understanding. “Go ahead. Don’t take too long.”

Wanda’s pulse thudded in her neck. She walked past the woman, feeling the eyes that followed her down the hallway. The bathroom door shut behind her, and she leaned against it, exhaling shakily.

The air was cold, the tile colder. She peeled off the towel, staring at the faint purple bruise blooming near her ribs. Then she turned to the small window over the sink.

It wasn’t big, but it was enough. She’d fit if she tried.

Her hands moved quickly—she dressed in a pair of old sweatpants and a hoodie she’d left on the counter last night, her fingers trembling as she tied her hair back. The sound of the shower running filled the air, steam curling upward like a promise.

Then she climbed.

The window squeaked as she lifted it. The noise made her freeze. No footsteps, no voice. She swung one leg through, then the other, balancing on the outer ledge. Her heart pounded hard enough she could hear it.

She was halfway down the drainpipe when she heard the door open behind her.

“Don’t,” came the Widow’s voice—low, calm, dangerous.

Wanda didn’t look up. “Leave me alone,” she hissed, gripping the pipe tighter.

The Widow was already there, one gloved hand catching her ankle with terrifying ease. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”

“Let me go!” Wanda kicked, but the woman’s grip only tightened. In a blink, she was hauled back up through the window, the towel falling somewhere below as she landed hard on the bathroom floor.

The Widow crouched beside her, eyes level with hers. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” she said quietly.

“I don’t care!” Wanda’s voice broke. “You don’t get it—Sharon’s out there, and I can’t just sit here while my brother decides what’s true!”

The Widow tilted her head slightly, studying her. “Your brother is trying to keep you alive. Whether you like it or not.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I don’t need to.”

Wanda’s hands shook as she pushed herself up, standing toe to toe with her. “Then stop pretending you care,” she spat. “You’re just another one of his soldiers. A weapon that smiles.”

Something flickered behind the Widow’s eyes—a faint glint of amusement, maybe pity. “You think that’s what I am?”

“You follow orders.”

“I follow purpose.” The Widow’s tone was soft but sharp. “And right now, your purpose is survival. Don’t make me tie you to the bed to make that clear.”

Wanda’s breath caught. “You wouldn’t.”

A ghost of a smile curved those scarlet lips. “Try me, pet.”

The word landed heavy in the air, burning in Wanda’s stomach. Her cheeks flushed, whether from anger or something she didn’t want to name. “Don’t call me that,” she whispered.

“You keep earning it.”

Wanda lunged before she thought it through, fury snapping her forward. The Widow moved faster—catching her wrist, twisting just enough to make her gasp, and in one motion, she had Wanda pinned against the wall.

“Combat training,” the Widow murmured near her ear. “You don’t have a chance.”

“Then fight fair.”

“I don’t fight fair.”

They stood there, close enough that Wanda could feel the heat of her skin, smell the faint mix of gunpowder and vanilla. The proximity made her dizzy. She wanted to hate her, but it was hard to hate someone who looked at you like that—like they could end you or save you, and both would feel the same.

Finally, the Widow released her. Wanda stumbled back, rubbing her wrist.

“I want to see Sharon,” she said hoarsely. “If she’s in the hospital—if she’s even alive—”

“She’s not your concern right now.”

“She’s my girlfriend!”

“She was part of the reason you were attacked.”

The words cut like ice. “What do you mean?”

The Widow’s expression didn’t change, but her silence said enough.

“No.” Wanda shook her head. “You’re lying.”

“There are police looking into your family,” the Widow said finally. “Your brother’s enemies are circling, and Fisk’s people want you dead. That’s all you need to know.”

Wanda backed away, her throat tightening. “I never asked for any of this,” she said softly. “I never wanted to be part of his world.”

“I know.” The Widow’s voice softened, just slightly. “But wanting doesn’t change what’s real.”

Wanda turned toward the door, her voice trembling. “You can’t keep me locked up.”

The Widow stepped in front of her, blocking the way. “I can. And I will.”

“Why?”

“Because Fisk put a hit on you. Because I was told to keep you breathing. Because—” The woman stopped herself, exhaling. “Because if I fail, we both die.”

Wanda looked at her—really looked at her. The faint scars near her collarbone, the tattoo curling along her arm, the way her eyes stayed unreadable but her jaw was tense. She wasn’t sure if it was threat or truth, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t leave. Not tonight.

The Widow turned away, crossing to the window. She locked it with a soft click. Then the door.

Wanda sat on the bed, pulling her knees to her chest. “So what now? You just… watch me sleep?”

“I’ll be here.”

“How comforting,” Wanda muttered.

A few minutes later, the door opened again. The Widow returned, carrying a rolled-up army mattress. She laid it down on the floor beside Wanda’s bed, straightening it with quiet efficiency.

“That’s where you’ll sleep?” Wanda asked.

“Unless you’d rather have me in the bed with you.”

Wanda scoffed, heat rising to her face. “You wish.”

“Maybe,” the Widow said, eyes glinting with something that made Wanda’s heart skip.

Silence filled the room after that—thick, tense, but not entirely hostile. Wanda lay down, staring at the ceiling again, aware of the woman’s steady movements as she settled on the floor.

Her mind wandered despite herself—brief flashes of skin, of strength, of hands that could break or hold. She hated that she thought about it. Hated that it felt safer to imagine that touch than her brother’s rage.

“Goodnight,” the Widow murmured quietly, her voice carrying through the dark.

Wanda hesitated. “Goodnight,” she said softly. “Can I at least get your name?”

There was a pause, then a low chuckle.

“No, pet,” came the answer, smooth and certain. “Don’t ruin your pretty head with thoughts.”

Wanda turned away, cheeks hot, staring at the shadows on the wall. She wanted to hate her for saying it. She wanted to laugh, or cry, or scream. But instead, she closed her eyes and tried to breathe.

The room was too quiet. Too close. And the sound of the Widow’s steady breathing in the dark was both her prison and her lullaby.

Chapter 3: Market

Summary:

They go to the market, well Wanda goes, Natasha decides to follow.

The morning sunlight filtered through the Maximoff penthouse windows, slicing through the shadows with cruel precision. Wanda sat at the breakfast bar, still in the oversized hoodie she’d stolen from her brother’s closet—one that smelled faintly of his cologne and cigarettes. Her hair was a wild mess, half-dried from a rushed shower, her bare feet cold against the marble floor.

Across from her stood the Widow.

Not sat—stood. Watching. Always watching.

She was leaning against the counter like she belonged there, arms folded, muscles shifting under the dark fabric of her tank top as her grey eyes tracked Wanda’s every move. It had been like this all morning—like a shadow that refused to detach itself.

Wanda poured cereal into a bowl with deliberate exaggeration, her movements slow and precise, the spoon clinking like a tiny act of rebellion. “You know,” she muttered, “most people at least pretend not to stare.”

The Widow raised an eyebrow. “You make it difficult not to.”

Wanda shot her a glare that lacked real venom. “Because I’m such a flight risk?”

“Because you’re unpredictable,” came the calm reply.

“Unpredictable is just another word for interesting.” Wanda smirked faintly, reaching for the milk carton. “I’d think you’d appreciate some excitement in your dull, professional life.”

The Widow tilted her head slightly, lips twitching—almost a smile. “You have no idea how much excitement I’ve seen.”

“Bet it’s nothing compared to babysitting me,” Wanda said, pouring milk into her cereal. “Must be thrilling watching me eat cornflakes.”

“I don’t mind quiet mornings,” the Widow said.

“You don’t mind me?”

That made the corner of the Widow’s mouth curve just slightly. “You talk too much, pet. But no—I don’t mind you.”

The word pet landed with that same weight as before, and Wanda tried not to let it show. She jabbed her spoon into the bowl, scowling even as her pulse betrayed her.

“Do you always have to call me that?” she muttered, cheeks warming.

“Would you prefer something else?”

“I’d prefer my name.”

The Widow didn’t answer, but her eyes softened, and Wanda could have sworn that, for just a moment, there was warmth there—something human.

Wanda huffed. “If you keep watching me eat, I’ll start charging admission.”

That earned her the faintest laugh. It was small, unexpected, and gone as quickly as it came—but it was real.

Wanda froze for a second, spoon halfway to her lips. “Did you just laugh?”

The Widow’s gaze flicked up, expression unreadable again. “Must’ve been the wind.”

“Right,” Wanda said, smiling despite herself. “A really sarcastic breeze.”

But the moment broke like glass when Pietro’s voice sliced through the air.

“What’s this?”

Wanda’s spine went rigid before she even turned. Pietro stood in the doorway, half-dressed in a white shirt and suspenders, hair slicked back, the faintest trace of a smirk cutting his features. His presence filled the room like smoke—cold and suffocating.

Wanda’s hand trembled, and the milk carton slipped from her fingers, crashing to the marble. The sound was sharp, followed by the white spill creeping across the floor like blood.

She flinched automatically, her body remembering faster than her mind.

Pietro’s eyes didn’t go to her first. They went to the Widow. For a moment, there was silence—the kind that made Wanda’s breath catch in her throat.

Then he looked back at her. “Clean it.”

Just that. Cold. Flat.

Wanda swallowed hard, bending down to gather the shards of the glass bottle, her fingers shaking. The milk soaked into her sleeves, chilling her skin. She focused on that instead of the sound of her brother’s shoes against the tile.

“You were supposed to keep her under control,” Pietro said quietly to the Widow.

“She’s eating breakfast,” the Widow replied, voice even. “Not running a gun trade.”

Pietro’s jaw flexed. “Watch your tone.”

Wanda didn’t dare look up. She knew that tone in her brother—it was the same one that came before the shouting, before the slap, before the bruises she’d learned to hide beneath long sleeves and sarcasm.

But this time, he didn’t hit her.

Instead, he looked down at her, milk pooling between them, and said, “You’re going to the market today.”

Her eyes flicked up in confusion. “What?”

“I want goulash tonight,” Pietro said, lighting a cigarette like it was a verdict. “Our mother’s recipe. You remember how she made it?”

Wanda nodded slowly, stomach tightening.

“Good,” he said, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Don’t ruin it this time. I don’t want another mess like last year.”

Her throat constricted. Last year. The paprika. The smell of burnt onions. The back of his hand.

“I remember,” she whispered.

He smiled—too sharp, too knowing—and turned to leave. “Then make it right.”

When he was gone, the room seemed to breathe again. Wanda stood, her knees weak, and stared at the mess she’d cleaned. The Widow was still there, watching her, silent as ever.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Wanda muttered. “I’m fine.”

The Widow didn’t respond, only handed her a towel. Wanda took it, wiping her hands.

“Let’s get this over with,” Wanda said, voice thin. “The sooner I go, the sooner I can come back and be your favorite pet again.”

“Don’t push it,” the Widow warned softly.

Wanda forced a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “Who’s pushing?”

They walked together down the hallway toward the garage. Wanda could feel the Widow’s gaze on her back, heavy and unrelenting. She didn’t want to talk—not about her brother, not about last night, not about the way her heart still raced from the sound of glass breaking.

When they reached the garage, Wanda stopped beside her car—a sleek black Mazda that had been her one indulgence, her one taste of freedom.

The Widow stepped closer. “Wanda.”

Wanda’s grip tightened on the keys. “Don’t.”

“You’re not going anywhere alone.”

“I need to think.”

“You can think in the car.”

“I said don’t.”

The Widow’s expression didn’t change, but her voice lowered—dangerously calm. “You’re not leaving me behind.”

Wanda turned, meeting her gaze fully for the first time that morning. “I wasn’t asking for permission.”

Then she opened the driver’s door.

The Widow’s hand shot out, catching her wrist, but Wanda twisted free, adrenaline burning through her. “I’m not a prisoner,” she spat.

“Then stop acting like one,” the Widow snapped.

For a heartbeat, they stared at each other—two storms about to collide. Then Wanda got in the car, slammed the door, and turned the key. The engine roared to life, echoing in the closed space.

The Widow moved to the front of the car, her eyes narrowing. “Wanda, don’t do this.”

But Wanda was already reversing, tires screeching. The Widow’s voice followed her, sharp and commanding—“Wanda!”—but the garage door lifted and she was gone.

The city opened before her in blinding light and noise.

She pressed the accelerator hard, weaving through traffic, the wind tangling her hair. For the first time in days, she felt something like control—reckless, fragile, but hers.

The light ahead turned red. She didn’t stop.

Freedom, even for a second, was worth every line she crossed.

Behind her, she knew the Widow would follow. She always did.

But for now, Wanda didn’t care.

She turned the music up, rolled the window down, and let the city swallow her whole.

The city unfolded in a blur of light and motion—Wanda’s reflection flashing across car windows, streetlamps, and the slick metal of passing vehicles. Her Mazda tore down the avenue like a heartbeat set loose, the roar of the engine echoing in her chest.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough for her knuckles to turn white. The speedometer climbed—80, 90, 100. She didn’t care. She wanted distance, not direction. The farther from the Maximoff penthouse, the better. The farther from him, the better.

The air rushing through the open window tangled her hair, sharp and cold against her face. Her pulse was wild, chaotic, and for the first time since that night at the lingerie shop, she felt alive.

Behind her, something thundered.

A low, mechanical growl—deep, rhythmic, relentless.

Wanda glanced into the mirror. Headlights. Closer. Too close.

Her jaw tightened. “No…”

A motorcycle burst through the traffic behind her, sleek and black, its chrome catching the morning light. The rider leaned low over the handlebars, cutting through cars with terrifying precision.

Even before the figure drew close enough for her to see, Wanda knew.

The Widow.

“Unbelievable,” Wanda hissed, slamming her foot down harder.

The Mazda leapt forward, tires screeching as she weaved through the cars ahead. Horns blared. A man shouted something obscene as she narrowly missed his mirror. The Widow didn’t slow down—if anything, she moved faster.

The motorcycle cut between lanes like it was nothing, a dark blur slipping through gaps that shouldn’t have existed. She rode like a ghost—unbothered by danger, precise as a blade.

“Get off my back!” Wanda shouted, knowing full well the woman couldn’t hear her.

She made a hard left turn onto 53rd Street, nearly clipping a taxi. The Mazda fishtailed slightly before regaining control, the smell of burnt rubber filling the car.

In the mirror, the Widow followed, smooth and unshaken.

It was maddening.

Every time Wanda tried to lose her, the Widow was there—an echo, a shadow, impossible to shake. When Wanda sped up, the motorcycle roared louder. When she darted through intersections, the Widow slipped through like the rules of traffic didn’t apply to her.

“Of course you ride a damn motorcycle,” Wanda muttered under her breath, swerving around a delivery truck. “Of course you’re the type.”

She slammed her palm against the steering wheel, frustration bubbling over. “Can’t you just let me breathe for five minutes?!”

The Widow, of course, didn’t respond—only closed the distance.

Wanda’s foot pressed the gas harder, and the Mazda screamed. Her vision tunneled. The world blurred—buildings, people, color—all smearing into streaks of speed. Her heart was pounding too loud, too fast. She didn’t realize how fast she was going until she hit the turn.

Too sharp. Too late.

The tires shrieked, the car spinning for half a heartbeat. Wanda’s stomach dropped as the world tilted—metal grinding, rubber burning—but she corrected just in time, skidding to a violent stop inches from a guardrail.

For a moment, everything went still. Her hands trembled. Her chest heaved.

The Widow stopped a few meters behind her, the motorcycle idling like an animal waiting for command.

Wanda sat there, gripping the wheel, the adrenaline still crashing through her veins. She could almost hear her mother’s voice—slow down, Wandyka, slow down before you hurt yourself.

Her throat tightened. She pressed a shaking hand to her face, trying to steady her breathing. The Widow didn’t move closer, didn’t shout, didn’t threaten—just waited.

The silence between them stretched.

Finally, Wanda started the car again, slower this time. She pulled back onto the road, the Mazda gliding forward at a more reasonable pace. She didn’t have to look behind her to know the Widow was following—she could feel it, like gravity.

They drove like that for several blocks, the city settling back into rhythm around them. Wanda’s anger simmered down to something quieter, heavier.

At a red light, she glanced in the mirror again. The Widow was right there—helmeted, composed, one hand resting casually on the handlebars.

Wanda sighed. “Fine,” she muttered. “You win.”

