#fic: everlastingdevotion

Steve pushes it open just enough to slip inside, then closes the door behind him. 

“Pietro just left.”

Natasha looks up, carefully placing her quill aside. A small breath escapes her, a mix of relief and tension. One piece of her hastily rebuilt plan was in motion.

“Good,” she murmurs, nodding. “Hopefully, that gives him enough of a head start before anyone suspects anything.”

Steve steps inside further, glancing at the documents on her desk briefly before giving Natasha a hesitant look.

“Keeping his involvement secret is smart. But…”

Natasha arches a brow at his hesitation. 

“But?” she presses.

“…shouldn’t we tell Lady Y/n?” Steve asks. “One of her people is being sent on a possibly dangerous diplomatic mission. She’d probably want to know.”

Natasha’s chest tightens at the mention of you. With the engagement party looming over both of you, it makes her uneasy to think about how you might be feeling about all this.

“I’ll tell her,” Natasha says, attempting to sound confident in her decision. “It was sudden. But the sooner Pietro left, the safer he’d be. She’ll understand.”

Steve studies her for a moment, maybe wanting to ask if you really will understand, but he doesn’t. 

Still, that doesn’t stop Natasha from worrying about the same thing. This does involve one of the twins, and she knows more than anyone how much you cherish them. But ending this engagement is important too, for you and her. 

Natasha stands and begins pacing as her thoughts start to spiral between duty, guilt, and the persistent ache of missing you.

Eventually, Steve clears his throat to get her attention.

She turns to him, stopping mid-stride. 

“What is it?” she asks.

He shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“The uh…engagement party has already started.”

“So?” Natasha replies, returning to stand by her desk and picking up a report to flip through. “Ross wanted to have the celebration. He can enjoy it himself.”

“Right, however,” Steve says gently, “having an engagement party without either of the persons being engaged present may cause more problems later from some ‘concerned’ nobles.”

Natasha’s hand stills on the papers as she looks up in confusion.

“Sharon isn’t there?” she asks. 

Steve shakes his head. 

“No signs of her that I saw.”

Natasha frowns. She has her obvious reasons for not wanting to be there. The Carter princess, however…why would she miss the celebration?

Steve shuffles forward to the edge of the desk, thumbing idly through a stack of parchment. His voice came out almost absentmindedly, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

“But…Lady Y/n arrived a few minutes ago,” he adds casually, not looking up.

Natasha immediately straightens. The parchment in her grip crinkles, the edge bending as her composure falters for half a heartbeat.

“You should’ve led with that,” she mutters in annoyance, tossing the papers aside without ceremony. Whatever reluctance she’d held a moment ago vanishes as she strides toward the door.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, finally glancing up as he watches her go. 

“I figured that would motivate you.”

She doesn’t dignify Steve with a response. The study doors swing open beneath her hand, wood striking softly against the stone wall as she slips through. Her pace quickens almost immediately, long strides carrying her down the corridor.

You came.

The thought settles warm in her chest, chasing away the tight coil of dread she’d been carrying all evening. Maybe she could find you before the formalities swallowed the night whole. Pull you aside. Steal a few quiet minutes the way you two always used to at these events, tucked away from watchful eyes and whispered expectations. 

Just enough time to pretend, for a brief moment, that duty didn’t always pull you in opposite directions.

She rounds the final corner toward the courtyard exit, already catching glimpses of lantern light spilling across marble arches.

Before a figure steps neatly into her path.

Natasha’s muscles lock on instinct, weight shifting backward, ready to react until recognition settles in. 

“Your Majesty,” Ultron greets, bowing a fraction too deeply, the movement mechanical enough to feel rehearsed rather than respectful. “Allow me to congratulate you on your upcoming union personally.”

Natasha forces a polite smile into place, though unease crawls along her spine. Something about the Carter commander has always felt wrong, too watchful from what she’s seen. His eyes never quite seem to reveal anything human beneath the courtesy.

“Thank you,” she replies, tone clipped as she attempts to step around him.

Ultron moves with seamless precision, blocking her path again without the action appearing deliberate.

Just…inevitable.

“One other matter,” he continues, lips curving into an unreadable smile. “Princess Sharon has requested a moment of your time, concerning something of utmost importance. She’s waiting for you in the gardens.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens.

Her gaze flickers past him toward the courtyard beyond where lanterns sway in warm gold light and laughter drifts through the air. 

Somewhere out there, you’re waiting without even knowing she’s racing toward you.

Every instinct screams at her to push past him and keep going.

But if she ignores Sharon now, whatever this “important” matter is could spiral into a political complication later, one that might steal any chance she has of seeing you tonight.

She exhales slowly through her nose, tamping down the frustration curling in her chest.

“Alright,” she says at last. “I’ll speak with her.”

Ultron’s smile sharpens, subtle but unmistakable, the expression of a man quietly satisfied.

“As you wish. Enjoy your evening, Your Majesty.”

Natasha offers no reply. She pivots on her heel and heads toward the gardens instead, boots crunching softly against gravel as the sounds of the celebration fade behind her. 

It will only take a moment, she tells herself. Just a moment and then she’ll find you.

The garden paths twist into a quiet maze, hedges tall enough to swallow the noise of the party entirely. Moonlight spills silver over pale blossoms and winding stone walkways. After a few turns, Natasha finally spots the Carter princess.

Sharon stands at the center of a small clearing, framed by climbing roses and hanging lanterns. Her head tilts back toward the night sky, posture still and thoughtful, as though she hasn’t yet noticed Natasha’s approach or perhaps she has, and simply chooses not to turn.

“You needed to speak with me?” Natasha cuts right to the point, eager to finish this conversation quickly.

Sharon finally turns to look at her. Her gaze lingers on Natasha for a moment, thoughtful and measuring.

“I did,” Sharon replies calmly. “I wanted to talk together in private where we wouldn’t be interrupted.”

Natasha folds her arms loosely over her chest, already impatient. 

“Then talk.”

A faint smile touches Sharon’s lips, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She steps closer, heels brushing over the gravel. 

“I know you don’t like me,” she says plainly. “At least, not in the way a bride is supposed to like her future wife.”

Natasha says nothing. Her expression remains flat and unreadable, a mask she has perfected over years of hiding far deeper truths than this.

Sharon continues, unfazed by the silence. 

“But it doesn’t matter. Our union is inevitable. Politics, alliances…expectations. Those things rarely wait for feelings.”

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” Natasha asks at last, voice clipped but beneath it lies a quiet urgency. She needs this conversation over with. She needs to find you.

Sharon’s smile widens, subtle and knowing. 

“Then if that’s the case, in reality, there really is no reason to delay things, is there?” she says slowly, stepping closer into Natasha’s space. “I mean, feelings can always grow eventually…once two people spend enough time together.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow as she watches the princess cautiously. She doesn’t step back, but the tension in her shoulders gives her away as to how she doesn’t like what Sharon’s suggesting.

“I think,” Sharon continues, lowering her voice, “we should move the wedding forward. Next week.”

“That’s too soon,” Natasha says immediately, tone sharp in refusal. 

Her mind races as she thinks, calculating a believable excuse to delay and buy her time. Just a little longer. She just needs a little longer for her plan to work. To find a way out. 

“There isn’t time to prepare anything.”

“We don’t need to have anything extravagant,” Sharon replies smoothly with a small shrug. 

She closes the remaining distance between them, her presence pressing in. 

“The ceremony itself is not what matters. We just need a moment to strengthen this relationship of ours. For our kingdoms.”

Natasha shifts her weight, ready to refuse, to step away, but Sharon moves first.

Cool fingers cradle Natasha’s face, pulling her forward into a kiss before she can react. 

Natasha freezes for half a heartbeat, more from shock than anything else, before she jerks back sharply, grabbing Sharon’s wrists and forcing them down.

“What are you—what do you think you’re doing?” she snaps, voice breaking with anger and disbelief. 

Behind her, footsteps strike the stone in a sudden stop.

Natasha’s head snaps toward the sound.

And there you stand. Eyes wide. Breath caught. Hurt written so openly across your face that it slices straight through her chest.

Everything clicks into place at once. How this must look, what you must think, and worst of all, the devastation blooming behind your eyes.

“No—” she breathes, panic rising fast. “Y/n—”

Your voice trembles as you speak, apologizing, mentioning something about her mother looking for her, but Natasha can barely hear anything you’re saying. Every word sounds wrong. Distant. Like you’re forcing yourself to say anything normal just to survive the moment.