She turned down a smaller street, parking near an open market. The Mazda rolled to a stop beside the curb, engine humming down.

The motorcycle pulled up beside her and stilled.

Wanda sat there for a moment, refusing to look. She could feel her pulse in her throat, her wrists, her ears. Her palms were slick with sweat, her nerves frayed and sparking.

Finally, she glanced sideways.

The Widow killed the engine, the silence that followed deafening. Slowly, she reached up, unfastening her helmet.

Wanda didn’t mean to stare—but she did.

The red hair spilled out, shaking loose as the Widow removed the helmet with one smooth motion. It caught the sunlight like fire, framing a face that was far too calm for someone who had just chased her through half the city.

Her grey eyes found Wanda’s through the car window—cool, unreadable, but not unkind. The faint smirk at the corner of her lips didn’t help Wanda’s racing pulse.

Wanda tore her gaze away first, fumbling with the door handle.

She stepped out, trying to sound nonchalant even as her heart refused to slow. “You could’ve killed us both,” she said, brushing hair out of her face.

The Widow rested her helmet against her hip. “You’re the one who ran red lights.”

“I was escaping.”

The Widow tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “From what?”

“From you.”

A faint pause. Then—“You didn’t escape.”

Wanda’s mouth opened, then closed. She hated that the woman was right. She hated even more that she looked so damn good saying it.

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “You always this smug, or is it just for me?”

The Widow’s smirk deepened. “Only for you, pet.”

Wanda’s cheeks flushed, though she fought it with a glare. “Stop calling me that.”

The Widow didn’t answer—just turned, walking toward the market entrance, her boots echoing against the pavement.

Wanda watched her go for a second longer than she meant to, then muttered under her breath, “Yeah, sure. Let’s go get tomatoes like a perfectly normal, functional family.”

The market was alive with the hum of life — stalls lined with vegetables, the scent of herbs and roasted nuts, voices overlapping in quick, familiar rhythm. Wanda tried to let the noise drown out her thoughts, her fears, the echo of her brother’s cold tone that still clung to her bones.

She could feel the Widow’s presence behind her like a shadow, calm and heavy, unrelenting. Even without looking, she knew the woman watched her every move — the way she picked up each tomato as if testing its worth, the way her hands trembled when she reached for the next.

Wanda didn’t like it. She didn’t like her being there — following, breathing, observing. But there was no escaping her anymore.

“Nice choice,” the Widow murmured as Wanda inspected another tomato. “Firm, ripe, just the right color.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, setting it in the bag. “Thanks for the lecture, chef.”

A soft exhale — not quite a sigh. “You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that.”

Wanda froze, mid-motion, the words hitting her like cold water. She turned sharply, her voice low. “Excuse me?”

“This morning,” the Widow said evenly, keeping her tone calm, but her eyes sharp. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Or made you flinch.”

Wanda’s lips thinned. “You don’t know him.”

“I know fear when I see it,” the Widow replied. “And I know what causes it.”

Wanda dropped another tomato into the bag with more force than necessary. “Well, congratulations. You must be very observant.”

“You don’t have to live like this,” the Widow pressed, taking a slow step closer, voice quieter now. “You’re not a prisoner.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Wanda muttered, turning away. “You follow me everywhere like I’m one.”

“I’m here to keep you safe, pet”

“Safe from what? My own family?”

The Widow’s silence stretched long enough that Wanda looked back at her — and instantly regretted it. The woman’s expression was soft, too soft, her eyes too knowing.

“You remind me of myself,” the Widow said finally. “When I was your age, my father—”

“Don’t.” Wanda’s voice cracked through the space between them like a whip. “Don’t start that.”

The Widow’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t stop. “He was cruel. Controlling. He used to—”

“I said don’t!”

A few heads turned nearby. Wanda turned away quickly, pretending to inspect a display of peppers. Her hands shook as she reached for one, forcing herself to breathe.

But the Widow didn’t raise her voice. She stepped closer, her tone low and measured. “He used to hurt me. Because he could. Because I was small and quiet and easy to break. And when physical hurting did nothing, and I started to become a woman, he tried a different tactic. I have had every type of abuse before I turned 18, Printsessa, I know the type.”

Wanda squeezed the pepper until it split beneath her fingers.

“I don’t care,” she said flatly, not turning around.

“You do,” the Widow said, softer now. “You just don’t want to.”

Wanda spun around, eyes flashing. “You think you understand me? You think because you had some sad story, that means you get to analyze mine? You don’t know anything about me, or my brother, or us!”

The Widow’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know what it looks like when someone’s afraid to breathe wrong.”

“Shut up!” Wanda’s voice rose again — then fell to a sharp whisper. “You think I need your pity? You’re just some broken weapon pretending to be human. Maybe you deserved whatever your father did to you — ever think of that?”

The words hit the air like glass shattering.

The Widow didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. But for one second — just one — Wanda saw something in her eyes crack.

It wasn’t anger. It was something far worse. Pain. Real, quiet pain.

And Wanda’s stomach twisted, guilt pricking at her chest even as a small, horrible part of her felt… satisfied. Because for once, the perfect, controlled, untouchable Widow looked human.

“Good,” Wanda whispered under her breath, though it didn’t feel good at all.

The Widow looked away first, picking up the ruined pepper from the ground and dropping it into a waste bin. “You shouldn’t waste food,” she said quietly, her voice stripped of any warmth.

Wanda couldn’t look at her. She turned back to the stalls, filling the last of the basket in silence. The noise of the market filled the spaces where their words had been — laughter, chatter, footsteps — but between them, there was only quiet.

When the groceries were paid for, they walked back to the parking lot without a word. The sun was lower now, painting the pavement gold, stretching their shadows long.

Wanda trailed a step behind. She didn’t know what to say — whether to apologize or stay quiet. The silence was easier.

At the edge of the lot, the Widow’s motorcycle waited — dark, sleek, gleaming. She set the bags down carefully, unlatched a small compartment at the back, and began placing the groceries inside. Everything she did was precise, methodical — even when her eyes looked tired.

Wanda crossed her arms, watching. “You really think I’m riding that thing?”

The Widow didn’t answer at first. She closed the compartment, turned, and pulled out two helmets from under the seat. She held one out. “You’re not driving alone again.”

Wanda blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll have someone pick up your car,” the Widow said simply. “You ride with me.”

Wanda’s mouth opened in disbelief. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” the Widow interrupted, her voice steady but firm. “You’re still shaking. You shouldn’t be behind a wheel.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Stop—” Wanda’s voice cracked slightly, frustration bubbling over. “Stop trying to control everything! You’re not my—”

The Widow just looked at her, helmet still in hand. “Get on the bike, Wanda.”

For a heartbeat, Wanda thought about running. About slamming the door of her car and driving until she ran out of gas. But the Widow’s gaze — calm, unyielding — made her hesitate.

She stamped her foot, glaring at the pavement. “You’re impossible.”

The Widow didn’t reply. She just turned toward the motorcycle, settling into the seat, engine idling low. She offered the helmet again, a quiet invitation more than an order this time.

Wanda exhaled sharply through her nose. “You really think I’m going to hold onto you?”

A faint smirk touched the Widow’s lips. “Suit yourself.”

Wanda glared — but she climbed on anyway, muttering curses under her breath. She jammed the helmet on and grabbed the edge of the seat instead of the woman in front of her.

The motorcycle rumbled to life, the vibration humming up through her body.

Then, without warning, the Widow accelerated. The sudden jolt made Wanda yelp — and instinct took over before pride could stop her. Her hands shot forward, clutching the Widow’s waist tight.

The Widow didn’t say a word.

But Wanda could feel her smirk.

“Perv,” Wanda muttered under her breath, though her voice trembled slightly from the wind.

The Widow’s voice came through the rush of air — low, calm, faintly amused. “You’re the one holding on.”

Wanda scowled, tightening her grip anyway. The wind tore through her hair, the city flashing by in streaks of light and motion. And though she’d never admit it out loud — not even to herself — for the first time that day, she felt something almost like peace.

The Widow rode steady, strong, unflinching. And Wanda, pressed close against her, could feel the slow, solid rhythm of her breathing — steady where Wanda’s was not.

For a fleeting moment, the world wasn’t about fear or brothers or control. It was just motion. Just freedom.

Just two ghosts of broken childhoods, flying down a road that didn’t yet care who they were.

Chapter 4: Bathing in sauce

The kitchen smelled of onions and paprika long before the first spoonful of sauce began to simmer. Steam curled up in gentle ribbons, fogging the cold light that poured in through the window. It should have been comforting. For Wanda, it wasn’t.

Her hands shook as she stirred the goulash, the ladle clinking faintly against the pot. The rhythm should have been familiar, a memory of her mother, humming softly as she cooked, moving with an ease Wanda could never quite mimic. But all she could see was him, her brother’s shadow towering over her, voice sharp, face flushed with fury, the sound of breaking glass, the weight of his boot against her ribs.

That night, she had overdone the paprika.

Now, every grain felt like a countdown.

The Widow leaned against the counter near the sink, arms crossed, eyes steady. She wasn’t interfering, not yet. But she was watching. Always watching. The weight of her gaze was its own kind of pressure; quiet, unyielding, like a blade resting against the back of Wanda’s neck.

“Breathe,” the Widow said finally, voice low. “You’re holding your breath again.”

Wanda startled slightly, almost spilling the sauce. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

“It’s hot.”

“It’s fear,” the Widow corrected simply, stepping closer.

Wanda glared at her, though her voice came out too thin to carry real venom. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Widow didn’t respond, just reached past her to lower the flame a little. Her movements were calm, practiced. Wanda hated how easy she made everything look, even something as simple as turning a dial.

“Your mother’s recipe?” the Widow asked after a moment, not unkindly.

Wanda swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then do it for her,” the Widow said softly. “Not for him.”

Something in Wanda’s chest twisted; guilt, maybe, or the memory of love before it curdled. She turned back to the pot, her eyes stinging. “He wants it exactly like she made it.”

The Widow studied her quietly for a moment. Then, she rolled up her sleeves. “Then let’s make it together.”

Wanda blinked. “You cook?”

The Widow’s lips curved faintly, just barely. “Enough to survive.”

They worked in silence after that, side by side. The Widow chopped onions with precise, soldierly rhythm; Wanda measured spices with trembling hands. The air filled with the scent of roasted paprika and slow-cooked beef. The silence wasn’t comfortable, not exactly, but it wasn’t hostile either. It was… still. Careful.

At one point, the Widow reached over to adjust Wanda’s grip on the ladle. Her hand brushed against Wanda’s; calloused, steady, warmer than expected. Wanda froze, not daring to look up.

“Like this,” the Widow murmured. “You’re not stirring, you’re scraping. Gently.”

Wanda nodded, her breath catching for reasons she didn’t want to examine too closely.

When the dish was nearly done, the Widow leaned back slightly, arms crossing again, assessing the pot like a general inspecting troops. “Looks good,” she said.

Wanda’s voice was barely a whisper. “He’ll decide that.”

The Widow’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

They set the table in silence. The plates gleamed under the harsh light, silverware lined with military precision. Wanda’s stomach churned as she ladled the goulash into a serving dish. Every step; the weight of the ladle, the smell of paprika, the scrape of porcelain, made her pulse climb higher.

The door opened.

Pietro stepped in, his presence filling the room like smoke. He was sharp in his grey suit, pale hair slicked back, eyes glinting with the same restless cruelty that had haunted her since childhood.

“Smells like home,” he said, smiling without warmth.

Wanda’s hand trembled as she set the pot down. The Widow moved subtly, standing a little closer, not enough to be noticed, but enough to be there.

Pietro sat, tasting the goulash with deliberate slowness. The silence stretched unbearably. Wanda’s heart pounded so loudly she almost didn’t hear his next words.

“Adequate.”

Relief flooded her, not joy, but the fragile relief of survival. Her knees nearly gave way. She forced herself to nod, her voice small. “Would you… like more?”

He glanced up, considering. Then he extended his plate. “Yes. I’ll have another.”

Her hands shook as she reached for the ladle. She told herself to steady it, steady it, but her pulse betrayed her. The sauce spilled, a single splash at first, then more. It hit the pristine fabric of Pietro’s suit like blood.

For one second, there was silence.

Then came the scream.

“You stupid girl!”

Wanda froze, terror choking her breath. She barely had time to move before he was on his feet, the chair clattering behind him.

“I’m sorry—”

The apology didn’t matter. His hand shot out, shoving her backward. The pot tipped, its contents spilling across the floor and over her dress. The heat bit into her skin, a flash of burning pain that made her gasp.

She stumbled, slipping on the sauce, and hit the floor. Her palms slapped the tile.

“Look what you did!” Pietro’s voice rose, shrill with rage. “You can’t do anything right!”

He kicked her once, not hard enough to break, but enough to make her cry out. Her hair tangled in the spill, her skin stung, her eyes blurred. She barely saw him reach down and grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her up.

“Please—”

His arm drew back, fist tightening.

And then, it stopped.

A hand caught his wrist mid-swing. Pale fingers, unflinching, wrapped around his arm like a steel vice.

The Widow stood between them.

“You will not abuse your sister, boss.”

Her voice was low, calm, but there was something underneath it, something sharp, dangerous, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

Pietro’s expression flickered from shock to fury. “You bitch,” he spat, struggling to wrench his hand free. “You work for me. If anything, you should be helping me teach this whore a lesson!”

The Widow’s grip didn’t move. Her eyes were cold, cutting through him like glass.

“You hired me to protect your sister,” she said evenly. “I will do so. Even from you.”

Wanda’s breath hitched. She could barely comprehend what she was seeing. Pietro, her Pietro, was being defied, stopped, contained.

For a moment, it was as though the world had turned upside down.

“Let go of me!” Pietro snarled, swinging with his free hand.

The Widow moved before he finished the motion, a blur of precision. She sidestepped, his punch slicing through empty air, and pushed him. Not hard, but precise enough to send him stumbling backward. He hit the floor, breath leaving him in a sharp, indignant sound.

He tried to rise, but the Widow was already between him and Wanda, her stance loose but unreadable; every line of her body ready to strike if he moved again.

“Stay down,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the kind of authority that made even Pietro freeze.

The only sound was Wanda’s shaking breath.

The goulash dripped from the table, pooling around her bare feet. The smell of paprika, once comforting, now felt suffocating.

Pietro stared up at them, eyes burning. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed.

“Maybe,” the Widow replied. “But not tonight.”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she turned her back on him, the greatest insult she could have given.

Wanda barely realized what was happening until she felt herself lifted off the ground, the Widow’s arms slipping beneath her knees and shoulders. It was effortless, terrifyingly so. The woman held her as though she weighed nothing.

“Come,” the Widow said quietly, her voice soft but laced with steel. “I’ll run you a bath.”

Wanda didn’t fight. Couldn’t.

She was trembling too hard to speak, to move, to think.

The Widow’s shoulder was solid against her cheek, leather and warmth and something that smelled faintly of gunpowder and smoke. The cold menace that always clung to the Widow didn’t vanish, but beneath it, there was something else now, something quieter.

Tenderness, perhaps. Or pity. Or both.

As they passed the doorway, Wanda turned her head slightly, just enough to see her brother still on the floor, his jaw tight, his pride bleeding more than his body.

The bathroom was full of steam, curling along the tiled walls and blurring the edges of the mirror. Water hissed quietly from the showerhead, the sound soft but steady, like rain against glass. Wanda sat on the edge of the large clawfoot tub, trembling. Her hair clung to her face in sticky strands, the faint scent of paprika and smoke still clinging to her skin. Her ruined dress was plastered to her body, heavy with the remnants of goulash. The sauce had cooled, congealed in dark stains that made her shiver with every movement.

The Widow adjusted the shower’s temperature, testing it with her wrist before directing the gentle stream toward Wanda’s hands. The water trickled over her fingers, red-brown streaks running down the drain.

“Lift your arm,” the Widow said quietly. Her voice wasn’t sharp now. It was calm, almost patient.

Wanda didn’t move at first. She just stared at her lap, at the smudged streaks of sauce and dirt that seemed to have soaked into her very skin. Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Every sound; the drip of water, the quiet hum of pipes, felt too loud.