Natasha can barely stem her panic. Her world narrows to you, to the way your gaze drops to her hand still gripping Sharon’s wrist.

She releases Sharon’s hand instantly.

“Wait,” she says, stepping forward, hands lifting cautiously as if afraid you might vanish. “It’s not what you think. Please, just—just let me explain—”

You step back at her approach. The movement hits her harder than any weapon ever has. Something fractures inside her ribs.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, and Natasha has never hated those words more than now, hates that you feel the need to apologize when she is the one who should have protected you from this.

You turn, and you run from her.

“Y/n!” Natasha calls, already moving after you. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t look back at Sharon. Boots pound against the stone as she chases the sound of your retreating footsteps through the maze-like paths.

Your name catches in her throat again and again, but the hedges swallow her voice.

By the time she breaks out of the gardens, she sees you collide with someone, blonde hair catching the moonlight.

Natasha slows to a stop, breath uneven, as she watches you crumble into Carol’s arms. You cling to her desperately, and Carol—she immediately wraps you in warmth and protection.

Before she can stop it, jealousy flickers quickly in her chest, a quiet ache layered beneath guilt and fear.

Carol’s eyes lift to meet hers, and the glare she sends Natasha is fierce with warning.

Natasha barely notices. Because then she hears it.

Your sob. Soft. Broken. Torn from somewhere deep.

It stops her cold. Her feet root to the ground a few paces away, hands hanging uselessly at her sides. Every instinct screams at her to go to you, to pull you close, to explain, to fix this, but she can’t move.

Not when you’re shaking like that. Because of her.

Not when stepping closer might only hurt you even more.

The lantern light from the garden spills faintly across the path, catching the wetness in her eyes she doesn’t bother to hide. Her chest tightens painfully as she watches Carol soothe you, hears the quiet murmurs of comfort meant only for you before leading you away.

Natasha’s lips part, but no words come. All she can do is stand there, frozen as she watches the person she loves the most disappear from her side.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Your manor is silent by the time Natasha arrives, the stillness of the night settling heavily around it. She pauses at the front gate, momentarily expecting Pietro to appear and open it for her, before remembering that he is gone because she sent him away on a mission.

The weight of that decision presses down on her, feeding the guilt already tightening in her chest. She stares up at the darkened windows, her thoughts lingering on how much worse you must be feeling.

“She’s not home.”

Natasha turns at the sound of Wanda’s voice. The younger woman approaches, her hand glowing softly with red energy that casts faint light across the gate. With a small motion of her fingers, the latch releases, and the gate shifts open just enough for Wanda to slip through.

Wanda studies Natasha closely, taking in the redness of her eyes and the heaviness in her posture. She does not need to read Natasha’s thoughts to understand that something has gone wrong between the two of you.

“Princess Carol sent word,” Wanda says. “Y/n is staying on her ship tonight.”

Natasha’s hands tighten briefly at her sides before she forces herself to relax. She has no right to feel possessive or jealous, not after what she has done. The two of you are not even together, and more importantly, she is the one who caused you pain.

“When she returns, will you tell her that I need to speak with her?” Natasha asks, her voice quieter now.

Wanda considers her for a moment, then gives a small nod.

As Natasha turns to leave, Wanda speaks again, her voice hesitant.

“Did you know who Y/n really is?” she asks, pressing her fingers to her temple as if the thought itself unsettles her. “I assume, if not me or Pietro, she would have told you.”

Natasha turns back, surprised at the revelation.

“She told you?”

“Not intentionally,” Wanda replies, a faint, sad smile forming. “It felt more like she never wanted any of us to find out.”

Natasha does not confirm or deny it, though the guilt inside her deepens. You must have been carrying the stress of the twins discovering the truth about who you are, and now she has only added more to your pain. But maybe she can still help ease some of your problems.

Natasha exhales steadily and faces Wanda once more. 

“She is still the same person you have always known and cared for,” Natasha says gently. “This doesn’t have to change anything between you three.”

Wanda’s expression falters, her gaze dropping to her glowing hand. Silence fills the night for a moment as she watches the energy move in contemplation. 

Before Natasha can say anything, she finally speaks.

“Stark soldiers killed my parents,” Wanda says quietly. She looks up and meets Natasha’s eyes. “Do you know what it feels like to watch the people you love die in front of you?”

Natasha’s hands curl into fists at her sides, the memory of holding your nearly lifeless body flashing through her mind.

“That feeling of helplessness,” Wanda continues as she holds Natasha’s gaze. This time her eyes glow red, and unfamiliar memories begin to flood Natasha’s mind.

Suddenly, Natasha is no longer standing at the manor gate. She is looking through the eyes of a child, peering through a crack in a cupboard door.

Chaos fills the house, accompanied by screams and the sound of destruction. The cupboard door opens slightly, causing the small body to flinch, but another presence beside her provides comfort, a small hand gripping hers tightly.

Then comes the sound of a mother crying and a father pleading, followed by an unfamiliar voice filled with cold indifference.

“They’re useless, like all the others. Take care of them and check the rest of the house.”

Footsteps fade. A blade is drawn. Two swift and merciless movements follow, and then silence.

A horrified gasp escapes the child, but the boy beside her quickly covers her mouth and pulls her deeper into hiding. Tears fill her eyes as she looks at him. He is only ten minutes older, yet his expression carries a determination far beyond his years to protect the one family member he has left.

Still, the small noise draws attention. The intruder approaches the source of the sound, his blade still dripping with blood as it drags against the floor. Within seconds, the cupboard doors are ripped open, exposing them both.

Fear grips the boy, and yet he still shields his sibling with his body. However, something else rises within the girl. Rage. Sharp and overwhelming. She pulls free from the embrace and faces the intruder.

“Go away!” she yells, and in that brief second, her eyes flash red.

The intruder stiffens instantly, and then without a word, he turns and leaves.

Her mind flashes as Natasha is pulled back into the present, the intensity of the memory leaving her momentarily disoriented as she looks around.

Wanda’s eyes fade back to their original color as she fixes Natasha with a steely look.

“After seeing that, can you truly tell me to let go of my hatred for anything connected to Stark?”

Natasha hesitates. The memory of that loss still lingers vividly in her mind. At the same time, something else troubles her. The voice that gave the order sounds familiar, though she cannot place it.

“Now, Wanda, I believe you hurt Vision’s feelings.”

Both women turn toward the voice. Natasha immediately recognizes the man. He had helped you at the tavern and was the one you hired to repair the gate. Behind him are two other men, one of whom gives Wanda a quick look of pain before ducking his head towards the ground.

Wanda stiffens beside Natasha, her wariness turning quickly into anger. However, a brief flicker of regret appears when she glances at the man Natasha assumes is Vision. 

Wanda pulls her attention from Vision to look at the other man.

“You’re not welcome here anymore,” Wanda says, her hands glowing again as a warning.

To Natasha’s surprise, the man standing in front seems entirely unbothered by the sight.

“Well, that’s not technically your decision to make,” he replies casually, glancing around. “Now where is the stubborn lady of the house?”

Natasha steps forward, her expression sharpening.

“She does have a say, actually,” Natasha says firmly. “If Wanda does not want you here, then it’s best you should leave.”

The man finally looks at her, tilting his head as he studies her before letting out a long sigh in resignation.

“So the fun is over, Jarvis?” he asks the third person with them.

Jarvis inclines his head slightly.

“I believe that would be wise, sir,” he replies, then turns to Natasha and bows respectfully. “Your Majesty, it is an honor to meet you.”

Natasha acknowledges him with a nod, though her gaze remains cautious.

“And you are?” she asks.

Jarvis places a hand over his chest.

“I am Jarvis of the Stark Kingdom, head assistant to King Tony Stark.”

Natasha’s focus sharpens as she looks more closely at the man in the center, piecing together the truth of his identity.

Tony seems preoccupied with examining his hand before finally noticing her stare. He pats Jarvis on the shoulder.

“You don’t need to be modest, Jarvis,” he says lightly. “You are my closest confidant.”

Then he turns back to Natasha with an exaggerated wave.

“Pleasure to meet you, it’s such an honor or something along those lines. I don’t know,” he continues, rolling his eyes slightly. “However, I feel like I already know you, Romanov.”

Natasha crosses her arms and raises her brow in silent question.

Tony only smirks and shrugs his shoulders in response.

“You see, I have heard quite a bit about you, against my will, of course,” he reveals. “Though not surprising when I was given shelter in your girlfriend’s home.”

Tony’s smirk deepens as he raises his brows at her.

“Or perhaps I should say, former girlfriend.”

Natasha does not react to the provocation, though the implication that you probably figured out his identity and kept it from her lingers faintly in her thoughts.

“You have delayed our meeting for some time, Stark,” Natasha says calmly. “If you’ve been here all along, why not just complete the peace negotiations so that you can return to your own kingdom?”

Tony watches at her for a moment, waiting for a crack in her composure from his little jab at her failed relationship before giving her a look of mild admiration when he realizes she’s serious. He straightens and claps his hands together.

“Why don’t we handle it now then?” he offers. 

Natasha’s eyes widen slightly in surprise at his sudden decision. 

Tony turns to Wanda with a knowing smirk and a raised brow.

“I’m sure your Lady won’t mind opening the doors of her manor for a diplomatic meeting. Especially if it’s for her best friend, and the Queen at that, don’t you think, little witch?” he challenges.

Wanda’s power flares brighter, her eyes turning scarlet again. At the same time, Jarvis’s eyes glow gold almost defensively in response, though Vision quickly grips his arm and shakes his head to stop him.

The small gesture seems to steady Wanda, and some of the tension leaves her body. She draws in a slow, measured breath as the crimson glow fades from her eyes. The magic energy gathered around her hands lingers for a few moments longer before beginning to dim, as though she's forcing herself to remain in control.

Sensing the shift, Natasha steps closer until only Wanda can hear her.

“If I resolve this tonight, they will have no reason to remain in the kingdom any longer,” she murmurs, carefully choosing her words in the hope that Wanda will be on her side.

Wanda remains silent. Her eyes stay fixed on her hands as she weighs the proposal. After a long moment, the last traces of scarlet energy dissolves from her fingers. She releases a slow breath, the last of her resistance finally giving way, before lifting a hard, unwavering gaze to meet Natasha's.

“I want them gone,” she says quietly. “All of them.”

For the briefest moment, uncertainty settles in Natasha's chest. Now that Wanda knows the truth about your bloodline, she cannot help but wonder whether those words include you as well.

Whether, in Wanda's eyes, you have become one of the very people she can no longer bear to have anywhere near her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Despite everything you do to push the memory away, the image of Natasha and Sharon kissing refuses to leave your mind.

It replays over and over until you can no longer tell where memory ends and imagination begins. Your thoughts begin filling in details that never happened. Natasha returning the kiss. Melting into Sharon’s touch. Lifting a hand to cup her face the same way she used to cradle yours.

Every imagined moment twists the knife a little deeper.

Your chest tightens painfully, and despite having cried until you thought there were no tears left to shed, fresh ones gather at the corners of your eyes.

The soft clink of a bowl being placed in front of you pulls you from your thoughts.

You quickly brush at your eyes before looking up.

Carol offers you a gentle smile as she nudges the steaming bowl a little closer.

“Something to warm you up,” she says.

You manage a faint smile in return, though it feels too fragile to be genuine.

“Thank you, Carol.”

You lift the spoon and take a sip, but the warmth barely registers. Everything inside you feels numb.

Carol settles into the chair across from you, resting her chin against her palm as she studies you with the careful, patient expression you have come to recognize so well.

You sigh softly and shake your head.

“Stop looking at me like that. You are one of the few people who has never looked at me with pity. Please do not start now.”

A small smile touches Carol’s lips as her posture relaxes.

“I suppose I have an unfair advantage,” she replies. “I have spent most of the last several years away from the kingdoms.”

“And now you have decided to bless us with your presence twice within only a few months,” you tease quietly before your expression softens. “Thank you for coming back.”

Carol reaches across the table and rests her hand over yours.

“I told you I would come back if you wanted me to.”

Your eyes drift down to where your hands touch. After a brief pause, you gently slip your hand free and fold it back into your lap.

You have not forgotten the feelings Carol confessed before leaving the kingdom. The last thing you want is to create even more confusion between the people you care about.

“Carol,” you begin carefully, “I asked you to return because of...”

“Natasha,” she finishes with an amused smile, leaning her chin into her hand once more. “It is always Natasha.”

You give her an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Carol.”

She waves the apology away with an easy smile before changing the subject.

“So, what does our stubborn queen need that she refuses to ask me for herself?”

You release a weary sigh as your thoughts return to everything that has happened. Natasha’s recent decisions. The Carter soldiers. Sharon.

“The kingdom still needs soldiers,” you explain. “But more than that, Natasha needs people she knows she can trust. Soldiers from a kingdom we barely have an alliance with are not enough.”

Carol nods thoughtfully, tapping a finger against the table before raising an eyebrow.

“And this has absolutely nothing to do with how you feel about the engagement between Princess Carter and Natasha?”

You grimace and clasp your hands together in your lap.

“My feelings about them have nothing to do with this.”

Carol laughs knowingly before rising from her chair. She crosses the cabin and begins searching through one of her chests.

“Providing soldiers will not be difficult,” she says as she rummages through its contents. “I will offer my support to Natasha tomorrow.”

After a moment, she lets out a satisfied sound, pulling out several books along with a collection of rolled maps.

“But I am only doing it because you asked,” she adds, turning back toward you. “I am still angry with her for making you cry.”

“She did not...”

“She did.”

Carol’s voice is calm, but unwavering. She looks at you with quiet certainty, daring you to deny what she already witnessed.

You lower your gaze with a sigh.

“The situation is more complicated than it seems.”

Carol hums thoughtfully as she places the books and maps across the table. You immediately notice that none of them are familiar.

“That is exactly why I chose to leave and travel,” she says as she moves her chair beside yours. She spreads one of the maps open between you. “Life becomes much simpler when everything around you is unfamiliar. Sometimes all you need is a different perspective.”

You glance at her with an amused smile.

“Not all of us are brave enough to leave everything we have ever known simply to discover something new.”

Carol smiles warmly. She reaches over, brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face, and gently lifts your chin with her fingertips.

“You are the bravest person I know, Y/n.”

You rest your hand lightly against her wrist, smiling with quiet appreciation.

“Your Grace, you are not allowed in there. Those are the Princess’s quarters.”

The cabin door swings open before the guard can finish speaking.

Natasha steps inside and comes to an immediate halt.

Her gaze lands on the two of you seated together, far closer than she had expected.

Seeing Natasha’s gaze drift across the two of you, you release your hold on Carol’s arm and clear your throat lightly in embarrassment. Even though the two of you weren’t doing anything wrong, you can see how this must’ve looked.

While you fuss with trying to exude a friendly, casual atmosphere, Carol turns to look at Natasha directly and leans comfortably on the tabletop, her chin resting against the back of one hand as an amused smile spreads across her face. The sight of Natasha standing frozen in the doorway only seems to entertain her.

“This is my ship, Romanov,” Carol says with effortless confidence. “I could have you arrested for trespassing.”

Natasha returns the smile with nothing but a cold glare.

“You are anchored in my waters,” she replies evenly. “I could do exactly the same to you, Danvers.”

Neither woman looks away first. The tension stretches between them until Natasha’s attention finally drifts past Carol and settles on you.

The hardness in her expression melts almost instantly.

“Can we talk?” she asks quietly. “Please.”

Carol straightens beside you, every instinct urging her to refuse on your behalf. Before she can speak, you reach over and rest a gentle hand against her arm.

She turns toward you with a silent question in her eyes, asking if you’re sure.

You answer with the smallest nod.

Reluctantly, Carol exhales through her nose before rising to her feet.

Natasha watches the exchange in silence. A painful tightness settles deep inside her chest as her eyes linger on your hand resting so naturally against Carol’s arm.

The thought slips into her mind before she can stop it.

Did something happen between you two?

Carol pauses beside the doorway and looks back at you.

“I won’t be far away,” she says. “Call for me if you need me.”

Natasha’s hand curls into a tight fist at her side. Then you answer.

“I will.”

The simple promise drives the knot in Natasha’s chest even deeper. Shame forces her gaze downward as Carol walks past without sparing her another glance.

A moment later, the cabin door closes behind her. Silence settles over the room. This should have been comforting. Being alone with you had always been the one place Natasha felt safest.

Instead, every passing second makes it harder to breathe. The distance between the two of you feels impossibly wide.

You cannot even bring yourself to look at her. Your eyes remain fixed on the tabletop while your arms wrap around yourself as though searching for comfort she no longer has the right to offer.

“She...she kissed me.”

The confession is barely louder than a whisper.

You slowly lift your head. Your eyes finally meet hers. The hurt is still there. Natasha sees every fractured piece of it reflected back at her, and knowing she played a part in causing that pain makes her stomach twist.