The Widow repeated herself, a little softer this time. “Lift your arm.”

Wanda obeyed. Slowly. The water ran down her elbow, then her shoulder, tracing paths along the bruises already forming beneath her skin. The Widow guided the showerhead across her arm, rinsing away what the earlier chaos had left. The warmth of the water didn’t chase the chill out of Wanda’s bones, though, it only made her shake harder.

Her voice was small when it came. “I can do it.”

The Widow didn’t argue, but she didn’t hand her the showerhead either. “You don’t need to.”

She crouched down so they were almost level, her red hair darkened by the mist, sticking to the side of her face. She looked different in the soft light, less like a weapon, more like a person.

When she reached for the hem of Wanda’s ruined clothes, Wanda flinched, hands flying instinctively to cover herself. The Widow stopped instantly, eyes meeting hers, unreadable.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said.

“I know,” Wanda whispered, though her voice shook.

But knowing and believing weren’t the same.

The Widow moved slowly, deliberately, as if every motion were an unspoken question. Bit by bit, she peeled away the soaked fabric, careful not to tug or pull too quickly. The ruined dress hit the floor with a damp sound, heavy and defeated.

Wanda’s arms crossed over her chest, trembling. Her body felt foreign, too exposed, too fragile. Bruises and scratches marked her skin like a map of someone else’s cruelty. She kept her gaze fixed on the tiles, unable to meet the Widow’s eyes.

The water shifted, now directed toward her legs. Warm. Steady. The Widow’s touch wasn’t harsh, just methodical, hosing down what remained of the mess, washing the sauce, the grime, the blood that had started to dry. It wasn’t gentle in the soft way of comfort, but gentle in the sense of control. Steady hands that didn’t falter, that knew how to deal with wounds.

When the worst of it was gone, the Widow turned off the shower and went to fill the tub. The sound of running water filled the air again, deeper now, echoing softly against the walls.

“Get in,” she said, her tone even, not quite an order but not a suggestion either.

Wanda hesitated, her arms still folded tightly over her chest. “Can you… stay?”

The question surprised even her. It came out small, fragile, almost childlike.

The Widow looked at her for a moment, unreadable as ever. Then she nodded once. “If you want me to.”

She took a seat on the floor beside the tub, close enough that her shadow stretched across the rippling surface of the water.

Wanda climbed in, the warmth enveloping her like a fragile cocoon. The water lapped against her bruises, stinging at first before softening into comfort. She sank down until it reached her collarbone. Her hands, still trembling, covered her breasts and stomach, protective and uncertain.

The Widow dipped a sponge into the tub, wrung it out, and began to clean the streaks of sauce and dirt that still clung to Wanda’s skin. Her movements were slow, efficient, but there was a softness there too; something unspoken, almost reverent. She wiped the scrapes on Wanda’s shoulders, her knees, the small cut at her collarbone.

Wanda didn’t speak. The sound of the sponge dipping in and out of water filled the space between them.

And then the Widow began to hum.

It was low and melodic, a tune without words, sung in a voice that was barely above a whisper. The sound wound through the room like smoke, foreign and familiar all at once. It was a lullaby, maybe. Or a memory from somewhere far colder, older.

The melody pulled at something inside Wanda’s chest. It was strange, being comforted by someone who looked like death made flesh. But in that moment, she didn’t feel fear. Just exhaustion. Just the slow, aching pull of breath as she let herself exist without flinching.

When the Widow spoke again, it was barely a murmur. “You’re safe for now.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Wanda didn’t realize she’d started crying until the tears mixed with the bathwater.

The Widow said nothing, only continued washing her, her humming growing softer until it faded altogether. When she finished, she reached for a towel, a thick, white one that looked impossibly soft, and held it open.

“Come on,” she said gently.

Wanda stood slowly, the water sliding down her body, steam rising in ghostly trails. The Widow wrapped the towel around her shoulders, then folded it tightly over her body, cocooning her in warmth.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The Widow’s hand rested lightly on Wanda’s back, steady and grounding.

Then she spoke, her voice so quiet Wanda almost didn’t hear. “Natalia.”

Wanda blinked, dazed. “What?”

“That’s my name,” the Widow said. “Natalia.”

The name hung in the air like something sacred. Wanda had asked for it before, mocked it, demanded it, but now it was given freely.

“Thank you,” Wanda murmured, her voice breaking around the edges.

Natalia didn’t reply. She simply slid one arm beneath Wanda’s knees and the other behind her shoulders, lifting her with the same effortless strength as before. Wanda’s towel stayed wrapped around her, her body pressed against the faint chill of Natalia’s arm.

Her head dropped to Natalia’s shoulder as the woman carried her from the bathroom, the rhythmic sound of her steps echoing softly against the tile. The scent of her hair, soap, steel, a trace of something floral, was oddly grounding.

Wanda’s eyes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion. For the first time in what felt like years, she didn’t flinch when someone held her.

The last thing she remembered before her thoughts went hazy was the sound of Natalia’s voice, low and steady, humming that same Russian melody under her breath.

And for the first time that night, Wanda let herself breathe.

The room was dark, save for the faint orange glow spilling in from the hallway through the half-closed door. The hum of the heater was the only steady sound, low and broken, like a heart still learning how to beat after too much silence. Wanda lay beneath the blanket, her body drawn tight as a bowstring, the shivers refusing to leave her no matter how she shifted. The towel-warmth had long faded, and the chill of memory had returned, creeping through her skin and bones.

Across the room, Natalia sat cross-legged on the thin army mattress she had set up near the door. She was still awake, she always was. Her posture was that of someone pretending to rest but listening to every sound: the sighs, the uneven breathing, the rustle of fabric that betrayed unease.

When Wanda turned over, Natalia’s eyes opened instantly, gleaming faintly in the half-dark.

“You should try to sleep,” Natalia said. Her voice was soft, low enough to almost blend with the hum of the heater.

“I’m trying,” Wanda whispered, her voice small, half-broken. “It’s… hard.”

“I know.” Natalia exhaled through her nose, leaning back slightly, arms resting on her knees. “The body remembers too much.”

The words lingered in the air. Wanda clutched the blanket tighter, nodding without answering.

After a pause, Natalia said, “In two days, if you can stay here tonight and tomorrow, no trying to run, no disappearing, I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted from the blanket. “Sharon?”

Natalia nodded once. “She’s been asking for you. She’s been there for several days now.”

Something flickered in Wanda’s chest—hope and guilt, tangled tightly. “You’d really take me?”

“If you give me your word,” Natalia said simply. “And keep it.”

Wanda hesitated. She wanted to say yes. But promises had become heavy things in her life—every one a chain, a weight that could be turned against her. “I’ll think about it,” she said quietly.

Natalia accepted the answer with a small nod. No threat, no pressure. She simply shifted her posture, pulling one leg in and resting her chin on her knee.

Silence stretched between them again, but not empty. It felt like a pause between breaths.

“You remind me of myself,” Natalia said suddenly.

Wanda blinked. “What do you mean?”

Natalia’s gaze stayed distant, somewhere in the dark beyond the walls. “When I was your age, I was in a place where people didn’t ask questions. You learned fast or you didn’t last.” Her voice was flat at first, then softened. “We were told we were weapons, not girls. That pain was a lesson, and obedience a virtue.”

Wanda swallowed hard. “They hurt you?”

Natalia’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Often. Bruises, broken bones. But the worst wasn’t what they did with their fists.” Her voice fell lower, quieter, almost careful. “It was what they took. What they made you give. And how they made you believe it was your fault for surviving.”

Wanda’s throat tightened. She didn’t ask more; she didn’t have to. She understood too much already. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was acknowledgment, shared without words.

For the first time, Wanda saw the outline of something softer beneath Natalia’s armor. Not pity. Not weakness. Just recognition.

“I’m sorry,” Wanda whispered.

Natalia shook her head. “Don’t be. We both lived.”

Wanda looked down again, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. She still couldn’t stop trembling.

After a long pause, she spoke, almost too quietly to hear. “Can I… get another blanket?”

Natalia’s gaze flicked toward her. “Are you cold?”

Wanda nodded, hesitating. “It’s not the air. I just—can’t stop shaking.”

Natalia stood. Her movements were silent, precise, like a shadow slipping across the room. She went to the small closet, rummaged for a moment, then returned with another folded blanket. She draped it over Wanda gently, careful not to startle her.

But the shivering didn’t stop. Wanda tried to hold still, tried to will her body into calm, but her breath came uneven, and the tremors only grew worse.

Natalia’s voice broke through the quiet. “Wanda.”

She looked up.

“Do you want me to do something else?”

Wanda hesitated, biting her lip. Her voice came out trembling. “Maybe if… if you could just… stay closer. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

Natalia tilted her head slightly. “You want me to stay with you?”

Wanda’s cheeks flushed, and she turned her face into the pillow. “It’s not, just… it feels safer. Warm. I just…” She trailed off, embarrassed by the childishness of it.

Natalia didn’t answer right away. Then she crossed the room and knelt beside the bed. “Move over a little.”

Wanda blinked, startled, but obeyed. Natalia lay down on top of the covers, not beneath them, her movements careful and deliberate. She positioned herself on her side, close enough that their warmth began to overlap but not so close as to touch without invitation.

For a moment, neither spoke. The heater hummed, the shadows shifted, and the world felt smaller, contained in the space between them.

Then Wanda whispered, “You can… hold me. If you want.”

Natalia hesitated, her breath catching faintly. Then, gently, she lifted the corner of the blanket and slipped an arm around Wanda’s shoulders. The contact was cautious at first, like touching a wound, but when Wanda didn’t flinch, Natalia drew her closer, until Wanda’s trembling body was pressed lightly against her.

It wasn’t the embrace of a lover, nor even quite a friend. It was something rawer, something stitched together from mutual hurt and fragile trust.

Wanda’s head rested against Natalia’s collarbone, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat anchoring her in the dark. The trembling slowed, little by little, replaced by small, shaky breaths.

“You’re warm,” Wanda murmured, voice muffled against her shoulder.

Natalia’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes stayed open, watching the ceiling as if it might fall. “So are you,” she said quietly.

They lay there in silence for a long time. Natalia’s hand moved once; slowly, rhythmically, up and down Wanda’s arm, a motion more protective than tender. When Wanda’s breathing finally steadied, Natalia whispered something in Russian, the words almost lost to the dark.

“What does that mean?” Wanda asked sleepily.

“It means,” Natalia said, “you can rest now.”

Chapter 5: The Games begin

The next morning arrived soft and gray, the kind of light that made the streets look washed clean but heavy with chill. Wanda pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, stepping out into the cool air. The city had begun to wake, the sound of clattering delivery trucks, the smell of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, the faint chatter of shopkeepers sweeping their thresholds.

And behind her, as always, came the shadow.

Natalia walked with her usual measured stride, half a step behind, hands tucked into the pockets of her leather jacket. No words at first. Just the rhythm of their steps against the pavement, the faint jingle of the keys at Natalia’s hip, the echo of boots following close but never too close.

Wanda tried to ignore her. She told herself that she didn’t care, that she didn’t need someone looming behind her like a silent warden, but after last night, the air between them had changed. It wasn’t exactly peace. But it wasn’t war, either.

“So,” Wanda said after a long silence, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You always this cheerful in the morning?”

Natalia’s tone was dry. “You haven’t seen me before coffee.”

Wanda smirked, glancing back. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Observation,” Natalia corrected.

They walked past a small fruit stand, the scent of ripe peaches in the cool air. Wanda slowed, eyeing the display, letting her fingers brush over the skin of a few apples before picking one up.

“Can I?” she asked, lifting it toward Natalia with a mock-innocent look.

“You can,” Natalia said, “if you’re paying for it.”

Wanda rolled her eyes. “So practical. You’d make a terrible date.”

“Good thing this isn’t one.”

That made Wanda laugh, a soft sound she hadn’t expected from herself. It came out unguarded, a real laugh, and it startled her almost as much as it seemed to surprise Natalia. The Widow’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile, before she looked away, pretending to study the street ahead.

Wanda caught it, though. She saw that flicker of warmth, brief but real, and it made something in her chest tighten in a way she didn’t like admitting to.

They continued down the street, the conversation light, wandering. Wanda found herself talking about the market, the people she used to visit here, the tiny coffee shop that made the best cakes in the district. Natalia didn’t say much, but she listened. She always did. Every word seemed to go somewhere, nothing escaped her.

When they reached a small boutique, Wanda paused. “Let’s go in here,” she said.

Natalia’s brow rose slightly. “Clothes?”

“Shopping,” Wanda corrected, flashing a sly smile. “Therapy.”

“You don’t need more clothes.”

“I don’t need a babysitter either,” Wanda said sweetly, then pushed open the door. The bell above it chimed as she stepped inside.

Natalia sighed but followed.

The shop was warm, faintly perfumed with lavender and fabric dye. Racks of dresses lined the walls, soft knits, silk, lace. Wanda moved between them with practiced ease, fingers grazing the fabrics, eyes sharp. Shopping had always been her way of reclaiming something, control, beauty, distraction.

She pulled a red dress from a rack, holding it against her body in the mirror. “What do you think?”

Natalia leaned against a nearby display, crossing her arms. “You’d stand out.”

“That’s the point,” Wanda said, turning slightly. “You don’t think red suits me?”

Natalia’s eyes flicked over her, not slow, not overt, but focused. Calculating, perhaps. “It suits you fine,” she said finally.

Wanda smiled, the corner of her mouth curling. “Fine? Not exactly high praise, Widow.”

“I’m not a poet.”

“No,” Wanda said lightly, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “But you do look.”

Natalia didn’t deny it. She said nothing, and that was enough.

Wanda hung the dress over her arm, wandering deeper into the shop. She found herself watching the Widow now, noticing the way Natalia’s gaze followed her, not constantly, not in the way men looked, but in sharp glances, brief and precise, like she was assessing more than admiring.

Still, Wanda could use that.

She bent down to pick up a scarf that had fallen to the floor, taking her time as she rose, the movement unhurried. When she glanced up, she caught it again, Natalia’s eyes flicking away a second too late.

Got you, Wanda thought.

She smirked, hiding it by pretending to examine a necklace on display.

They spent longer in the shop than she expected. Natalia didn’t complain. She even helped carry a few bags when they left, the plastic handles digging into her gloved hands without a word. It wasn’t what Wanda expected, the stoic soldier, quietly following her through aisles of dresses and perfume. It was strange, almost amusing.

“You looked bored back there,” Wanda said as they walked toward the car.

Natalia shrugged. “Not my kind of place.”

“And what is your kind of place?” Wanda asked.

Natalia’s mouth quirked faintly. “Somewhere quieter.”

“Or somewhere with danger.”

“That too.”

Wanda smiled, sidestepping a puddle. “You should loosen up. Shopping can be dangerous. Especially for wallets.”

Natalia gave a soft exhale that might have been a laugh. It was enough. They stopped near a café, the smell of coffee wafting through the air. Wanda glanced back at her, eyes playful. “You know, you almost smiled just now. Careful. People might think you’re human.”

Natalia raised an eyebrow. “You’re observant today.”

“I like seeing cracks in the armor,” Wanda teased. “Makes me feel less alone.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, and for a second, neither of them said anything. The air between them shifted, not awkward, just… heavier. Realer.

Then Natalia said quietly, “You’re not alone.”

Wanda blinked, surprised. She wanted to laugh it off, make another quip, but the look on Natalia’s face stopped her. It was steady, unreadable, yet strangely sincere.

So instead, Wanda said softly, “We’ll see.”

As they reached the car, she leaned over, deliberately close, tossing her bags into the backseat. She could feel Natalia’s gaze again, that steady, assessing stare and she smiled to herself as she straightened.

This might just become easier than I thought.

The morning sun caught in the Widow’s hair, turning it a copper flame. Wanda slipped into the driver’s seat, smirk tugging at her lips, the faintest tremor of warmth in her chest that she didn’t want to name.

For now, she decided, she’d let herself enjoy the game.

That night, Wanda’s place grew quiet, far too quiet. Silence pressed in through the hallways like fog, broken only by the dull tick of the clock in the corner of Wanda’s room. The storm of dinner had finally passed: Pietro’s voice still echoed in her head, sharp and cold, the sting of his words clinging like ash.