Her hands flex helplessly at her sides. Every instinct tells her to reach for you, but fear keeps her rooted in place. She does not know whether you would pull away again if she did. The thought alone is enough to make her hands tremble.

She presses one against her chest in a desperate attempt to steady herself.

“We were only talking,” Natasha says again, her voice growing more fragile with every word. “She kissed me without warning. That is what you saw.”

She swallows hard.

“I did not...I would never...”

Her breathing becomes uneven before she even realizes it. Then, without warning, warmth settles over her trembling hand.

Natasha looks up. Without her realizing, you have crossed the room. Your fingers wrap gently around hers, stilling the tremor completely. Your other hand rises to cradle her cheek with familiar tenderness.

Natasha forgets how to breathe. She searches your face, expecting anger. Expecting resentment. She finds neither.

Instead, your expression softens the longer you look at her. The quiet understanding in your eyes loosens something inside her that had been painfully wound tight since the moment you walked away.

When she finally lets out a shaky breath, you lean forward and close the remaining distance. Your lips brush against hers in a slow, gentle kiss. 

Natasha melts into it immediately. She kisses you back with the quiet certainty of someone who has finally found home again after believing she had lost it forever.

You are the first to pull away.

Natasha instinctively follows, unwilling to let the distance return.

Your hand remains against her cheek, encouraging her to stay where she is. A small smile curves across your lips as your thumb brushes lightly over her lower lip.

“My princess,” you whisper before pressing another soft kiss against her mouth. “My queen.”

Another lingering kiss. “My love.”

“Yours,” Natasha breathes, meeting your lips again as she draws you closer against her. “In every way.”

You rest your forehead against hers and close your eyes to live in the reaffirmation of her promise. For a few precious moments, neither of you speaks. The world beyond the cabin disappears. There is only the quiet rhythm of shared breaths and the comfort of simply existing together again.

Natasha never looks away. She studies every detail of your face as though trying to memorize it all over again.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers into the silence. The guilt of hurting you, even unintentionally, still weighs heavily on her heart.

You give the smallest shake of your head.

“It wasn’t you,” you murmur. “You didn’t kiss her.”

Relief washes across Natasha so suddenly that it nearly steals her breath. You still believe her. You still trust in her.

She presses one more lingering kiss against your lips before reluctantly drawing back, remembering the reason she had come looking for you in the first place.

“I ran into Stark at your manor,” she says.

Your eyes widen. Almost immediately, they drop toward your hands as your fingers begin fidgeting together.

“I was going to tell you, Natasha,” you admit quietly. “When I first met him, he already formed his opinions and hated you. And I just wanted time to change his mind before the two of you met.”

Natasha cannot help but smile as she listens to you explain your reasons for keeping your knowledge a secret. Even now, after everything that had happened between you, your first instinct had been to protect her.

She reaches forward and gently takes both of your hands, waiting until you look back at her.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely, making certain you can see there is no anger in her expression. A playful smile slowly returns to her face. “He also mentioned that you could not stop talking about me.”

Your cheeks immediately flush with color.

“I...I did not...”

You groan under your breath before giving up entirely.

“I mean...maybe I did.”

You look away toward the far wall in dramatic defeat.

“Gods, that man is infuriating.”

Natasha laughs softly.

“After speaking with him myself, I can confidently say he has a remarkable talent for getting underneath people’s skin.”

Your attention snaps back to her.

“You spoke with him?”

Natasha nods. The amusement fades from her expression, replaced by quiet seriousness.

“He is willing to continue the peace treaty between our kingdoms.”

Hope immediately brightens your face. You reach for her arms and give them an excited shake.

“That’s wonderful, Natasha. I knew he would eventually change his mind about—”

“But only if we surrender Barnes to him.”

The words stop you cold. The excitement vanishes from your expression as quickly as it appeared. 

Natasha watches the realization slowly settle across your face.

She knows how much the former Stark captain has come to mean to you. What began as cautious trust had gradually become genuine friendship, forged through shared experiences and quiet understanding. She knows exactly what she is asking of you, and she knows how deeply unfair that request is.

“Dreykov must have informed Stark about Barnes after he captured him,” Natasha explains carefully. “That is why he came here. The peace treaty was never his only reason.”

She searches your face, hoping you will understand the impossible position she has been placed in.

Instead, your gaze slips away from hers. You stare past her, your thoughts clearly racing as you try to make sense of everything she has just revealed. The silence stretches between you, heavy with the weight of a choice neither of you ever wanted to face.

Natasha draws in a slow, unsteady breath.

“I just...” Her voice falters before she forces herself to continue. “I need you to tell me where he is. You don’t have to be there when we—”

“No.”

The refusal is so quiet that, for a heartbeat, Natasha wonders if she imagined it. Her eyes lift to yours.

“Y/n?”

You slowly release your hold on her arms before taking a careful step backward, putting a small but unmistakable distance between the two of you. One hand rises to your chest as you shake your head, the motion hesitant and reluctant, as though every part of you wishes your answer could be different.

“I’m sorry, Natasha,” you whisper, your voice hoarse with emotion. “I can’t help you.”

You finally meet her gaze again. Heartbreak shines plainly in your eyes. So does regret. Beneath both emotions, however, stands an unwavering resolve.

Natasha recognizes that determination immediately.

It is the same quiet conviction that first made her fall in love with you. The same strength that always compelled you to protect those who had earned your trust, no matter the cost. Only now, for the first time, that steadfast resolve stands in direct opposition to her.

“Not this time,” you say softly. “Not with this.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20

a/n: I am so sorry for the long wait. Unfortunately, I can't promise a timeline or when the next update will be. But this series is definitely not forgotten. Thank you to those who have waited and are still interested in this story! Thank you for reading!

If you asked to be tagged and I missed it, please let me know again.

“Jarvis,” you sigh, trying and failing to sound surprised, “what can I do for you?”

Jarvis bows with the perfection of someone who had served your family long before you were born. His silver-threaded hair doesn’t shift out of place, nor does his expression, though his eyes carry that familiar glimmer of I-know-exactly-why-you’re-hiding.

“Your brother is requesting your presence in the parlour, Your Highness.”

You narrow your eyes. The parlour. Not the dining hall, not his study. The parlour meant guests. The parlour meant trouble.

“And did he happen to mention why?” you ask pointedly.

Jarvis presses a hand behind his back, posture immaculate. 

“His exact phrasing was that ‘a surprise is waiting for you.’” 

A groan escapes before you can stop it. Another surprise. In other words, another forced introduction to some noble Tony found ‘respectable,’ which apparently meant ‘boring,’ ‘self-absorbed,’ or ‘someone who talks at you for hours about something excruciatingly uninteresting.’

You eye the lone red petal for a moment before shutting your book with a soft thump.

“Jarvis,” you begin, leaning forward with all the seriousness you rarely used on him, “you’ve been taking care of us since our parents died. But we both know you adore me more.” Jarvis exhales as if you’ve stabbed him with the truth. “So be honest: what surprise does my dear brother have waiting for me?” 

The man’s perfect composure slips just enough for a tiny twitch of an amused smile.

“Well, if rumors are to be believed, I may have seen the coachman of one of His Majesty’s more…shameless companions arrive early this morning.”

Your shoulders slump. 

“Another setup,” you mutter. “Gods, does he think if he sends enough suitors, one will magically become appealing?”

Jarvis says nothing, and that in itself is the answer.

You clasp your hands dramatically and give him your best pleading expression. 

“Please…please pretend you never found me. I will owe you for the rest of my life.”

Jarvis hesitates just long enough to pretend he’s considering your request really hard. Then he gives a polite bow.

“My apologies. It seems I was mistaken. The princess left the castle earlier and will be spending her day in town.”

A victorious smile breaks across your face. 

“I appreciate you, Jarvis.”

He inclines his head, which in Jarvis-language is basically shouting you’re welcome, and walks off as if he never saw you.

You sink back onto the cushioned bench of your hidden pavilion, surrounded by roses and carved stone archways, blessedly alone again. Opening your book, you turn to your place and gently lift the scarlet petal that was pressed inside.

But another gust of wind swirls through the garden, tugging the petal from your grasp. It spirals upward, dancing through a shaft of sunlight before disappearing somewhere above the pavilion roof.

You sigh, return to your reading, only to freeze when a soft grunt drifts down from the tree branches overhead. Then another.

Petals suddenly rain down in front of your face, an entire flurry of them. 

You look up sharply.

Instead of a bird or a squirrel, you see a human form wedged awkwardly between the leaves, balancing on a thick branch. Cloaked, hooded, and absolutely not supposed to be here.

“Hey!” you shout before you can think.

The figure jerks violently at the sound of your voice, one foot slipping off the edge. Their hand shoots out to grab a nearby branch, but it’s thin and snaps instantly. The entire body comes crashing down, bouncing off the pavilion roof with a thud before rolling ungracefully onto the ground.

“Oh my gods—are you alright?!” You drop to your knees beside the fallen stranger.

A low groan answers you as the cloaked figure clutches their side. You hover your hands over them, instinctively wanting to help, until reality strikes you.

You’re in the royal garden. Behind multiple layers of guards. Behind secured walls.

Which means whoever this is, they’re still an intruder.

You jerk back, scrambling toward the garden path. 

“Jarv—!”

A hand slaps over your mouth. Your back hits the grass as another hand pins your wrist. You turn your head and meet—

Eyes. Green. Startlingly soft despite the situation. They widen at your panic, framed by wisps of red hair that have escaped the dark hood. Her breathing is quick from the fall, her lips parted slightly in focus, and—

You forget how to breathe for a second.

“Wait!” she hisses, voice hushed and desperate. “Let me explain!”

Why is even her whisper that pretty?

She leans in slightly, ensuring only you can hear. 

“My name is Natasha Romanov. I’m the queen of the Romanov kingdom.”

You blink.

…She’s also insane.

You blindly reach behind you, fingers brushing the spine of your discarded book. In one swift motion, you grab it and smack her arm.

“Hey!” she yelps, voice raised in indignation.

Her grip on your wrist stays strong, though she shifts her other hand from your mouth to block your book strikes with surprisingly quick reflexes.

“Stop hitting me!”

“You let me go first!”

To your surprise, she does. She instantly releases your wrist, raises both hands in surrender, and sits back on her knees to give you space.

“There. Free. Happy?” she says, breathing a little heavier from the fall and the brief scuffle.

You glare, sputtering, offended that she’s implying you’re the unreasonable one.

Before you can respond, rapid footsteps echo through the garden. Jarvis rounds the corner with three guards, eyes honing in on you first, then the cloaked woman surrounded by petals like some chaotic painting.

“Your Highness!” he says, rushing to help you up and immediately positioning himself between you and the intruder.

The guards draw weapons, surrounding her in a tight formation. She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she seems…tired. And annoyingly composed.

“Are you hurt?” Jarvis asks you. 

You shake your head, pointing at the tree. 

“She fell out of the branches.”

The woman snorts. 

“I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t startled me.”

Jarvis’s arm shoots out across your front just as you attempt to step forward in indignation.

“Well, forgive me for being surprised someone was lurking in the trees!” you snap.

The woman lifts her chin, a subtle smirk tugging at her lips, as if she’s far too amused by you.

“Desperate times,” she says lightly. “And I told you… I’m Queen Natasha Romanov.” Slowly, she lowers her hood, revealing all of her fire-red hair, sharp cheekbones, and calm certainty. “I’m here to request a meeting with your king, who’s been avoiding me.”

The garden seems to be still around her. Even the guards hesitate.

Natasha raises a brow at you, awaiting your response, and your heart, traitorous thing that it is, skips. Twice.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You keep your eyes locked to the stone path ahead, refusing to so much as glance at the woman walking beside you. Somehow, after Jarvis confirmed her identity and the guards stepped down, the responsibility of escorting Queen Natasha Romanov to your brother fell on your shoulders.

Of course it did. Tony always had impeccable timing when it came to making your life difficult.

You inhale slowly. Then exhale sharply.

A queen. A whole actual queen. In your tree. And falling out of it.

What sort of queen climbs trees anyway?

You’re so deep in this very dignified mental rant that you don’t notice Natasha leaning forward sideways towards your face until the very last moment when your peripheral vision catches a blur of red hair. You jerk back so abruptly you nearly trip over your own feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” you squeak, raising a hand to cover your mouth. Only belatedly do you realize that you are shielding the very lips that almost collided with her face.

Her eyes sparkle mischievously as she takes in your flustered state. The corner of her mouth lifts in an unhurried, knowing smile.

“I was trying to see what had you so focused,” she says lightly, gaze sliding downward. “And I knew that looked familiar. You’re holding my mother’s book.”

You freeze, clutching the leather-bound volume tighter to your chest as if you might shield it from her sight.

“So?” you snap, lifting your chin in challenge.

Natasha’s gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, her smirk deepens as she studies you like something intriguing, like something she hadn’t expected to find in this kingdom but is thoroughly delighted to observe.

“I always wondered,” she muses, “why your brother insisted on acquiring copies of her works every time he visited Romanov lands. Now I understand who he was really bringing them home for.”

Heat floods your face. You glare because glaring is much safer than acknowledging the truth she’s just effortlessly exposed.

“Are you making fun of me?”

She blinks in honest surprise before laughing softly, the sound warm and low. 

“No. Actually, I think it’s…sweet. Very different from the impression I had of the Stark king.”

Your surprise and curiosity get the better of you. 

“And what impression was that?”

She lifts her hand and counts off on her fingers.

“Narcissistic. Egotistical. Reckless. Frustrating. Annoying.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it because she’s right. The sound escapes you in a small, unguarded bubble of amusement, and you immediately press your fingers over your lips to hide your smile.

But not before Natasha sees it.

Her expression softens subtly as though she’s pleased to have earned that reaction from you. For a heartbeat, her face is gentle in a way that feels vulnerable. Then she replaces it with another smirk, the mischievous teasing back in full force.

“Of course,” she adds airily, “with a little sister who blushes so easily from a simple gesture, it’s no wonder he spoils you.”

You gape at her, scandalized, eyes wide and cheeks burning hotter than fire as she turns to continue on the path. You grip your book, fully prepared to commit assault-by-literature and launch it at her knowing face.

But it’s plucked cleanly from your hands.

“My lady,” Jarvis says, voice impeccably stern as he holds the book high out of your reach until your hands drop back to your sides. He returns it only once you stop vibrating with indignation. “She is still the Queen of another kingdom here for diplomatic reasons. Please refrain from rash actions.”

You snatch the book back with a huff, primarily because Jarvis is right and secondarily because Natasha is watching you with the most insufferably pleased expression you’ve ever seen in your life.

She glances over her shoulder at you, eyebrow raised in silent provocation.

Are you going to keep up?

Your pride prickles. You close the distance immediately, matching her stride with determined purpose. But the moment she subtly leans forward again to catch your expression, you whip your head in the opposite direction with a sharp, indignant huff.

Her laugh is short, warm, and impossible to ignore. The sound follows the two of you down the corridor.

The carved double doors of the parlour finally come into view, gleaming beneath the afternoon light. You halt abruptly and jab a finger toward them, refusing to look directly at the woman beside you.

“He’s in there,” you announce crisply. You pivot on your heel and stride toward the adjoining corridor before Natasha can say anything else that might fluster you.

“Hey! Wait,” she calls, footsteps quick behind you. “Where are you going?”

You stop and turn just enough to raise an eyebrow. 

“Anywhere but here.”

For the first time since she fell out of your tree, an uncertain expression flickers across her face. She glances between you and the parlour door as though debating which direction is the correct choice.

You, however, don’t hesitate. If you stay anywhere near Tony and his “surprise,” you’ll be trapped in another painfully curated date before you can blink. You’re halfway down the hallway when—

“Hold on—”

“There you are!”

You close your eyes and sigh. Tony’s voice bounces down the corridor like the world’s most obnoxious herald.

You turn slowly, already bracing yourself, and spot him marching toward you with a look of theatrical disappointment etched across his face. But what catches your attention first is that Natasha is not by the parlour doors anymore.

Instead, she’s only a few steps behind you, as if she chose to follow you.

Tony points a finger at you, shaking his head. 

“Unbelievable. And here I was preparing a surprise for you.”

“You can keep it for yourself,” you deadpan, arms crossing.

He opens his mouth to retort, but then notices Natasha. He gestures toward her without even looking.

“And who is this?”

The shift in Natasha is immediate and striking. The teasing glimmer fades, replaced by sharp composure, the kind only someone trained to wear a crown could muster. She steps forward, shoulders straight, chin high.

“Queen Natasha of the Romanov Kingdom,” she says. “I have been requesting an audience with you for weeks to finalize the trade negotiations between our kingdoms.”