She had sat through it, eyes on her plate, nodding when he spoke, biting her tongue until she tasted blood. When he’d dismissed her, she’d walked away without a word, back straight, face blank, the practiced performance of a woman who refused to break in front of him.

But once the door closed behind her, her hands began to shake.

The bottle had been waiting. Hidden behind her wardrobe since the week before, a cheap Eastern European vodka that burned going down but numbed everything it touched. She poured a glass, then another, and before long, she stopped bothering with the glass at all.

By the time Natalia found her, the room smelled faintly of alcohol and smoke from the candle burning low on the table. Wanda sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet against the rug, her hair messy, her silk blouse unbuttoned at the top.

The Widow leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “That’s your fourth glass,” she said.

Wanda turned her head lazily, a faint smile curving her lips. “Counting now, are we?”

“Someone has to.” Natalia’s voice was even, but her eyes softened for just a moment. “He got to you again.”

Wanda scoffed, tipping the bottle slightly toward her. “He always gets to me. That’s his favorite pastime. Drink?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.” She took another swallow, winced, then let the bottle dangle from her fingertips. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

Natalia stepped forward, boots quiet on the carpet. “Fun isn’t part of my job description.”

“What is your job description?” Wanda asked, tilting her head. “Protecting me from assassins or from myself?”

“Both, apparently.”

Wanda laughed a short, bitter laugh. “Then you’re failing. I’m very good at self-destruction.”

Natalia’s hand darted out, taking the bottle from her before Wanda could react. She didn’t yank it, she just took it, with a calm authority that made it seem pointless to resist. She unscrewed the cap and took a long drink herself.

Wanda blinked. “You do drink.”

“Sometimes,” Natalia said, lowering the bottle. “But not to forget.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “That’s the only reason to drink.”

Natalia didn’t answer. She moved toward the small window, looking out at the dim city lights below. Her profile was sharp in the glow of the candle — jaw set, eyes distant. Wanda watched her for a moment, the curve of her neck, the ink that traced her arm like dark vines under the sleeve of her tank top.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Wanda murmured.

Natalia turned her head slightly. “And you’re drunk.”

“Maybe,” Wanda said, shrugging, “but at least I’m honest when I am.”

“That’s not honesty,” Natalia replied. “It’s noise.”

Wanda pouted, leaning back on her hands. “You really know how to ruin a mood.”

“I’m not here to build one.”

“Right. You’re here to guard me. To watch me.” Wanda’s eyes flicked to her, half-lidded and teasing. “You do a lot of watching, don’t you?”

Natalia met her gaze evenly. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Wanda smirked. “Neither are you.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them — the soft hum of the city beyond the glass, the faint flicker of the candle. The air felt thick, charged with something Wanda didn’t have the courage to name.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You know,” she said quietly, “you could sit. I don’t bite.”

“I know.”

“So sit.”

Natalia hesitated, then finally crossed the room and lowered herself into the chair opposite Wanda’s bed. The bottle rested loosely in her hand.

Wanda smiled faintly. “Progress. The Widow does know how to relax.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Natalia said, but her tone was softer now.

Wanda studied her, the way the candlelight caught in the red strands of her hair, the line of her throat as she swallowed another small sip. She wondered what it would take to make this woman really laugh, to shatter that cool veneer for even a heartbeat.

“So,” Wanda said, voice slow and slightly slurred, “tell me something. Anything. You never talk.”

“I talk when I need to.”

“That’s boring.” Wanda’s lips curved in a crooked grin. “Tell me something real.”

Natalia’s gaze dropped to the floor. For a long time, she didn’t speak. Then she said quietly, “Real isn’t always safe.”

Wanda leaned closer, her breath warm with vodka. “Neither am I.”

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the air felt dangerous again, not with violence, but something heavier. Natalia set the bottle down on the floor, the soft clink of glass breaking the tension. “You should sleep.”

“You didn’t answer me,” Wanda said, her voice soft now. “I asked for something real.”

Natalia exhaled slowly. “You wouldn’t want my real.”

Wanda tilted her head, watching her. “Try me.”

Natalia looked at her, really looked at her. Then she said, “When I was your age, I stopped believing people could be saved.”

It wasn’t said with bitterness. Just quiet certainty. Wanda frowned, trying to read her. “And now?”

“I still don’t.”

That silence again, sharp, but honest. Wanda smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re full of sunshine.”

Natalia’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Go to bed, Pet.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

Wanda huffed, leaning back and curling up against the headboard. Her eyelids were heavy, the alcohol pulling at her. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re drunk.”

“Then we’re even.” Natalia shook her head slightly, picking up the bottle once more and setting it on the dresser, well out of reach. She lingered there, watching until Wanda’s eyes began to flutter shut.

“Goodnight,” Natalia said quietly.

“Mm,” Wanda murmured, half-asleep already. “You’re still no fun…”

A faint smile ghosted over Natalia’s face — the kind only seen by the dark.

“Sleep, Wanda.”

Chapter 6: The Reveal

The morning felt like punishment.

Wanda sat in the passenger seat with her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, eyes closed, the hum of the car engine thrumming through her skull. Her temples pulsed with each beat of her heart, dull, merciless. Every breath tasted faintly of vodka and regret.

Outside, the city slid past in soft blurs of gray and gold. Streetlights fading in the pale daylight. People moving like ghosts on the sidewalks. The world looked too calm for how she felt, like it had no right to carry on as if nothing had happened.

Natalia drove in silence, one gloved hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loosely on her thigh. The motion was smooth, disciplined, not a single wasted movement. Wanda had come to recognize that about her, everything she did was deliberate, from the way she moved to the way she breathed.

“You’re quiet,” Natalia said eventually, her voice low.

“Hangover,” Wanda muttered, eyes still closed.

“You deserve it.”

Wanda made a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. “You’re really not great at comfort, are you?”

“I didn’t come here to comfort you.”

“No,” Wanda said softly, “you came here to protect me. From what, exactly?”

“From people who want you dead.”

“People like my brother?”

Natalia didn’t answer. The silence said enough.

Wanda turned her head, studying the faint profile of the woman beside her, strong, still, maddeningly calm. “You always this gentle in the mornings?”

Natalia’s lips curved slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Only with people who vomit vodka.”

“Was that… humor?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

For a moment, Wanda smiled, a tired, fragile thing, before turning back to the window. The smile faded as quickly as it had come. The hospital rose ahead of them, glass and steel reflecting the pale light.

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t want to do this. But she had to.

She needed to know if she was okay, if she was near better. Natalia parked the car. The click of the ignition sounded far too loud.

“You don’t have to go in,” Natalia said quietly.

“Yes, I do.”

“You won’t like what you find.”

Wanda turned to her, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. “I don’t need protection from the truth.”

Natalia’s gaze met hers for a long moment before she nodded once. “Then I’ll stay close.”

Inside, the hospital smelled sterile and bright, antiseptic and artificial light. Every sound seemed amplified: the distant beep of heart monitors, the squeak of nurses’ shoes, the shuffle of papers behind the reception desk.

Wanda tugged her coat tighter around her. Natalia followed half a step behind, silent but solid, her presence a weight at Wanda’s back that she wasn’t sure she wanted or needed but somehow couldn’t do without.

They took the elevator up to the third floor. Wanda’s pulse thudded in her throat. She felt like she was walking toward a firing squad.

When they reached the room, she hesitated at the door. The sound of the machines inside, steady, mechanical breathing, filled the space between them.

Natalia nodded once, as if giving permission.

Wanda pushed the door open.

The sight hit her like a punch.

Sharon looked pale against the white sheets, her hair spread out over the pillow, one arm wrapped in gauze. The monitors around her beeped steadily, indifferent. For a moment, all Wanda saw was relief, she was alive.

Then Sharon’s eyes opened.

“Wanda,” she breathed, a faint smile curving her lips.

Something inside Wanda cracked. She crossed the room in three strides, ignoring Natalia’s watchful gaze at the door. She leaned down and kissed Sharon, soft, desperate, tasting salt and tears she didn’t remember shedding.

“I’m so sorry,” Wanda whispered against her lips. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected you.”

Sharon’s hand brushed weakly against her cheek. “You didn’t know. I’m just glad you’re safe.”

Wanda’s throat burned. She wanted to say a thousand things, that she missed her, that she loved her, that everything Pietro had said was a lie, but the words tangled in her chest.

Finally, she managed, “I love you.”

Sharon’s smile faltered. Her eyes flickered, not to Wanda’s face, but to something past her. There was hesitation there, guilt, something Wanda couldn’t name but felt in her bones.

“Oh, Wanda…” Sharon whispered.

And in that instant, Wanda noticed it, the faint red glow blinking on Sharon’s wrist.

Her watch.

A small, discreet light pulsing softly.

Something cold slid down Wanda’s spine. Her heart began to pound, slow and heavy, as her gaze lifted back to Sharon’s.

“Sharon,” she said quietly, “what is that?”

Sharon’s lips parted. For a heartbeat, there was nothing, just the sound of the monitor, the hum of the hospital lights, and then Sharon whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Wanda’s world fractured.

She stumbled back a step, shaking her head as if refusing to hear it. “No. No, no, don’t, don’t you dare…”

“Wanda, please…”

“What did you do?” Wanda demanded, voice trembling. “What did you do?”

Tears welled in Sharon’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You lied to me.”

Sharon’s silence was answer enough.

Wanda’s breath hitched. Her knees felt weak, her chest hollow. The woman she’d loved, trusted, defended, the one she’d risked everything for, had betrayed her. The one person who made her feel something other than fear had turned out to be another cage.

She couldn’t breathe.

Hands grabbed her arm, firm, grounding.

“Wanda,” Natalia’s voice said, low and steady. “We need to go.”

Wanda barely heard her. She stared at Sharon, the woman who’d smiled at her, held her, whispered love in the dark, and felt everything collapse inside her.

Sharon looked at her one last time, tears spilling freely now. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“Don’t,” Wanda said, her voice barely a sound, just a broken breath. “Don’t say that.”

Natalia tugged her gently toward the door. “Wanda. Now.”

Wanda’s eyes lingered on Sharon until the last moment, until the hallway swallowed the image of her pale face, the sound of the heart monitor fading behind the door.

She didn’t resist when Natalia guided her down the corridor, her hand still gripping her arm, not harsh but unyielding. Wanda’s eyes were unfocused, her lips trembling, her body moving only because the Widow moved her.

Outside, the air felt colder. Sharper.

Wanda stopped near the parking lot, her chest heaving. “She…”

“I know,” Natalia said softly.

“She lied to me.”

Natalia’s hand tightened briefly on her arm. “Yes.”

Wanda laughed, but it broke halfway through, collapsing into something small and hollow. “I can’t trust anyone, can I?”

Natalia didn’t answer.

Wanda looked up at her, eyes red, face pale, trembling with rage and grief and disbelief. “I loved her,” she whispered.

Natalia’s gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. “I know.”

The silence stretched between them, raw, brittle.

“Come,” Natalia said finally, her voice quieter now, gentler than Wanda had ever heard it. “Let’s go home.”

They ran like the building itself could swallow them whole.

Wanda’s lungs burned, each inhale a knife of cold air and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Behind her, Natalia’s strides were long and economy-straight, efficient, silent, the way someone who’d practiced disappearing moved through the world. The hospital’s fluorescent lights threw their shadows long and ugly on the linoleum; people turned and stared as the two of them burst into the hallway, faces pale, eyes already widening into recognition.

“Rooms three through seven: federal agents,” a uniformed orderly whispered to a nurse, voice clipped. The nameplates on a couple of suits read out the letters Wanda had only ever seen on TV: F.B.I. She didn’t have time to think who it was, whether it was Maria Hill and Sam Wilson or another task force, because the lobby was filling with uniformed cops and men in jackets who moved with the same predatory patience as Pietro’s men. They were everywhere, an invisible net being tightened.

Natalia slid an arm around Wanda’s waist the instant a pair of plainclothes went the opposite way, pulling her like a current and then letting go. Her hand was steady at Wanda’s hip but never possessive; it was a tool, a brace, an anchor. “Keep your head down,” she said, not quite a whisper. No softness. No pity. Only purpose.

Wanda nodded, wiping at the fresh hotness on her face where tears had sprung uninvited, where grief and humiliation and the taste of betrayal had mingled into something abrasive and constant. The corridors smelled like antiseptic and coffee and something metallic that made her stomach flip. People passed, doctors with stethoscopes, visitors with bouquets awkwardly balanced, a man in a suit brisk and unreadable, all oblivious to the chaos that had brushed past them.

They ducked into service corridors, away from the bright, public arteries of the hospital. The air changed there: cooler, less perfumed, threaded with the hush of vending machines and the soft scraping of a mop in a distant utility closet. They moved fast enough to be breathless and careful enough not to be noticed. At a maintenance door, Natalia glanced over her shoulder, a quick sweep that told Wanda everything she needed to know, and then she pulled Wanda through.

“Closet,” Natalia breathed.

It was a supply closet, narrow and dim, smelling of rubber gloves and floor cleaner. Shelves ran the walls, corrugated boxes and plastic-wrapped linens stacked like tiny fortresses. The door clicked shut behind them. For a second, the world was only the small triangle of light bleeding under the door and the rhythmic thud of their hearts. Wanda’s breath was loud in her ears; she pressed her palms flat against the cool metal of a shelf and tried to slow it.

Natalia braced herself against the opposite wall, boots planted, one hand on the door handle as if she could feel the hallway through it. Her chest rose and fell like a metronome. Up close, in the cramped dim, her face looked a little softer. The war-hardened hardness hadn’t left, but the edges were gentled by the low light. Her red hair curled at her throat. A thin line of a scar showed near the angle of her jaw; Wanda had never looked that close before.

They were inches apart. The proximity made the closet feel impossibly small and impossibly intimate. Wanda, who for months had been performing indifference like armor, felt that armor shiver and crack.

“Shh,” Natalia said, though there was nothing left to hush but the sound of Wanda’s own breathing. Her voice lost that military edge; it dropped into something that wanted to soothe. It made Wanda feel foolish for reacting to it, for wanting it to be gentler still.

Wanda let the tears come, unashamed and raw; they blurred her vision. “I let her…” The words came as a ragged confession, halting and small. “I let her fuck me, Natalia. I, I thought, she told me I was beautiful.”

The closet seemed to tilt. Wanda’s own words shocked her with their simplicity and their ache. She had said them aloud like pulling a splinter; once exposed to the light, they burned.

Natalia’s face changed in a way Wanda hadn’t seen before: not the cool, impenetrable mask she wore for the world, but a raw, private thing. An answering vulnerability, tiny and quick. The woman’s eyes softened, maybe with pity, maybe with recognition. It was a look that dismantled Wanda’s defences brick by brick.

“You are beautiful,” Natalia said, and the phrase landed on Wanda like a benediction. It was direct, true, and not the flirting lie that had echoed in her memory. Natalia said it without the lilt of romance, without the squeeze of seduction, just plain fact, so steady it calmed something brittle inside Wanda.

But then the other side of Natalia, the soldier, reasserted itself. Her voice cooled, cautious. “But you need to be silent. Or we’ll be arrested.”

That practical sentence snapped the fragile, tender second and shoved them both back into the real danger of the moment. Wanda exhaled, the sound a mixture of relief and disappointment. She pressed her back against the shelves, the thin cardboard edges biting into her shoulder. Her shoulders shook. She wiped at her cheeks with the heel of her hand, more habit than hope.

“We can’t stay,” Natalia said. She moved like liquid, touching the door, listening. From somewhere in the corridor a muffled voice, a nurse, or a cop, or both, called a name and then was answered by a radio crackle. Sounds crept closer and then receded. Wanda felt the building’s breath. They had to go.

Natalia eased the latch, peered out, then pulled Wanda with a practiced, patient force. They moved so the door opened a paper-thin seam and the hallway swallowed them again, the strangers’ faces indifferent and unmoved. They slid past a group of doctors and a young woman with a tear-streaked face staring after them; she did not question, did not interfere. Maybe she thought the pair were family, angry and entered, or lovers sneaking an emergency visit; whatever she thought, it was a cover.

They reached the parking level with the kind of silence that had nothing to do with being quiet and everything to do with being invisible. Cars lined the rows, their metal like sleeping animals. Wanda’s fingers dug into the strap of her bag until her nails hurt. Her scalp prickled — the sensation of being hunted is not a metaphor when your life has been a litany of warnings.

The Mazda was where Wanda had left it, a black shape under the fluorescent gleam. Natalia’s eyes flicked over every car around it, the lot’s entrances, the distant, slow motion of a security camera, always looking two steps ahead. She moved with the economy of motion Wanda had seen in action many times and never tired of envying.

“Get in,” Natalia said. Not a command. A plan.

Wanda slid into the driver’s seat out of reflex, to claim something familiar in the midst of disorientation, but Natalia’s hand closed on her arm and steered her to the passenger seat. “You don’t drive,” Natalia said. “You’re shaking.”

Wanda bristled, but she didn’t argue. The words had the weight of reality. She let the Widow take the driver’s seat. Natalia’s fingers were quick, precise, and the engine purred to life. Wanda’s fingers trembled as she pulled her phone free from her pocket, an old reflex: check the world, name the situation, measure the damage.

A new message lit the screen. The name at the top was a smear of inevitability.

Pietro.

She opened it with a thumb that felt clumsy and distant.

“Told U, you whore. You better hope she has no evidence against us.”

The words were tidy, clinical, cruel, the way a man used a phrase to order blood. Wanda’s chest convulsed; she felt the familiar cold bloom of rage and shame like frost spreading across a pond. The phone vibrated again, another message, maybe a follow-up, maybe more threats, but she barely registered it. Pietro’s text unfurled in her head like smoke: accusation, ownership, the implicit promise of consequences.

Her knuckles whitened around the phone. She wanted to hurl it, to answer with the kind of rage that clawed out of her chest, but that would be ammunition. Pietro wanted provocation. He wanted to prove he could break whatever was left of her.

Natalia glanced at the screen, her mouth tightening into a thin line. She didn’t make a show of reading aloud. She didn’t need to. The look she gave Wanda was not surprise; it was expectation, and a hard kind of planning that already had a million steps ahead.

“You’re not alone in this,” Natalia said, voice flat and sure. It wasn’t comfortal; it was a logistics promise. A vow in the language of containment and countermeasures.

Wanda laughed, a small, sharp sound that was mostly air. “Thanks for the pep talk.” Her voice broke on the last word. The hurt of Sharon’s betrayal, the raw exposure of her body’s reactions, the fury in Pietro’s message: they braided into something heavy and unmanageable.

Natalia reached out and folded her hand over Wanda’s, thumb warm and solid. “We’ll handle it. One move at a time.”

Wanda stared at the touch for a long second, then at the dark window where the city blurred by in streaks of neon. For a moment she let herself rest on that contact, not safe, not healed, but steadied enough to breathe.

The car eased out of the parking lot. The night swallowed them again, and Wanda’s phone lay face down on her knee, Pietro’s words burning on the glass like a brand. She slid it back into her pocket without reading the rest. The engine’s hum and Natalia’s steady driving became a thin, almost comforting score. The world outside was dangerous, jagged, but for now, in the vehicle that hid them both from bright lights and prying eyes, Wanda had one hard fact: she was moving, and she was not alone.

The hotel was small, one of those anonymous places tucked between the skeletons of taller buildings, where the curtains never quite closed, and the carpets smelled faintly of detergent and rain. Natalia picked it for that very reason. No one would look twice at two women checking in late, one pale and trembling, the other composed in the way only soldiers and ghosts could manage.

Wanda barely remembered the drive there. Her hands had been clamped together in her lap, her eyes fixed on the blur of passing lights that smeared across the windshield like tears. Everything hurt, her head from crying, her chest from holding it all in, her heart from the way it had been shattered and exposed in the span of an afternoon.

Natalia handled everything: the card, the signatures, the keys. The desk clerk, a woman in her sixties with sleepy eyes, didn’t ask questions. She slid the keycard across the counter, gaze flicking briefly to Wanda’s wet cheeks before looking away again. “Room 312,” she said softly.

When they entered the room, it was dim and quiet. A single queen-sized bed, a narrow table, a flickering lamp that buzzed faintly. The curtains were drawn, the air heavy and still. Wanda stood in the doorway, her body unmoving, as though she might dissolve if she let herself breathe too deeply.

Natalia closed the door gently behind her and locked it. The sound of the latch sliding home made something in Wanda’s chest give way. The pretense of composure she’d clung to in the car crumbled. She turned, eyes glassy, face drawn and pale.

“I can’t…” she started, voice breaking on the word. “I can’t…”

Natalia didn’t ask her to finish. She stepped forward, her movements slow, deliberate, as if approaching a wounded animal. She didn’t say anything. She just stood there, close enough that Wanda could feel the faint warmth radiating from her body, the quiet steadiness that had always unnerved her but now felt like the only thing tethering her to the ground.

Wanda’s lips trembled. Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “She used me,” she whispered. The words seemed to scrape her throat raw. “She—she looked at me like I was, like I was something pretty to play with. And I…”

Her breath hitched.

“I let her.”

Natalia’s eyes softened, but she didn’t interrupt. She simply waited, patient as the tide.

“I let her touch me,” Wanda said again, more ragged now, voice cracking apart. “And she was lying the whole time. She knew what I was. What Pietro was. What we were doing. And she still…”

Her voice broke into a sob. “God, I’m disgusting.”

Natalia moved before Wanda could retreat, before she could disappear into herself again. She reached out, catching Wanda by the shoulders, grounding her. “No,” she said, her voice sharp enough to cut through the noise in Wanda’s head. “You are not.”

Wanda shook her head violently, tears streaking her face. “You don’t understand…”

“I understand enough.” Natalia’s tone softened, the edges smoothing out. “You trusted someone who betrayed that trust. That doesn’t make you disgusting. That makes you human.”

Wanda’s breath came out in a broken rush. She pressed her fists against her chest, as if she could claw the ache out. “She told me I was beautiful,” she whispered. “No one ever says that unless they want something. I should have known. I should have seen it. I’m so stupid…”

“You’re not stupid,” Natalia interrupted.

“I am.” Wanda’s voice rose, her grief spilling over into anger. “I’m stupid and weak and pathetic! I let everyone use me. Pietro. Sharon. You…”

Natalia flinched almost imperceptibly, but didn’t move away.

“I should just go back,” Wanda said suddenly. Her voice trembled, eyes wild. “I should go home. I deserve it. Maybe; maybe if I let him… if I let Pietro…”

“Stop.” The single word came like a command, sharp and cold. Natalia stepped forward, closing the last of the distance between them. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

Wanda stared up at her, her tears slowing, confusion flickering through the haze of despair.

“You don’t deserve pain,” Natalia continued quietly. “You don’t deserve his wrath. You don’t deserve to be hurt because someone else was cruel.”

The firmness in her tone left no room for argument. It was not sympathy, it was conviction.

Wanda shook her head again, but the fight in her voice was crumbling. “I feel filthy,” she whispered. “Like it’s all over me. Like I can’t wash it off.”

Natalia’s expression shifted, something soft, almost fragile flickered there, and for a heartbeat Wanda thought she saw the ghost of the girl Natalia once was. The one who had spoken in low tones about her own childhood, the one who had known what it meant to be broken down and remade into something colder just to survive.

Natalia reached out again, this time gentler. She brushed a strand of Wanda’s hair out of her face, her fingers grazing her temple. “You’re not filthy,” she said, voice quiet as a promise. “You’re hurt. That’s different.”

Wanda’s lip quivered. Her body trembled. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Instead, she stumbled forward, collapsing into Natalia’s arms. The shorter woman caught her easily, strong arms wrapping around her, steady and secure.

For a long time, Wanda just cried. Great, heaving sobs that wracked her whole body. The kind that came from somewhere deep, somewhere older than language. Natalia held her through it all, her hand moving slowly up and down Wanda’s back, saying nothing. Just there. Solid. Real.

Wanda clung to her like she was afraid she’d vanish. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of Natalia’s shirt, clutching at her like a lifeline. “I’m a whore,” she hiccuped between sobs. “I’m a slut. I let her touch me. I let her—”

“Stop,” Natalia murmured. Her hand came up to cradle the back of Wanda’s head, firm but tender. “You are not those things.”

“But I—”

“No.” Natalia’s voice stayed low, but it carried the kind of weight that silenced everything else. “You were used. That’s not your shame to carry.”

Wanda’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. She pressed her face against Natalia’s neck, the scent of leather and faint soap grounding her. “I feel so ugly,” she whispered.

Natalia pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes, gray, cold, capable of cruelty, were soft now, unguarded. “You’re not ugly,” she said simply. “You’ve just forgotten what it feels like to be seen.”

Wanda’s tears fell harder. She didn’t answer. She didn’t know how.

Natalia guided her toward the bed, still holding her close. Wanda resisted at first, mumbling something about not deserving rest, but Natalia silenced her with a look — firm, steady, a quiet command.

“Sit.”

Wanda did. She sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking, hands trembling in her lap. Natalia crouched in front of her, resting one tattooed arm on her knee. “You’re safe here,” she said softly. “No one will touch you. No one will hurt you.”

Wanda nodded weakly, more reflex than belief. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face streaked with tears. She looked younger than she had in years, vulnerable, exhausted, human.

Natalia reached up, brushing a tear from Wanda’s cheek with her thumb. “Get some sleep,” she murmured.

Wanda’s voice cracked as she whispered, “Will you stay?”

Natalia hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her features, then nodded once. “I’ll stay.”

She rose, sat beside Wanda, and let the silence stretch between them. The city hummed faintly beyond the window, its noise distant and unreal. Wanda leaned her head against Natalia’s shoulder, her breathing finally beginning to slow.

Chapter 7: Lead the way

Summary:

Things are heating up, though Wanda may have made a final mistake...

The morning came slowly — not in light, but in the soft gray hush that fills the space before sunrise. The hotel room was still, the curtains drawn tight. The air smelled faintly of cheap coffee from the lobby below, the hum of the city a muted pulse through the walls.

Wanda woke first. Her eyes blinked open to the dull light, and for a long, disoriented moment, she didn’t know where she was. The unfamiliar wallpaper, the thin blankets, the faint rasp of breath beside her — it all felt like a half-remembered dream. Then memory returned, heavy and bitter: the hospital, Sharon’s watch, the blinking light, the word sorry.

She rolled onto her side and found Natalia seated in the chair by the window, her body folded in that still, alert posture Wanda was starting to recognize — half soldier, half sentinel. She hadn’t changed out of the tank top she’d fallen asleep in, the dark ink of her tattoos visible in the slanting gray light. Her eyes were half-lidded, but Wanda could tell she hadn’t truly slept.

For a moment, Wanda just watched her. The redhead’s expression was unreadable — distant, maybe even sad. There was a sort of quiet gravity to her that Wanda had never noticed before. Last night had blurred the sharp lines between them.

“Morning,” Wanda said softly, her voice raw.

Natalia looked over, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across her lips. “Morning.”

It was strange — hearing that word spoken so gently. Wanda sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her hair a mess of curls. Her head still throbbed faintly from the crying, but the ache in her chest had dulled to a low hum.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Around seven,” Natalia replied, standing to stretch. The movement made the muscles in her arms shift beneath the tattoos, and Wanda tried not to notice. “We should eat something. Then decide what to do next.”

“What to do next…” Wanda echoed, the words tasting heavy. She didn’t know what came after betrayal, after losing everything that had made sense. But her stomach growled anyway, a small, absurd reminder that she was still here, still alive.

They dressed quietly, avoiding the mirror. Natalia left briefly to fetch food from the lobby — toast, fruit, some coffee that smelled far stronger than it tasted. Wanda picked at the toast while Natalia leaned against the wall, watching the door.

Neither spoke for a long time.

Finally, Wanda sighed and looked at her. “You don’t eat much, do you?”

Natalia arched a brow. “Old habit. You learn not to rely on full meals when you can’t predict when the next one will be.”

Wanda frowned. “That’s… depressing.”

“That’s life.”

They fell into silence again. The quiet stretched until Wanda put the toast down, her voice barely above a whisper. “So what now? Do we go back? Do we—”

Natalia shook her head immediately. “No. Not yet.”

Wanda frowned. “He’s my brother, Natalia. He’ll—”

“Lay hands on you,” Natalia interrupted flatly.

The words hit harder than Wanda expected. She froze, her jaw tightening. “You don’t know that.”

Natalia’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve seen men like him. I know that look. He wants control, and when he loses it, he breaks things to feel powerful again.”

Wanda looked down at her hands, her chest tightening. She remembered the feel of Pietro’s grip in her hair, the way his voice shook with fury. The bruises had only just started to fade.

“I can handle him,” Wanda whispered, though the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

Natalia tilted her head slightly. “You shouldn’t have to.”

That silenced Wanda again.

For a long time, they just sat there — two women caught in the wreckage of other people’s violence, the distance between them thinning in quiet understanding. Finally, Wanda sighed. “So what’s the plan, then? Hide out here forever?”

Natalia shook her head. “We’ll move tonight. There’s a safe house north of the city. Isolated. Clean. No one knows the address but me.”

Wanda frowned. “You mean we’re running again.”

“I’m keeping you alive,” Natalia corrected softly.

Something bitter twisted in Wanda’s chest. “I don’t want to just survive anymore.”

Natalia studied her for a moment, her eyes unreadable. “Then what do you want, Wanda?”

The question hit her like a wave. Wanda opened her mouth — and found she didn’t have an answer. Not one that didn’t sound childish or impossible. She wanted to stop being scared. She wanted her body to stop feeling like it belonged to everyone but her. She wanted to forget — just for one night.

She looked up, her green eyes sharp with new resolve. “Tonight,” she said quietly. “I want to forget tonight.”

Natalia’s expression softened, but she didn’t immediately respond. Her fingers tapped once against her thigh — a small, thoughtful rhythm. “Forget?”

“Yeah,” Wanda said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Drink, dance, pretend I’m not—” she gestured vaguely to herself, “—this.”

Natalia’s brows furrowed slightly. “That’s not safe.”

“Neither is breathing around my brother.”

The redhead sighed — a long, patient exhale that carried a trace of resignation. “You always push, don’t you?”

Wanda smiled faintly. “Would you like me better if I didn’t?”

Natalia’s mouth curved just slightly — not quite a smile, but close enough. “Probably not.”

Wanda leaned back in her chair, feigning nonchalance. “So you’ll come with me?”

Natalia’s eyes narrowed in mock warning. “Only if we go to the safe house after. No arguments.”

“Fine.” Wanda waved a hand. “But I get to pick what we’re doing today.”

There was a pause — a measured silence where Natalia seemed to weigh her options, her gray eyes flicking over Wanda’s face like she was memorizing every defiant line. Finally, she nodded once. “You pick. But I have final say.”

Wanda grinned, genuine this time. “Deal.”

Natalia gave her a look that said she’d probably regret that.

But for the first time in days, Wanda felt something that wasn’t grief — a flicker of control, of choice. She reached for the cold coffee, taking a sip and grimacing. “You really drink this sludge?”

Natalia shrugged. “It keeps you awake.”

Wanda laughed softly. “You sound like a machine.”

The faintest spark of amusement touched Natalia’s expression. “Sometimes it’s easier to be one.”

Wanda watched her for a moment, the morning light catching in the red strands of her hair, painting her in quiet gold. There was something about her — steady, dangerous, unyielding — that made Wanda feel safe in a way she didn’t want to admit.

“Maybe,” Wanda said quietly, “I’ll make you laugh today.”

Natalia’s lips twitched. “Good luck with that, Pet.”

The nickname still made Wanda bristle, but this time she only smirked. “We’ll see who’s laughing by the end of the day.”

Natalia shook her head, hiding her amusement behind a faint sigh. “Eat your breakfast before you start planning trouble.”

“I already have,” Wanda said with a grin, standing and stretching. “You’ll just have to keep up.”

Natalia’s eyes followed her, cautious but curious. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”

“Always,” Wanda said sweetly. “But maybe it’ll be fun.”

Natalia rolled her shoulders, grabbed her jacket, and gestured toward the door. “Then let’s see what trouble you’ve planned, little Maximoff.”