Tony squints, tapping his chin as if trying to recall what a ‘trade negotiation’ even is. Then, predictably, he turns to Jarvis.

“Jarvis, I believe I’m fully booked for the rest of the day, aren’t I?”

Jarvis exhales through his nose, the refined equivalent of a frustrated sigh from one who knows what sort of response that he’s expecting. 

“It would seem so, Your Majesty.”

Tony claps once, satisfied. 

“There we have it. So, perhaps another time, Your Grace.”

He waves her off like a bothersome merchant. Meanwhile, Jarvis immediately steps forward, bowing apologetically yet ushering her away with a diplomat’s trained subtlety.

Natasha stiffens, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The tension radiates off her filled with anger, humiliation, and the weary frustration of a queen who crossed borders only to be dismissed like an errand girl.

Your chest tightens with sympathy, figuring she’s only trying to accomplish her duties. Before you can dwell on it, he rounds on you.

“And you,” he huffs. “Judging by your attitude, I take it Jarvis spoiled the surprise. Fine. No build-up. But you’ll like this one, I swear.”

You drag a hand down your face. He has said that exact line every single time. And every single time, the suitor has been worse. This will probably never end unless—

A thought sparks in your mind.

“I can’t,” you blurt, brushing past him before you can talk yourself out of it. You stride straight to Natasha, slip your arm through hers, and tug her close. “Because I already have someone.”

Natasha freezes for half a second, then looks at you with raised brows, puzzled but not displeased at the thought of being yours. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she shifts closer, body angled toward yours.

Tony’s jaw drops. “But she’s—”

“A queen,” you interrupt, letting smugness drip from every syllable. “I highly doubt whichever lord you dug up could possibly compete with that.”

Tony narrows his eyes in suspicion. 

“You’re lying. When would you two even meet?”

You don’t blink. 

“In town. While you were ignoring her requests for meetings.”

You lean your head against Natasha’s shoulder, hand resting lightly atop her arm.

Natasha glances down at you, and something warm flashes in her eyes. To your surprise, she slides her arm from yours only to wrap it around your waist, pulling you flush against her side.

Your heart slams itself against your ribs in betrayal.

She faces Tony with regal composure. 

“She was reading my mother’s book when we met,” she says. “And after our first encounter, I wanted to know her better.”

It’s stunning how smoothly she lies while also speaking the truth.

Tony opens his mouth, then stops. You can see the moment he realizes he may have inadvertently orchestrated this entire situation by constantly ignoring the Romanov’s request to meet.

He shakes his head violently. 

“No. No, absolutely not. I don’t buy it. You’re bluffing.”

Your patience snaps, frustrated at how long he wants to prolong this discussion, just to catch you in your lie.

“If we were faking it,” you say sharply, “would I do this?”

Before anyone can think, you turn, cup the back of Natasha’s neck, and pull her toward you.

Your lips meet hers.

It’s meant to be quick—a simple demonstration. But the moment you touch, Natasha exhales, soft and startled, and her hand tightens at your waist. Suddenly, she leans in, returning the kiss with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. You feel heat bloom across your skin as her lips press more firmly to yours, warm and sure and—

You pull back in a rush, breath unsteady, face inches from hers. The world feels strangely quiet. Too quiet.

Natasha’s eyes flutter open, pupils wide, her expression dazed…and something else. Something that makes your pulse stutter.

“Jarvis! Do something!” Tony’s voice cracks like a whip through the charged air.

You step back, clearing your throat violently, forcing your composure to materialize from thin air. You turn to Tony with an arched brow.

“Well. Since you don’t have time for her,” you say coolly, “I suppose I’ll just have her to myself.”

And before he can regain his voice, you seize Natasha’s hand and march down the corridor.

She follows without resistance. Without a word. But when you risk a quick glance over your shoulder, you catch it.

A soft flush dusts her cheeks. Her eyes dart away the second you meet them.

A slow, triumphant smile curves your lips.

Serves her right, you think, savoring it. It seems the Romanov queen can be flustered too.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You close your bedroom door with a gentle thud, the sound muffled by the heavy velvet drapes lining your walls. You remain facing it for a moment, hand still on the handle, breath caught in your throat.

You can’t believe you brought her here. The Romanov queen. The woman you just kissed. Into your private space.

Gods, what were you thinking?

You close your eyes, inhale deeply, and school your expression before turning around to face the consequences of your impulsiveness.

Only to find Natasha already wandering your room.

She stands before your bookshelf, fingertips gliding across the spines of your neatly arranged collection, her curiosity unrestrained and entirely regal at once. The soft rustle of her cloak as she shifts to pull a volume from the shelf snaps you out of your daze.

You lunge forward, placing your hand over hers before she can tug the book out.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you demand, far too quickly, far too defensively.

Natasha blinks, then lifts an eyebrow. She says nothing. Instead, she glances meaningfully down at where your hand covers hers.

Heat floods your face. You snatch your hand away as if burned and hastily slide the book back into place.

Natasha lets out a single soft breath, a half laugh, as she gestures around your shelves.

“You and my mother would get along well,” she muses, “judging by all these books you have.” Her gaze flicks to you, lips curling mischievously. “Probably not as close as how you treat me, though.”

Your cheeks flare instantly. Of course, she brings that up.

You bite down a retort, inhale deeply, and force yourself to meet her eyes.

“I apologize,” you say stiffly. “For kissing you so suddenly.”

Natasha tilts her head, considering you as though the apology is unexpected or not where she planned this conversation to go at all. 

Not wanting her to have a chance to fluster you again, you take a step into her space, boldly or foolishly, you aren’t sure, and her eyes widen ever so slightly.

“However,” you challenge, “why did you kiss me back?”

Her lips quirk upward. 

“You mean: why did I play along with your lie, so you wouldn’t have to endure another suitor?”

You nod, feeling absurdly anxious for her answer.

Natasha shrugs, utterly unapologetic. 

“Your brother’s been wasting my time for weeks. Bothering him a little felt…deserved.”

The reason makes you laugh softly in surprise despite yourself, and Natasha smiles in return. The atmosphere in the room eases instantly, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.

Until you accidentally glance down at her lips. Just a flicker. Barely a second. But enough that your pulse stutters at the memory of her touch.

You immediately clear your throat and turn to the shelves, pretending to tidy a book that was perfectly aligned already.

“Well,” you say tightly, “I wouldn’t worry too much. Tony will probably rush to meet with you before the day ends just to remove you from my vicinity.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, leaning her shoulder against the bookcase. Her eyes track you lazily, amusement softening her features.

“Was that your plan all along?” she asks.

“Yes,” you answer. “A mutually beneficial solution.”

“I’m impressed,” she admits. Then she tilts her head to catch your gaze before you can dart away again. “But am I really that bad of an option to be with?”

Your heart nearly stops. The immediate, instinctive answer—No, you’re not—rises too quickly. You swallow it down, refusing to let it escape.

“I didn’t say that,” you mutter instead.

Her eyes brighten. A small smile tugs at her lips, one softer than any she’s shown so far.

Silence settles between you. And yet the room doesn’t feel empty. Her presence fills the space in a way you can’t exactly define. Warm, magnetic, and quietly disarming all at once.

A knock breaks the peace.

“My lady,” Jarvis calls, voice muffled through the door. “The king requests the Romanov queen’s presence to complete the trade negotiations.”

You give Natasha a pointed look. Told you.

Opening the door, you catch Jarvis’s eye and ask, “The truth, Jarvis.”

A faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth before he relents. 

“His Majesty does not wish the two of you to spend too much time alone in your bedchamber.” He bows politely to Natasha. “No offense, Your Majesty.”

“None taken,” Natasha replies easily. “I should go and finish this. I was meant to head back home days ago.”

You frown at the reminder of how long Tony’s negligence delayed her work.

“I’m sorry again for my brother,” you say.

She shakes her head and waves off your apology. 

“I should thank you. Without your help, I doubt I’d have secured a meeting at all.”

You scoff lightly. The woman overcame the castle’s security measures and climbed a tree just for the chance to complete her duties.

“Somehow, I doubt you’re incapable of achieving anything you want,” you tell her sincerely.

Natasha blinks, momentarily surprised at the trust in your words, before a grin spreads across her face, warm and genuine. You find yourself smiling back.

Jarvis politely clears his throat, and the spell breaks.

“Shall we go, Your Majesty?”

“Right.” Natasha takes a step forward but stops at your doorframe. Turning, she reaches into her cloak.