 

The afternoon air was heavy with warmth — not quite summer, but bright enough that the light shimmered off the lake and turned everything into a haze of gold and green. The park was busy: children shrieking from the playground, dogs tugging against their leashes, old men reading papers on benches. It was ordinary, painfully so. Wanda felt almost like a ghost drifting through it, a woman too raw to belong in a world still this alive.

Natalia walked beside her, every movement measured, eyes constantly scanning. Her right hand hovered close to the concealed weapon at her hip, the faint glint of metal visible when the wind caught her jacket. She looked impossibly out of place in the crowd — like a wolf forced to stroll through a garden. Wanda watched her, a faint smile curling at her lips.

“You know,” Wanda drawled, swaying slightly as she walked, “you don’t have to look like you’re about to shoot someone every five seconds.”

Natalia’s gaze didn’t waver from the path ahead. “Experience says otherwise.”

“Experience,” Wanda echoed, rolling the word like it amused her. “You say that like it’s an excuse for paranoia.”

“Paranoia keeps us alive,” Natalia replied simply.

Wanda sighed dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

She said it with a grin, the same teasing lilt she’d used the night before — but this time her breath carried the faint burn of rum. Natalia caught the scent and turned sharply toward her.

“Have you been drinking again?”

Wanda raised her brows innocently. “I had breakfast.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Vodka is breakfast,” Wanda said matter-of-factly, gesturing toward the paper cup in her hand — coffee-colored liquid, sweet and dangerous. “And now it’s lunch. Rum and coke, if you must know.”

Natalia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable.”

“Relax,” Wanda said, her tone softening. “You said I could forget today. This is me… forgetting.”

Natalia hesitated — visibly torn between confiscating the drink and simply letting the moment breathe. There was something in Wanda’s voice that wasn’t quite defiance; more like a fragile plea wrapped in bravado.

Finally, Natalia sighed. “Fine. But no more after that.”

“Promise,” Wanda said, already taking another sip.

They kept walking until the trees parted to reveal a small lake, calm and bright beneath the mid-afternoon sun. Families floated across it in colorful paddle boats, their laughter drifting over the water. The sight drew something wistful out of Wanda — a quiet ache beneath her tipsy amusement.

She slowed her steps, staring at the boats. “I want to do that.”

Natalia blinked, following her gaze. “The boats?”

“Yes. Come on.” Wanda tugged at her sleeve, grinning.

“I don’t think—”

“Oh, for once in your life, don’t think,” Wanda interrupted, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You said I could pick today.”

Natalia gave her a long, unimpressed look. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re boring.”

That seemed to settle it.

A few minutes later, they were stepping into one of the bright yellow paddle boats, Natalia muttering something in Russian under her breath that Wanda was fairly sure wasn’t a compliment. The boat rocked as Wanda climbed in, nearly tipping it, and Natalia grabbed her wrist to steady her. The contact was brief but firm — grounding.

“Careful,” Natalia said, her voice softer now. “You’ll end up in the water.”

Wanda looked up at her, a slow, lazy smile curving her lips. “Maybe I’d like that. I hear drowning is peaceful.”

Natalia’s jaw tightened. “Don’t joke about that.”

Wanda blinked — startled by the sharpness in her tone — and then looked away, her smile fading. “Fine. No drowning. Just floating.”

They pushed off from the dock, the boat gliding into the sunlight. Natalia sat stiffly, her legs moving the pedals in slow, efficient rhythm, while Wanda leaned back and let the warmth soak into her skin. She hummed under her breath, a half-remembered tune, her hair catching red in the light.

“You know,” Wanda said after a while, her voice low, “you’re actually kind of beautiful when you’re not scowling.”

Natalia’s foot faltered for half a second, the only sign that the words had landed. “And you’re insufferable when you’re drunk.”

Wanda laughed softly. “So all the time, then?”

“Pretty much.”

The teasing made Wanda’s chest ache in a strange, warm way. It felt… normal. Almost playful. She let her fingers trail through the cool water as they drifted farther from the dock, the ripples catching the sun like broken glass.

“You ever do something like this before?” she asked suddenly.

Natalia shook her head. “No.”

“Not even as a kid?”

“No.”

Wanda frowned, her drunkenness softening into something closer to pity. “That’s sad.”

“I told you before,” Natalia said quietly. “My childhood wasn’t really mine.”

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. The water lapped gently against the hull. Somewhere nearby, a bird cried out. Wanda looked down at her reflection — distorted, unrecognizable — and felt her throat tighten.

“I think I hate myself,” she murmured suddenly.

Natalia’s eyes flicked to her. “Don’t.”

“I let her use me,” Wanda said, voice breaking slightly. “I thought it meant something. But I was just—”

“Stop,” Natalia said, not unkindly. “You’re not what she made you feel like.”

Wanda swallowed, blinking fast. “Then what am I?”

Natalia didn’t answer right away. She just reached out, steadying Wanda’s trembling hand against the edge of the boat. “Someone still here,” she said softly. “Someone still fighting.”

Wanda stared at her — at the faint sunlight cutting across Natalia’s tattoos, at the quiet strength in her eyes. She wanted to say something flippant, something teasing, but the words caught in her throat.

Instead, she whispered, “You really believe that?”

Natalia’s voice was steady. “I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.”

The words settled between them, quiet and certain. For a moment, the noise of the world faded — the shouts, the splashing, the chaos — until there was only the gentle rhythm of their paddling and the soft rustle of wind against water.

Wanda closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of lake water and rum, and whispered, “Then maybe I’ll start believing it too.”

Natalia said nothing, but her hand lingered — not gripping, just steadying. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Wanda let herself lean into it.

 

The night had long since melted into neon and noise by the time Wanda dragged Natalia down the cracked sidewalk, her laughter spilling recklessly into the city air. The streets hummed with low music and exhaust fumes, clubs and bars pulsing with light. Wanda’s hand was tight around Natalia’s wrist, the warmth of it soft but insistent. She’d been drinking steadily for hours — rum, vodka, something sweet and sticky that smelled like cherries — and her cheeks were flushed, her green eyes shining dangerously.

“Wanda,” Natalia said, her tone that patient edge between warning and exasperation, “where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Wanda slurred, turning around just enough to flash a grin that was both mischievous and heartbreakingly defiant. “You said I get to forget today, remember? That means you don’t get to stop me now.”

They turned the corner, and the lights hit them — pinks, purples, deep reds that painted the night. A sign flickered overhead: Velvet Moon, letters glowing faintly against the brick. Music thumped from inside, low bass and sultry rhythm. Natalia’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh no,” she muttered.

“Oh yes,” Wanda countered, tugging harder. “You’re no fun, and I refuse to let you brood all night. You said you wanted me to relax. Well, this is me relaxing.”

Natalia dug her boots in, resisting. “This isn’t—”

“What, your kind of place?” Wanda interrupted, teasing, her lips curling into a smirk. “What is your kind of place, Natalia? You sit at home cleaning guns and listening to Russian jazz?”

“Classical,” Natalia corrected automatically, jaw tightening.

Wanda laughed — loud, bright, unrestrained. “Of course. God, you’re hopeless.”

She pushed through the door before Natalia could protest again, the sound and heat of the club enveloping them. The air was thick with perfume and the faint smell of alcohol and smoke. Lights spun lazily above the stage where two dancers moved in sync, bodies glinting under shifting colors. A dozen men sat around the stage, eyes glassy, bills folded between their fingers.

Wanda swayed forward, ignoring the looks, dragging Natalia along until they reached an empty table near the stage. Natalia moved stiffly, shoulders tense, scanning the room as if it were an ambush site rather than a nightclub.

“This isn’t safe,” Natalia said flatly, eyes flicking from the exits to the men at the bar.

“Oh relax,” Wanda replied, slumping into the chair. “You’re armed. I’m drunk. What could possibly go wrong?”

Natalia gave her a sharp look. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Wanda leaned back, swirling the drink she’d somehow procured from a passing waiter. “What’s your deal, anyway? You’ve been my shadow for what — weeks? I don’t even know what you are. A soldier? A killer? A nun with really good aim?”

Natalia arched a brow. “None of the above.”

Wanda grinned. “Then what are you, Natalia?”

“I’m your protection detail.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Wanda’s voice dropped lower, eyes narrowing with curiosity and a spark of teasing malice. “You don’t… look straight.”

Natalia blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Wanda gestured with her drink. “You have the energy of someone who’s definitely kissed a woman before.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered behind Natalia’s eyes — not surprise, exactly, but a wary stillness. “And if I have?”

Wanda beamed. “Then you should be thrilled about where I brought you!”

“Wanda.”

“No, no, listen,” Wanda said quickly, her words tumbling together. “I’m bi. There. That’s out in the open. You can’t shame me into leaving now. I don’t care if it’s men or women — I just want to feel something tonight. Anything.”

Her voice cracked slightly at the end, too honest for her own comfort. She took a long drink to hide it. Natalia’s expression softened just barely, but Wanda caught it and turned away before the pity could sink in.

“I’m not staying,” Natalia said finally, but Wanda was already waving a waitress over.

“One lap dance,” Wanda announced grandly, slapping a few bills on the table. “For me. And one for my uptight, emotionally repressed bodyguard.”

Natalia sighed. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh come on,” Wanda teased, leaning forward, chin resting in her palm. “You just admitted you like women. Don’t tell me this doesn’t interest you.”

Natalia’s face didn’t move, but her ears turned faintly pink. “It doesn’t.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Then prove it. Sit back. Watch.”

Before Natalia could protest again, a tall brunette in glittering black lingerie approached, smiling as the music slowed into something heavier, darker. Wanda sat back in her chair as the dancer began, the shimmer of lights playing across her skin. Natalia didn’t look — or rather, she tried not to. Her eyes darted between Wanda and the room, watching everyone except the woman in front of her.

“You’re not even watching,” Wanda teased.

“I’m working,” Natalia replied curtly.

“You’re not working. You’re sulking.”

The dancer leaned close, tracing a hand down Wanda’s shoulder, and Wanda turned her head just enough to catch Natalia’s eye. “You see? You’re missing the show.”

“This does nothing for me,” Natalia said finally.

Wanda smirked. “Then maybe she’s doing something wrong.”

“Or maybe I’m not interested in watching strangers pretend to care.”

That stung more than Wanda wanted to admit. She turned her head away, catching her breath, before forcing a smile. “Fine. Then let’s make it real.”

“Wanda—”

“Two private rooms,” Wanda interrupted, waving over the waitress again. “Actually, no. One. Just one.”

Natalia’s eyes narrowed. “You’re drunk.”

“Yep,” Wanda said, popping the word. “And I want to dance.”

When the dancer returned, she smiled, counting the cash. “Which of you is it for?”

Wanda grinned, wild and glittering. “Me. I’ll dance. She’ll watch.”

Natalia froze. “What?”

Wanda stood, wobbly but determined, reaching for Natalia’s hand. “You’ve been in control of me since the day we met. Tonight, you watch me take it back.”

The dancer hesitated, but money was money. She nodded toward the beaded curtain near the back — the “Champagne Room.”

Natalia’s jaw tightened. “Wanda.”

Wanda looked over her shoulder, her smile softening just slightly, almost pleading. “Just five minutes, Natalia. Let me feel alive for five minutes.”

Natalia said nothing, but when Wanda reached for her hand again, she didn’t pull away. The music swelled as the curtain parted, pink light spilling over them.

Wanda led her inside, laughter trembling on her lips. “Come on, soldier,” she murmured. “Let’s see if I can make you smile this time.”

The curtain fell behind them — the thrum of bass swallowing everything else.

The music in the champagne room was low and sultry — a steady pulse that seemed to echo Wanda’s heartbeat. The pink and amber lights painted soft halos over her skin, catching the faint shimmer of sweat on her collarbones. The air smelled faintly of perfume, alcohol, and something darker — anticipation, maybe. Wanda’s hands trembled slightly as she reached for Natalia’s shoulders, guiding her to sit back on the low leather couch.

Natalia hesitated but didn’t stop her. She sat with her legs apart, elbows resting on her knees, every line of her posture taut with restraint. Wanda stood before her, barefoot now, her hair wild, curls framing her flushed face.

“Sit,” Wanda said softly, the word slurred but deliberate. “Just sit and watch.”

“Wanda—”

“Shh.” Wanda pressed a finger to her lips, eyes hazy but defiant. “You said I could choose today. This is what I want.”

For a moment, Natalia looked like she might argue. But something in Wanda’s eyes — that strange mixture of fragility and stubborn fire — made her stop. Natalia leaned back against the couch, folding her arms loosely, as if giving in but staying guarded.

The song shifted to something slower. Wanda began to move.

It wasn’t graceful, not really — not like the dancers on stage — but it was real. Her body swayed to the beat, her hips rolling gently, her hands tracing the outline of her waist, her chest. There was a kind of sadness in it too, a desperate need to be seen, to be wanted on her own terms. Her eyes never left Natalia’s.

Natalia sat still, trying not to react, but Wanda could see the flicker in her eyes — that quick, instinctive pull. She stepped closer, her bare feet whispering against the floor. She swayed down slowly, her fingers grazing Natalia’s knee, climbing up her thigh, testing the boundary. Natalia’s breath hitched but she didn’t move away.

“You don’t have to do this,” Natalia murmured.

“I want to,” Wanda said, her voice trembling. “I need to.”

Her movements grew more fluid, her hips rolling closer, her breath brushing against Natalia’s ear. She could feel the warmth radiating from her — steady, solid, grounding — and it made her dizzy in a different way. Natalia’s hands rose, hesitated, then found Wanda’s waist, holding her there, steadying her rather than encouraging.

Wanda smiled faintly, emboldened. She leaned in, her breath hot against Natalia’s neck, tracing the faint lines of ink curling down from her collarbone. “You pretend you don’t want me,” she whispered, “but I can feel it.”

Natalia exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening just slightly on Wanda’s sides. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m alive.” Wanda’s lips brushed against her skin, just under her jaw. “For the first time in weeks.”

Natalia’s eyes fluttered shut for a heartbeat, then opened again, sharp, focused. “Wanda…”

Wanda ignored it. Her hands slid up Natalia’s shoulders, her fingers curling behind her neck, pulling her closer. “You could make me forget,” she whispered, her lips barely grazing the edge of Natalia’s. “Just for tonight.”

Natalia’s jaw clenched, her breath uneven. She didn’t pull away — not right away. Her hand rose to Wanda’s cheek, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw, soft but firm.

“This isn’t you,” she said quietly.

Wanda laughed weakly, the sound hollow. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re drunk. And hurting.”

Wanda’s lip quivered. “So help me stop hurting.”

Her voice cracked on the word, something raw breaking loose beneath the teasing veneer. She pressed closer, trying again to close the distance, to find comfort in the heat and the chaos. But Natalia turned her head slightly, letting the kiss land against her jaw instead of her lips.

“Please,” Wanda whispered, her hands trembling now. “Please, Natalia.”

Natalia’s breath came out slow and controlled, the soldier’s calm she wore like armor. Her hand slid down to Wanda’s shoulder, holding her in place — not harshly, but immovable.

“I won’t take advantage of you,” she said. “Not like this.”

Wanda froze. The rejection hit sharper than she expected. She pulled back, her eyes wet and unfocused. “Is it because I’m ugly?” she asked, her voice small, breaking.

Natalia looked startled, her composure faltering. “Wanda—no. It’s because you’re drunk.”

Wanda blinked hard, trying to process, her face twisting with shame. The room tilted around her, colors swimming together. She staggered back, covering her face with one hand.

“I just wanted—” she began, but her stomach lurched violently before she could finish. She stumbled toward the corner, barely reaching a small metal bin before she started to retch. The sound was awful — a harsh, gasping noise that echoed over the music.

Natalia was there in an instant, one hand holding Wanda’s hair back, the other steady on her back. Wanda coughed, groaned, and tried to push her away, but Natalia stayed firm, murmuring something low and steady in Russian, the words calm and grounding even if Wanda couldn’t understand them.

When it was over, Wanda slumped to the floor, her head hanging, tears and sweat mingling on her cheeks.

“I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate me.”

Natalia crouched down in front of her, lifting her chin gently until their eyes met. “Don’t say that.”

Wanda tried to look away, but Natalia’s hand didn’t let her. There was no judgment in her face — only exhaustion, and something unexpectedly tender.

“You’re drunk,” Natalia repeated quietly. “You’re hurting. That’s all.”

Wanda blinked, her vision swimming. “I ruin everything I touch.”

“You haven’t ruined me yet.”

Wanda let out a broken laugh at that, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Give it time.”

Natalia sighed softly, slipping an arm under Wanda’s knees and another around her back. “Come on,” she said, lifting her with ease.

“Put me down,” Wanda mumbled weakly.

“Not happening.”

Wanda didn’t fight it. She rested her head against Natalia’s shoulder as they left the private room, the music fading behind them. Outside, the city’s air felt sharp and cold after the club’s haze. Natalia walked steadily, her expression unreadable, the night lights flashing across her tattoos like shifting constellations.

“Where are we going?” Wanda asked drowsily.

“To the safe house,” Natalia said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re not safe anywhere else. Not even from yourself.”

Wanda gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Guess I picked the wrong night to forget.”

Natalia didn’t answer. She just adjusted her hold, carrying Wanda to the car parked a block away. When she set her down in the passenger seat, she draped her jacket over Wanda’s shoulders, tucking it around her like a blanket.

As Natalia started the engine, Wanda turned her head to watch her, eyes half-closed, voice slurred and soft. “You could’ve kissed me.”

Natalia’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

Wanda smiled faintly, already drifting toward sleep. “Doubt it.”

The car pulled away from the curb, the city lights fading behind them as they drove into the dark — Wanda finally quiet, Natalia’s face set in the kind of silence that spoke louder than any words.

The safe house was smaller than Wanda expected — a single-room apartment tucked away behind an unmarked steel door on the fifth floor of an aging building. The hallway outside smelled faintly of old paint and dust, but inside the space was surprisingly warm, dimly lit by a single lamp on a side table. The walls were bare except for a small framed photograph of some nameless city skyline, and there was just enough furniture to make it livable: a couch, a coffee table, a kitchenette with neatly stacked dry goods, and one narrow bed pushed up against the far wall.

Wanda swayed in the doorway, her head spinning slightly. The long car ride had sobered her only a little, and she blinked against the low light as Natalia guided her in by the arm.

“Home sweet home,” Natalia said dryly, locking the door behind them and sliding the bolt with practiced ease.

Wanda giggled. “You live here?”

“Temporarily,” Natalia replied, already moving to check the windows, the corners, the shadows. “It’s one of mine. Clean, quiet, secure.”

“It’s tiny.”

“Efficient,” Natalia corrected.

Wanda wobbled toward the couch and plopped down gracelessly, nearly missing it altogether. “You have soup cans. So many. Who needs that much soup?”

“I like to be prepared,” Natalia said, glancing toward the pantry. The shelves were lined with neatly labeled jars, canned food, instant meals, and water bottles. Everything about the place screamed discipline, order — the exact opposite of Wanda’s current state.

“I like soup,” Wanda murmured, slumping sideways. “But not that much.”

Natalia sighed softly, crossing her arms. “You should drink some water before bed.”

Wanda waved a hand dismissively. “I had rum.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“To me it is.”

Natalia arched an eyebrow but didn’t bother to argue. She fetched a bottle of water from the pantry anyway and handed it to Wanda, who accepted it with a clumsy smile.

“See? You’re nice,” Wanda slurred. “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re nice.”

“I’m pragmatic,” Natalia corrected, sinking down onto the armchair opposite her. “And tired.”

Wanda’s eyes flicked to the bed. “There’s only one.”

“I’ll take the couch.”

“No, no, no,” Wanda protested immediately, sitting up too fast. The room tilted and she caught herself on the arm of the couch. “You’re not sleeping on that tiny thing. You’re taller than it. You’ll look like an origami crane folded wrong.”

Natalia blinked. “An… origami crane?”

Wanda nodded solemnly. “With legs sticking out the sides.”

Despite herself, Natalia’s lips twitched. “That’s… specific.”

“See? You smiled.” Wanda jabbed a finger at her, triumphant. “You do smile.”

Natalia exhaled through her nose, standing up. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m delightful.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Admit it,” Wanda said, leaning back and grinning up at her. “You like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“That’s basically love.”

“Wanda.”

“Yes?”

“Drink your water.”

Wanda made a face but took a few slow gulps, then wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Boring.”

Natalia turned toward the kitchenette to tidy up, but the sound of soft footsteps behind her made her glance back. Wanda was shuffling toward the bed, mumbling something under her breath about “cozy spy nests.” She sat down heavily, started tugging at her shoes, missed the laces, and looked up expectantly.

“Natalia?”

“Yes?”

“Help.”

Natalia hesitated, then sighed again and knelt to untie the shoes. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” Wanda murmured, swaying slightly as she pulled off her jacket.

“I absolutely do not.”

“You so do.”

Natalia ignored her, standing and turning to leave the room, but Wanda’s voice stopped her at the door.

“Stay.”

Natalia looked over her shoulder. “You should sleep.”

“I will,” Wanda said quickly. “But only if you stay. Just—just stay here tonight. With me.”

“Wanda—”

“No arguing,” she said, her voice softening into something almost pleading. “Just… please.”

Natalia studied her for a long moment — the slump of her shoulders, the unfocused eyes, the exhaustion painted into her every movement. She looked fragile in a way that wasn’t just from the alcohol. Natalia’s resolve softened.

“Fine,” she said at last. “I’ll stay. But you’re on your side of the bed.”

Wanda smiled sleepily. “Scout’s honor.”

“I somehow doubt you were ever a scout.”

Wanda giggled. “No, but I once joined a knitting club. Does that count?”

Natalia just shook her head and went to wash up. When she returned, Wanda was brushing her teeth at the sink, humming something tuneless between swishes of minty foam. She spat, rinsed, then turned with a flourish.

“See? Responsible.”

“Barely.”

“Shh.”

Wanda then stripped down without a shred of hesitation — first her shirt, then her jeans — leaving only her undershirt and underwear before she crawled into the bed. Natalia froze mid-step, the faintest flush creeping up her neck.

“You could warn me,” she muttered, grabbing a blanket from the couch before sliding under the sheets beside her.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen worse,” Wanda mumbled, already halfway under the blanket.

“That’s not the point.”

“Mm. You’re so serious,” Wanda teased, voice soft and muzzy with sleep. “Always so serious. I bet even your dreams salute you.”

“I’m starting to regret this decision,” Natalia said, lying flat on her back.

“No you’re not.”

Wanda rolled closer, her breath warm against Natalia’s shoulder. Her arm found its way across Natalia’s stomach, her head nestled near her collarbone.

“Wanda.”

“Hm?”

“Stay still.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

Wanda giggled quietly. “You’re comfy. Like a warm wall.”

“That’s because I’m trying not to move.”

“Do spies ever cuddle?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

Natalia sighed deeply. “Go to sleep.”

But Wanda was far too content — and far too drunk — to obey. Her fingers began to fidget absentmindedly, tracing shapes on Natalia’s side. After a minute, she shifted again, murmuring something incoherent, and Natalia stiffened.

“Stop fondling my breast, pet,” Natalia said dryly, not opening her eyes.

Wanda gasped in mock offense. “But they look so nice.”

“Wanda.”

“Just admiring!” she whined.

Natalia turned her head to glare, but Wanda’s innocent grin was so ridiculous that she almost laughed. Almost.

“Hands to yourself,” Natalia ordered.

“Fine,” Wanda said dramatically, withdrawing her hand… only to immediately reach lower and pat Natalia’s hip.

“Wanda.”

“What?”

“That’s not better.”

“You’re just… very symmetrical,” Wanda mumbled, giggling uncontrollably.

“I’m regretting my life choices,” Natalia muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Wanda poked her side. “You love me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Go to sleep.”

Wanda huffed and flopped onto her back, muttering something about “grumpy spies.” The silence lasted all of ten seconds before she rolled over again, pressing close once more, wrapping her arm around Natalia’s middle and sighing contentedly.

“Fine,” Natalia said under her breath. “If you stop moving, you can stay there.”

Wanda made a triumphant little sound. “Told you.”

“Sleep, Wanda.”

“Mm. Okay.”

She was quiet for a moment, and Natalia thought she might finally be drifting off — until she felt a hand squeeze lightly against her backside.

Natalia opened one eye. “Really?”

Wanda laughed, muffled into her shoulder. “Couldn’t resist.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m adorable.”

“That’s debatable.”

“No, it’s not,” Wanda said, voice slurring as she yawned. “You think I’m adorable. You’re just pretending not to.”

Natalia didn’t respond. She adjusted slightly, tucking the blanket more securely around them, her hand resting lightly on Wanda’s arm.

Within minutes, Wanda’s breathing evened out. Her grip loosened but didn’t release; her head rested comfortably in the crook of Natalia’s shoulder.

Natalia lay awake a while longer, staring at the ceiling, her mind a storm of thoughts she couldn’t quite name. Finally, she exhaled slowly, her hand brushing over Wanda’s hair once before settling again.

“Goodnight, trouble,” she whispered.

Wanda murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, but her tone was soft, content.

Natalia closed her eyes, letting the quiet hum of the city outside lull them both into uneasy, fragile peace — one night of rest before the world inevitably came crashing back in.

Chapter 8: Badge

Summary:

Wanda finds out, everything... the truth, her brother, Sharon, everything.

Morning came with a dull, unrelenting quiet. The kind that didn’t feel peaceful, it felt hollow, suspended, like the world itself was holding its breath. Pale light crept through the thin curtains of the safe house, cutting across the floor and washing over the small kitchen table where Natalia sat, already awake, already alert. She had been up for an hour, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the muffled city outside, the faint sound of Wanda’s uneven breathing from the bed.

Wanda stirred, groaning softly, her head pounding as if the night itself were punishing her. She rolled over, burying her face into the pillow with a muffled sound that could have been a complaint or a prayer.

Natalia, still in her tank top and cargo pants, glanced over from her seat. “You’re awake.”

“Barely,” came the muffled reply. “My head is trying to leave my body.”

“Hangover,” Natalia said, her tone flat, though there was the faintest glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Consequences.”

Wanda groaned louder. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m practical,” Natalia countered. “There’s coffee.”

That got a sluggish movement from Wanda, who slowly sat up, rubbing her temples. Her hair was a tangle, her eyes bloodshot, and her voice rasped when she muttered, “You’re my new favorite person.”

“Mm. Until I tell you to drink water.”

“Don’t ruin this.”

Natalia turned the small TV toward her, flicking through channels for news. The volume was low, the screen grainy. It filled the silence between them with the crisp voice of a morning anchor reciting the day’s headlines.

Wanda stumbled toward the counter, poured herself coffee that was far too hot, and sipped it anyway. The first jolt of bitter caffeine hit her tongue, and she sighed.

“Anything good on?” she asked tiredly.

“Define ‘good,’” Natalia said, leaning forward slightly as the headline changed.

The screen shifted to a breaking news banner, bright red letters across the bottom of the image. Wanda’s brow furrowed as she took another sip and looked up.

BREAKING: POLICE OFFICER ABDUCTED FROM HOSPITAL — FOUR DEAD.

The anchor’s tone grew heavy. “In the early hours of the morning, an unidentified group infiltrated St. Mary’s Hospital, killing four security personnel and abducting Officer Sharon Carter, who had been recovering after being wounded during an ongoing investigation…”

Wanda’s mug slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the counter, coffee spilling like a spreading bruise across the wood.

“Sharon…” she whispered.

Natalia was already standing, her expression hardening. She moved closer to the TV, watching intently as footage rolled — flashing police lights, a cordoned-off hospital entrance, a crowd of reporters shouting questions.

Wanda pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. “No, no, no…”

Her knees weakened, and she caught herself on the counter. “They can’t—she—he said—”

Natalia turned toward her, sharp and calm. “Don’t jump to conclusions yet.”

“You don’t know him,” Wanda said hoarsely. “You don’t—he’ll—”

But she didn’t finish. Because her phone buzzed on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times.

Wanda froze. The sound was too loud, too sudden. Natalia’s head snapped toward it, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t,” Natalia said. “Let me—”

But Wanda was already reaching for it, her hands shaking as she unlocked the screen. A single new message blinked at the top. Unknown number.

There was no text. Just a video.

Her breath hitched. “No.”

“Wanda,” Natalia said again, stepping forward, voice low but firm. “Give it to me.”

Wanda’s thumb pressed play.

The world went quiet except for the sound of a low hum, a camera’s static, maybe a flickering light. The image was grainy, dark, the perspective tilted as though it had been filmed from the corner of a room.

A hospital room.

A bed.

Sharon.

She was strapped down, her wrists tied with medical restraints that looked hastily repurposed. Her hair was disheveled, her skin pale beneath harsh fluorescent light. A bruise marked her cheek.

“Wanda,” Natalia said again, closer now, her voice gentler. “You don’t need to—”

But Wanda couldn’t look away. She felt every heartbeat like a hammer against her ribs.

Someone was talking in the background, a male voice, sharp, familiar, too familiar.

“Always the hero,” he sneered. The camera shifted slightly, and Pietro’s face came into view.

Wanda’s breath stopped altogether.

He looked calm. Too calm. Like this was all just business.

“Your little girlfriend thought she could hide things from me,” he said. “Funny, right? Thought she could protect you.”

Sharon tried to speak, her voice trembling, barely audible. “Please…”

Pietro leaned close, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “You should’ve thought of that before lying to me.”

The sound that followed wasn’t clear. The camera shifted again. There was movement, a blur of motion, Sharon’s voice breaking into a cry. The video didn’t show much; it didn’t have to. The sound was enough.

Wanda’s eyes filled, her body going rigid. She could barely breathe. The room tilted, and she grabbed the counter just to stay upright.

“Natalia...” she gasped.

Natalia reached her in two steps, hand closing gently over her wrist. “That’s enough.”

But Wanda couldn’t stop watching. She couldn’t look away from the shaking image of Sharon crying, apologizing, whispering Wanda’s name, over and over, until the sound broke.

The camera jerked again. Pietro’s face filled the frame.

“Say goodbye, Wanda.”

The screen went black.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The faint hum of the refrigerator filled the silence.

Wanda’s hand shook violently as she lowered the phone.

“He...he killed her,” she whispered, her voice hollow. “He actually...he”

Her knees buckled, and Natalia caught her before she hit the floor. Wanda clung to her, trembling so hard her teeth chattered.

“He killed her because of me.”

“No,” Natalia said quietly, steadying her, pulling her close. “He killed her because he’s a monster.”

Wanda’s breath came in ragged gasps. “I loved her.”

“I know.”

“I...she was...” Wanda’s voice broke entirely. “I let her...I trusted her...and now...”

Natalia held her tighter, lowering them both to the floor. Wanda collapsed against her, sobbing against her chest, the sound raw and shattering. Natalia said nothing at first; she just held her, her expression unreadable, her hand smoothing down Wanda’s back in slow, grounding motions.

“He’s going to kill me,” Wanda whispered finally, her voice barely there. “He said, he said I’m next. He meant it.”

Natalia didn’t answer right away. She reached out, grabbed the phone, and replayed the final seconds of the video silently, eyes narrowing, her jaw tightening with every frame.

She saw it then, the faint reflection in the metal rail of the hospital bed, just for a split second. Pietro wasn’t alone.

“Get up,” she said.

Wanda blinked through tears. “What?”

“Get up. Now.”

“Natalia...”

“He’s not bluffing.” Natalia’s voice was flat now, controlled, cold in a way Wanda had never heard before. “If he went that far, he’s already put someone on you.”

Wanda stared at her, dazed. “What do we do?”

Natalia’s eyes flicked toward the window. “We move. Now.”

Wanda didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her mind was still trapped in that hospital room, still hearing Sharon’s voice, still seeing the look on Pietro’s face.

“He’s going to find me,” she whispered again.

“Not if I find him first,” Natalia said.

That made Wanda look up. There was something in Natalia’s voice, quiet fury, sharp and controlled, but real. It sent a chill down Wanda’s spine.

Natalia stood, crossed the room, and began to move with brisk precision, checking the windows, pulling open drawers, retrieving her weapon from the counter.

“Get dressed,” she said.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere he doesn’t know.”