You freeze as her hand lifts toward your face. Gently, carefully, she tucks something into your hair.

“A little farewell gift,” she murmurs.

When she steps back, you brush your fingers through your hair and feel a soft petal. You turn to the vanity. The flower from the tree, scarlet, bright, and unmistakable, rests just above your ear.

A laugh slips from you. 

“Now I wonder if you fell because of me…or because you were reaching for these flowers.”

Natasha’s expression softens into something tender. Something dangerously close to affection.

“Whichever reason,” she says quietly, “it was worth it.”

Your heart lurches. You open your mouth—maybe to ask her to stay for dinner, maybe to say something you’ll regret not telling her—but remember she must leave soon. So instead, you nod toward Jarvis. 

“Take care of her. And try to keep Tony from tormenting her too much.”

Jarvis inclines his head. “Of course, my lady.”

Natasha steps out into the hall after Jarvis, but pauses with one hand resting lightly on your doorframe. She glances back at you, eyes warm.

“I noticed you don’t have any of my mother’s newer works,” she says. “When I return home, I’ll have fresh copies made and bring them with me the next time I visit.”

Your breath catches. Next time. She’s promising to meet with you next time. Not for diplomacy. Not out of royal obligations. But just to spend some time with you.

The realization sparks a quiet flutter in your chest, one you can’t quite hide. You manage a steady nod.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Her smile blooms instantly, unguarded and radiant. She lingers there for a heartbeat longer, as if reluctant to leave, before finally turning to go.

You lean against the doorway, watching her retreat down the corridor until she disappears from sight. Only then do you pluck the flower from your hair and turn it slowly between your fingers. 

It had all begun with a single drifting petal, a simple brush of red against your palm. And somehow, you can’t help feeling that moment is what led Natasha Romanov into your world.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading!

This was finished long ago, and I decided to just post it now for some happiness in the midst of all the angst right now in the main story.

Your elbow snaps backward on instinct, catching him cleanly in the ribs. He emits a small, offended grunt.

You angle him an innocent look over your shoulder. 

“Oops.”

He narrows his eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

“You were hovering.”

“I was not ‘hovering.’ I was supervising.”

“Tony, I got it,” you say firmly, pushing him backward with your hip when he leans too close again. “Go…loom somewhere else.”

“Excuse you,” he huffs, drawing himself up with wounded dignity. “I’m still a king. People don’t tell the king to go ‘loom’ elsewhere.”

“How could I possibly forget?” you shoot back without missing a beat. “You bring it up every time you want things done your way.”

He points at you as though you’ve just proven his point. 

“Exactly. It’s practically one of the perks of being royalty. This sort of behavior is expected.”

“Right, right,” you mutter, pulling the crucible from the flame. The metal glows a molten orange. Heat sears through the tongs. “Because every royal is like you.”

“Well, not every royal,” he declares proudly. “Most aren’t nearly this charming.”

You roll your eyes, and the following words slip out without thinking.

“Natasha isn’t like that.”

A sharp silence cuts the space of the tent in half.

You blink, realizing too late what you’ve said. When you look up, Tony is already staring at you, head tilted, chin resting on his fist, expression softening in a way that feels dangerously close to pity.

Your stomach tightens. “What?”

“Why,” he begins slowly, “do you keep defending the woman who replaced you?”

The words hit more deeply than you want to admit. You force yourself not to flinch. Instead, you turn your attention to the molten mixture and pour it carefully into the carved mold. The liquid hisses as it settles, glowing and alive.

“She didn’t—look, that’s not—” you breathe out sharply. “Despite how it may seem, you and Natasha do have other things in common, that’s all I’m saying.”

Tony snorts loudly. “You’re deflecting.”

You set the tongs down with a little more force than necessary, then place both palms flat against the worktable and lean forward, meeting his stare head-on.

“No, I’m just telling you the truth. Natasha isn’t looking for trouble,” you say, voice surprisingly steady. “So if you could just go easy on her when you meet. She doesn’t need more tension in her reign right now.”

Tony studies you, gaze unreadable for a long moment. Then unexpectedly, he shrugs. 

“Fine.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

“Fine? Just like that?”

“What? I’m not looking for trouble either.” He waves a hand dismissively before turning away. “I just need one thing from her, and after that, I’ll be on my way. You and the Romanov queen will never have to see me again.”

Your chest tightens at the thought, a slight, unwelcome pang of disappointment settling beneath your ribs. You’ve gotten used to him—his sharpness, his intellect, his constant banter that almost feels familial. And he has no idea why it feels that way to you.

Tony doesn’t notice your expression. 

“Anyway,” he continues, brushing soot from his sleeves. “Mold needs time to cool. I’m gonna work on something else before we do the final casting.”

He makes it a few steps toward the tent flap before pausing. Half-turning, he looks back at you with a strangely solemn expression.

“By the way—word of advice.”

You raise a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably.” He crosses his arms. “Your queen’s engagement party is later today, yeah?”

Your heart stutters at the reminder. “…Yeah.”

He nods, lips pressing into a thin line. “Don’t go.”

That catches you off guard. 

“What? Why not?”

“Because,” he says with a shrug that tries too hard to be casual, “take it from someone who’s made the mistake of falling for his closest friend too—save yourself the heartbreak. Let her go.”

A startled breath escapes you.

He gives you one last look, one that almost feels like he understands far too much, before turning fully and leaving the makeshift workshop.

Your gaze stays fixed on the cooling mold, the metal inside beginning to dull from molten orange to muted red. The workshop is quiet after Tony’s parting words. His voice echoes in your head.

You swallow hard, fingers curling against the table’s edge. You don’t want to admit how tempting his words are.

Not about letting Natasha go, but to ‘save yourself the heartbreak’ of having to attend the engagement party of the woman you love. You are surprised at how observant the Stark king is about the current situations in this kingdom, considering how much he seems to be so full of himself.

The tent flap rustles.

“He cares.”

Your head jolts up as Jarvis steps in, letting a soft wave of cool air sweep through the space. He regards you with that calm, unreadable composure that always makes you feel simultaneously seen and dissected.

“Despite how he acts at times,” he continues, as if picking up a conversation you didn’t know you were part of, “he does care. You know, he was the first to hold you when you were born.”

Your stare sharpens into a glare. The sting of everything—Tony’s words, your secret, the constant fear of discovery—flashes to the surface.

“You had no right to go into my mind like that.”

Jarvis inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the accusation of your first meeting with him. Yet, there is not a shred of remorse on his face.

“My duty is to identify potential threats to the royal family,” he replies, each word precise and clinical. “I failed your parents the last time we came to the Romanov Kingdom. I trusted people I should not have. I will not make that mistake again—with their son…or their daughter.”

Your jaw tightens. The mention of your identity strikes a nerve, one you’ve been avoiding for a while now.

“So why haven’t you told him yet?” you manage through clenched teeth.

Jarvis studies you with an unsettling patience.

“Because I am still evaluating whether you are a threat,” he answers plainly.

A disbelieving laugh slips out of you, brittle and exhausted. 

“Of course you are. You and everyone else. Councils, advisors, half the damn kingdom. Everyone loves deciding whether or not I’m dangerous.”

“If you’re not,” Jarvis says carefully, “then I must insist that you return to Stark with us once everything is concluded here.”

Your frustration snaps at yet another person trying to tell you what to do.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say sharply, stepping past him.

“You are the Princess of Stark,” he calls after you.

You don’t stop walking. You don’t even look back.

“Your brother was devastated when he believed he lost his entire family,” he continues, and this time you falter mid-step.

Your breath catches as you stop, thinking about how the man who seems to be so full of himself may also be hiding a pain underneath.

“Tony has always believed it was his fault for not being there,” Jarvis goes on, voice softening just slightly. “He carries guilt that has shaped every choice he has made since. You are his only remaining family. Would you truly abandon him to that belief?”

You stand frozen, staring at the ground as your heartbeat thuds painfully in your ears. The weight of his words presses down on you in ways you’re not prepared to confront.

Before you can form a response, a sharp voice slices through the area.

“What…the hell?”

You spin around in panic.

Pietro stands a few paces away, shoulders tense, eyes blazing with confusion and betrayal. Wanda stands beside him, equally stunned, her hands curled uncertainly at her stomach.

You have no idea how long they’ve been there. But judging by their reaction, it was long enough.

“You’re…” Pietro points at you, words failing him as hurt and disbelief twist across his face. His gaze drifts between you and Jarvis as if he doesn’t know where to direct his anger. Then his eyes widen as if piecing together something. “That means Tony’s—”

He cuts himself off with a rough sound and turns away abruptly, storming out.