Wanda hesitated, her voice breaking. “Sharon”

Natalia paused, just for a moment, her back still turned. “She didn’t die for nothing,” she said softly. “Don’t let him make it mean nothing.”

Wanda’s hands clenched around the hem of her shirt. “I can’t”

“Yes, you can,” Natalia said, turning to face her. “You’re stronger than you think.”

For a moment, Wanda just stared at her, tears still streaking her cheeks. Then, slowly, she nodded.

Natalia stepped forward, handed her the phone. “Keep it. But don’t open anything else from unknown numbers. He’ll use whatever he can to get inside your head.”

Wanda’s fingers closed around it, trembling. “He already did.”

Natalia didn’t deny it.

The TV was still on, still looping the same footage, flashing lights, grim anchors, breaking headlines. The world outside was already beginning to spin the story, already searching for answers, for meaning.

But inside that small apartment, there was only silence.

Wanda sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the phone in her lap, her reflection staring back at her from the dark screen. Her lips moved faintly, as though repeating a name she couldn’t quite let go of.

Natalia stood by the door, gun holstered, jacket on, eyes on the window.

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady. “We leave in five.”

Wanda didn’t answer. She only nodded once, slow and numb, the weight of the video, of everything, pressing down on her chest until it hurt to breathe. Outside, sirens wailed in the distance. Inside, two women stood in silenceas the world they knew burned quietly behind them.

 

The road stretched endlessly ahead, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through fields turned gray by the dawn mist. Neither woman spoke for the first half hour. The hum of the unmarked car’s engine filled the silence, steady and soft, like the only thing in the world still keeping rhythm.

Wanda sat in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window. The world outside blurred past, trees, scattered houses, the faint ghost of a sun struggling to burn through the clouds. Her reflection in the glass looked pale and hollow, her eyes rimmed with red from crying.

Natalia drove with both hands on the wheel, posture perfectly upright, jaw tight. Her gaze didn’t waver from the road, though Wanda could see, in the corner of her vision, that Natalia kept glancing at her, not suspicion exactly, but something close. As if she were trying to read her, to assess what might break her next.

“How far are we going?” Wanda asked finally, her voice rough.

“Far enough,” Natalia said.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means safe,” Natalia replied simply. “And that’s all that matters right now.”

Wanda let out a faint, humorless laugh. “Safe. That’s rich.”

Natalia didn’t rise to it. Her fingers flexed on the steering wheel.

“You should sleep,” she said quietly after a moment. “You need rest.”

“I won’t sleep.” Wanda’s voice was flat, exhausted. “You think I can just close my eyes and forget what I saw?”

“No,” Natalia said. “But you’ll need your strength.”

Wanda didn’t answer. She leaned her forehead against the window, letting the cool glass press against her skin. The motion of the car lulled her into something between waking and dreaming. Every time her eyes closed, she saw Sharon’s face again, pale, frightened, apologizing. The sound of her voice before it cut out.

Her stomach churned. She swallowed hard, pressing her palm against the glass.

“You’re pale,” Natalia said, not taking her eyes off the road.

“I feel sick.”

“Pull over?”

“No,” Wanda muttered. “Just drive.”

They passed a sign on the highway EXIT 17: MEADOW FALLS — 10 KM. The last hint of civilization for miles. After that, the road would curl into the forest, the world thinning out until there was only silence and trees.

Natalia reached over to adjust the radio, turning it to a static-heavy news channel. The anchor’s voice was distant, talking about the hospital attack, about Pietro Maximoff, about “unconfirmed ties to organized crime.” Wanda’s stomach twisted.

“Turn it off,” she whispered.

Natalia did, without comment. The silence afterward was thick.

“Do you ever… lose people?” Wanda asked suddenly.

Natalia’s expression barely changed, but her fingers tightened slightly on the wheel. “Yes.”

“People you loved?”

“Yes.”

Wanda looked down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap. “How do you live with that?”

Natalia was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “You don’t. You learn to live around it.”

Wanda nodded faintly, eyes on the window again. “That’s not living.”

“No,” Natalia agreed. “It’s surviving.”

The rest of the drive passed in uneasy silence. Every so often, Natalia would glance at the rearview mirror, scanning for tails. Wanda noticed, even in her daze — the tension in Natalia’s shoulders, the way her eyes flicked between the road and the mirror like clockwork.

“You keep looking,” Wanda murmured.

“Old habit.”

“Old habits mean something.”

Natalia’s lips quirked slightly. “Maybe.”

It was past noon when they turned off the highway and onto a dirt road lined with pines. The air changed — colder, sharper, filled with the scent of damp soil and evergreen. The car jolted over uneven ground until, at last, a small wooden cabin came into view, half-hidden between trees.

It was modest, a single story, dark timber, a porch with peeling paint. Smoke rose faintly from a chimney, as though the place had been used recently.

“This is it?” Wanda asked.

“This is it,” Natalia confirmed, pulling the car to a stop.

They stepped out into the chill air. Wanda wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. The cabin loomed quiet, unassuming.

“Inside,” Natalia said. “There’s power, water, food. We’ll stay until I can get us new transport.”

“You’ve done this before,” Wanda said, watching her.

Natalia gave a brief, humorless smile. “You could say that.”

They opened the trunk, and Natalia began unloading the bags. “Take these inside. I’ll check the perimeter.”

Wanda blinked at her. “Perimeter?”

“Just do it, Pet.”

The old nickname sounded oddly soft now, tired rather than teasing. Wanda hesitated, then lifted one of the duffels and carried it up the porch. The wooden boards creaked under her bare feet.

The cabin smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Inside, it was sparse but functional, a small kitchen with neatly stacked supplies, a living area with an old couch, one narrow hallway leading to a bedroom and bathroom. A single wood stove stood in the corner, cold for now.

She set the bag down by the door and looked around. There was something about the stillness that made her uneasy, it felt too carefully arranged, too deliberate.

Her eyes drifted to the counter, where Natalia had left a folder and a small black duffel earlier. Out of habit more than intent, Wanda walked closer.

The folder was half open. Inside, she caught a glimpse of an ID card.

Her heart stuttered.

It was faintly visible, the edge of a badge, an emblem she couldn’t quite make out. The letters DOJ were stamped near the top, along with a seal she recognized from somewhere. Department of Justice.

Her fingers trembled. She flipped it slightly open, just enough to see the photograph clipped inside.

Natalia.

Hair shorter, expression hard, eyes the same steel gray.

Wanda froze. Her pulse roared in her ears.

There was more in the folder, what looked like reports, names, locations. A small envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL. She didn’t open it, but the sight of it alone was enough to make her stomach twist.

A badge.

She dropped the folder like it burned her.

From outside came the crunch of grave, Natalia’s boots.

Wanda’s mind raced. The memory of Sharon flashed through her head — the betrayal, the lies, the way it had all looked so sincere until it wasn’t. She felt the same nausea rise, the same cold panic.

She quickly kicked the folder slightly under the counter, heart hammering.

The door opened, and Natalia stepped in, brushing a bit of pine dust from her jacket.

“Clear,” she said shortly. Her eyes moved to Wanda, assessing, unreadable. “You okay?”

Wanda nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Natalia tilted her head slightly. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” Wanda lied.

Natalia studied her a second longer, then nodded slowly. “Good. We’ll eat, then you rest. Tomorrow we’ll plan our next move.”

“Right.”

As Natalia turned to unpack supplies, Wanda’s gaze flicked back to the edge of the folder just barely sticking out from under the counter. Her pulse quickened again.

It didn’t make sense.

A cop. A fed. Whatever she was, she had lied.

And Sharon had lied, too.

The words Pietro had said in the video echoed in her skull: She thought she could protect you.

Wanda’s hands clenched at her sides. She couldn’t trust anyone. Not anymore.

Not even her.

Natalia glanced at her again, one brow lifting. “You look like you’re somewhere else.”

“Just thinking,” Wanda murmured.

“About what?”

“About what comes next.”

Natalia’s lips curved faintly, something between a smirk and a sigh. “Then we’re thinking the same thing.”

Wanda forced a small smile, but inside, her heart was racing.

She turned away, pretending to busy herself with the bags. Her fingers shook as she pulled out the clothes, the canned food.

You need to leave, she told herself. You need to get out before she decides what to do with you.

Outside, the trees whispered softly in the wind, their branches casting long shadows against the cabin windows.

Inside, two women shared the same small space, one steady, composed, watching. The other unraveling quietly, already imagining her escape.

And somewhere, deep in the quiet between their breaths, the distance between trust and betrayal began to close again, slowly, inevitably, like the forest closing in around them both.

 

The wind outside the cabin howled like something ancient and restless, sweeping through the trees with a low, constant moan. Inside, the fire had burned down to red coals, their light flickering faintly across the wooden floorboards. The world seemed wrapped in silence, except for the soft, uneven sound of Wanda’s breathing.

She lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The faint outline of the rafters wavered in the dimness, the air cold enough that her breath came out in small, visible clouds. She couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Sharon’s face, the light fading from her eyes, the hollow echo of Pietro’s voice.

She rolled onto her side. Natalia slept beside her on the small bed, one arm draped loosely over her stomach, the other curled near her pillow. Her breathing was even, her face relaxed, the sharpness that defined her in waking hours softened now, almost vulnerable.

Wanda stared at her for a long time, searching for something in the quiet rhythm of her chest rising and falling. Maybe an answer. Maybe an apology that would never come.

The badge flashed again in her mind. DOJ. The clipped photo. The reports. The secrets Natalia hadn’t told her.

Her chest tightened.

Slowly, silently, she slid out of bed. The cold hit her immediately, the kind that sank into her bones. She moved carefully, her bare feet barely making a sound against the wooden floor.

The duffel she’d packed earlier was still by the door. She crouched and began to fill it: a few cans of food, a bottle of water, one of Natalia’s jackets. Her fingers shook as she worked, every sound amplified in the silence.

When she straightened, her gaze fell to the small table by the door, where Natalia’s gun rested beside her folded gloves.

Her stomach turned.

She hesitated for a long time, then reached for it. Her hand closed around the cold metal grip, heavier than she remembered from training. She’d fired weapons before, but never at someone she knew. Never with her heart pounding so violently she could feel it in her throat.

She tucked the gun into her jacket pocket, grabbed the bag, and slipped quietly outside.

The cold night air hit her like a wall. She gasped softly, pulling the jacket tighter around herself. The forest stretched out in all directions, black silhouettes of trees against a moonless sky. Snow clouds were gathering, the air thick and sharp with the scent of ice.

She took a step forward. Then another.

The crunch of frost underfoot seemed too loud, like the earth itself might betray her.

She didn’t know where she was going. Only that she had to go. Had to move before the cabin, before Natalia, before all of it crushed her under the weight of lies and grief.

The darkness thickened around her. Branches clawed at her coat. Her breath came faster, fogging the air. Every sound made her flinch, the creak of a tree, the rustle of something small moving through the underbrush.

After a while, she realized she was lost.

The cabin was gone. The faint outline of the road, too. She turned, but everything looked the same, trees, shadows, endless cold. Panic began to rise, sharp and wild in her chest.

“Stupid,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re so stupid,”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to steady herself, but her breathing came faster. Tears stung her eyes. The weight of the gun in her pocket felt unbearable now — a reminder of everything she didn’t want to become.

Then, through the trees, she heard it.

Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

She froze.

“Wanda!” Natalia’s voice cut through the darkness, low, firm, carrying a hint of anger and something else. Fear.

Wanda turned sharply, her heart hammering. “Stay back!” she shouted.

“Put the gun down, Wanda,” Natalia’s voice came again, closer now. “You’ll freeze out here.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Wanda yelled, backing up until her shoulder hit a tree. “You lied to me!”

Natalia emerged from the darkness, flashlight beam cutting across the snow. Her hair was loose, her face pale in the cold light. “I didn’t lie,” she said evenly. “I didn’t tell you everything. That’s different.”

“Don’t play games with me!” Wanda’s voice broke. “You said you weren’t one of them... you said you weren’t a cop!”

“I’m not,” Natalia said. “Not in the way you think.”

Wanda’s hands trembled. She drew the gun, pointing it straight at Natalia. “Don’t come closer.”

Natalia stopped, raising her hands slowly. Her voice softened. “Wanda. Listen to me.”

“I trusted you,” Wanda said, her voice cracking. “And you... you’ve been watching me. Protecting me, or controlling me, which is it?”

“Protecting you,” Natalia said. “From him. From everyone who wants you dead.”

“Liar!”

The word echoed in the forest, small animals scattering through the underbrush.

Natalia took a slow step forward. “If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done it a hundred times over.”

“Don’t move!” Wanda screamed, her hands shaking harder now. The gun wavered.

Natalia’s tone remained calm, but there was strain beneath it. “You’re cold. You’re lost. You’re terrified. I understand. But if you pull that trigger...”

“Don’t talk like you understand me!” Wanda shouted. Her breath came out in quick, uneven bursts. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything! To watch people die because of you!”

“I do,” Natalia said quietly. “More than you think.”

Wanda’s lip trembled. Her vision blurred with tears.

“Put the gun down,” Natalia said again, taking another step forward. “Please.”

“Stop,” Wanda whispered. “Don’t come any closer.”

“You won’t shoot me.”

“Don’t test me!”

Natalia’s gaze softened, even as her body remained perfectly still. “If you’re going to kill me,” she said quietly, “make sure you kill me. Because if you don’t, you won’t get another chance.”

Wanda’s breath hitched. “You think I won’t do it?”

“I think you don’t have it in you.”

Natalia took one deliberate step closer.

The sound of the gunshot tore through the forest, sharp and deafening.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Natalia stumbled, clutching her thigh. “Fuck!” she hissed, staggering to one knee. Her gloved hand came away dark with blood. “God damn it!”

Wanda’s hand flew to her mouth. “I— I didn’t mean—”

Natalia gritted her teeth, forcing herself upright. “You always aim for the leg if you’re scared. Smart.”

“Don’t— don’t come near me!” Wanda cried, backing away, still holding the gun though her fingers were numb.

Natalia took a slow, limping step forward, blood staining the snow behind her. Her breath came heavy, but her eyes stayed fixed on Wanda’s. “Give it to me.”

Wanda shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face. “Stay away!”

“Give me the gun,” Natalia said again, softer this time. “You don’t want to do this.”

Wanda’s arms began to tremble, the weapon dipping slightly. “You lied— you lied to me—”

“I know,” Natalia said, voice breaking for the first time. “And I’m sorry.”

Another step forward.

Wanda flinched but didn’t pull the trigger again.

Natalia reached her, moving slowly, deliberately. She eased the gun from Wanda’s shaking hands, her grip gentle but firm. Wanda didn’t resist. The moment the weight left her palm, she collapsed to her knees in the snow, sobbing.

Natalia exhaled shakily, wincing as she crouched beside her. “It’s over,” she said softly. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

“I shot you,” Wanda whispered. “God, I shot you—”

“I’ve had worse,” Natalia said, though her voice was tight with pain. “We need to get back inside before you freeze.”

Snow had started to fall now, soft, delicate flakes swirling down from the dark sky. It gathered in Wanda’s hair, on Natalia’s shoulders, on the blood-streaked snow beneath them.

Wanda didn’t move. Her whole body shook with cold and guilt.

Natalia gritted her teeth, looping an arm around Wanda’s shoulders and hauling her up. She limped heavily, leaning on one leg, dragging both of them back toward the faint light of the cabin.

By the time they reached the porch, the snowfall had thickened, blanketing the ground in white. Natalia pushed the door open with her shoulder, guiding Wanda inside.

The cabin felt smaller than before, the warmth of the fire gone out. Natalia dropped the gun on the table and sank into the nearest chair, pressing a hand against her thigh.

Wanda stood near the door, pale and trembling.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. The only sound was the wind outside, carrying the first whispers of a blizzard.

Finally, Natalia looked up, her expression tired, her voice hoarse. “You can hate me in the morning,” she said. “Right now, I just need you to help me stop the bleeding.”

Wanda hesitated, then moved, wordlessly, to obey.

Outside, the storm grew stronger. Inside, two women sat together in the dim light, one bleeding, one breaking, both trapped by the same cold they could no longer escape.

Notes:

What do you think?