“Pietro, wait!” you call, stepping forward, but he’s already gone in a blur, too fast to chase, too quick to explain.

You turn toward Wanda.

“Wanda…” you start, voice trembling with something dangerously close to pleading. You take a step toward her.

She steps back.

The movement is instinctive. Reflexive. And it hits you harder than anything else today.

Her eyes widen, horrified at herself for the reaction. Her lips part as if to apologize, but no words come. She looks torn, a mix of hurt, confusion, and a desire to stay, but is unable to move against that instinctive recoil.

You breathe out shakily, forcing your own feelings into a tight, quiet place. You give her a slight nod in understanding. 

It’s okay. You didn’t mean to.

Her throat bobs as she swallows, your thoughts loud enough that you’re sure she heard them. 

You give a small tilt of your head in the direction Pietro left. 

With one last hesitant look at you, she turns and hurries after her brother, leaving you alone.

Silence swells between you and Jarvis.

“My apologies, I—” he begins.

“Don’t.” Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. You shut your eyes, pushing down the ache burning through your chest. “Just… don’t.”

You don’t wait for his response.

You turn away, walking away from the tent, away from Jarvis, away from titles, away from the hurt in Wanda’s eyes and the anger in Pietro’s.

Away from everything you never asked for but can no longer outrun.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha waves away another attendant who eagerly thrusts a parchment in her face, asking for her opinion on seating arrangements—again. She doesn’t even bother disguising her irritation as the flustered attendant bows and scurries off.

She exhales sharply. This party. This ridiculous engagement party.

A celebration she never asked for, never wanted, and had no intention of encouraging. If she had her way, she would gather the entire event staff and direct them straight to Councillor Ross, who was the genius behind this spectacle. He insisted a public engagement celebration would strengthen their diplomatic ties with the Carter Kingdom.

Natasha suspected it was more for show than strategy, and it grated on her nerves.

She skirts along the outer edge of the field, careful to avoid the clusters of people working feverishly to bring Ross’s vision to life. She doesn’t want to answer one more question about color palettes, menu options, or which noble families get priority seating. For a moment, she genuinely considers hiding in a storage room until the last possible second she’s required to appear.

That’s when another figure steps smoothly into sync beside her, matching her stride without drawing attention.

She doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t need her to.

“Our second messenger was found dead,” Steve murmurs, voice steady despite the weight of the revelation. “Didn’t even make it to the outer walls.”

Natasha’s steps slow. The words hit like a cold blade in the ribs.

“They were intercepted,” she says quietly. She doesn’t ask for confirmation. She already knows what this means. 

“Someone doesn’t want the Carters receiving your message.”

Natasha presses her thumb hard against her palm, thinking. If her attempts to end the engagement keep getting intercepted, then nothing is going to change. Things will just continue as expected, with her stuck in this contract until she’s forced to follow through with the marriage.

She shakes the thought aside. She’s not going to let that happen. However, now she needs a new strategy. Her people are being watched, so she’ll need to find someone else. Someone she can trust. Someone, others wouldn’t think is affiliated with her.

“Hands off!”

A shout cracks across the courtyard. Instantly alert, Natasha and Steve exchange a look before heading toward the commotion.

Near the front of the castle, a few Carter soldiers are attempting poorly to restrain a blur of limbs. Pietro darts between their grasps with effortless agility, leaving the soldiers colliding with each other in slapstick incompetence.

Natasha stops short in surprise at the twin’s presence. Her eyes immediately sweep the area for you, but there’s no trace of you nearby, only the continued flustered shouting of the guards.

“That’s enough!” Natasha commands.

Most of the soldiers freeze at the sound of her voice. One, however, either doesn’t hear her or is too stubborn for his own good. He lunges at Pietro again.

Pietro dodges easily, only to back straight into Steve’s chest. Steve steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Enough, I’ll handle this,” Steve says firmly. “Return to your posts.”

The soldiers pause before scattering in embarrassment.

The moment they’re out of sight, Natasha steps forward, her composure slipping just slightly beneath her eagerness.

“Is Y/n with you?”

For a moment, Pietro’s face softens with something painful, then shutters quickly.

“No. I came alone.” He jerks a thumb in the direction the guards fled. “But they acted as if they’d never seen me here before. I’ve been to the castle with her plenty of times.”

“Those are Carter soldiers,” Steve explains. “They wouldn’t know who you are.”

Natasha pauses at Steve’s words, a thought forming in her mind.

“You’re right,” she murmurs. “To most people, Pietro is just another person in the kingdom.”

Steve turns to her, catching the spark of an idea in her eyes. Realization dawns on him.

“I mean, with Y/n and Wanda drawing most of the attention, he’s practically overlooked most of the time,” Steve adds in agreement.

Pietro looks between them, frowning. 

“I’m starting to feel deeply offended.”

“No offense intended,” Natasha says, already thinking several steps ahead. “It simply may be an advantage that you’re unknown to many.”

“Still offended,” he mutters.

Steve squints at him, realizing something else. 

“Why are you here anyway?” he asks.

Natasha also turns, curious.

Pietro straightens as if remembering his reason for coming to the castle. 

“The Stark King. He’s here.”

“We know. His encampment is outside the kingdom,” Natasha cuts in, looking at Steve for confirmation. The captain gives her a nod in response.

“No,” Pietro insists, shaking his head. “He’s staying—” His next words falter as he hesitates. The sudden guilt on his face is unmistakable, though Natasha has no context for it. Then his expression falls as he sighs. 

“Never mind,” he mutters instead.

Her eyes narrow with suspicion, but Pietro quickly exhales, raking a hand through his hair.

“What do you need?” he asks, redirecting the conversation back to her previous request.

Natasha focuses immediately.

“I need someone to deliver a message to the Carter Kingdom,” she explains. “Someone who won’t draw attention.”

Pietro takes a slow breath, processing her request.

“This is about your engagement, isn’t it?” he guesses.

Natasha nods in response.

He considers her for a long moment, his gaze distant, before he looks back with quiet intensity.

“Do you still love Y/n?”

Natasha’s posture straightens instinctively, almost defensively. 

“Yes. Of course.”

Pietro nods once, as if that confirmation is all he needs. 

“Then I’ll help.”

Relief washes through her, though she keeps it hidden behind a measured expression.

“Thank you, Pietro.”

“I’m doing it for Y/n,” he clarifies immediately. Then quieter, “And…I need an excuse to get away for a bit.”

Natasha studies him but doesn’t press. The twins are difficult to read, and they don’t confide in her. She knows better than to ask.

Steve claps his hands together. 

“Alright. Time for theatrics.” He places a firm hand on Pietro’s shoulder again. “Pretend I’m hauling you away.”

Pietro grins mischievously and immediately launches into a loud, dramatic protest, accusing Steve of tyranny, injustice, and personal vendettas, as Steve drags him off. The nearby guards barely glance their way.

Natasha allows herself a small, amused exhale at the absurdity of their dynamic before she turns to head back toward the castle.

She makes it no more than a few steps before two attendants hurry toward her, each carrying massive bundles of flowers.

“Your Majesty, which arrangement should we use for the engagement party? The ivory roses or the yellow lilies—”

Natasha’s eye twitches. She opens her mouth, fully prepared to tell them she doesn’t care about which flowers would be at the party.

“I’d choose the yellow lilies.”

Her head snaps around at the familiar voice in surprise.

Carol Danvers stands casually against a nearby stone wall, arms crossed, expression deceptively relaxed. But Natasha can read the tension in her eyes, sharp and assessing.

Carol pushes off the wall and strolls closer.

“They’re one of Y/n’s favorites,” she says conversationally, then fixes Natasha with a direct, unimpressed stare. “Not that it matters. You’re not marrying her.”

A flicker of heat curls in Natasha’s chest, a mix of irritation, defensiveness, and guilt at her comment. But she doesn’t lose her composure as she faces the Mar-vel princess. She lifts her chin. 

“Y/n’s favorite is red roses.”

Carol smirks, shaking her head and giving her a slight shrug. 

“She might change her mind. Since, apparently, things really do change quickly around here.”

Natasha’s expression doesn’t budge, though her jaw tightens.

The attendants, sensing the tension and danger, quietly slip away.

Natasha crosses her arms, matching Carol’s stance. 

“You returned sooner than expected. How come you’re back already?”

Carol’s eyes widen briefly in surprise before she chuckles dryly. 

“Wow, things really have changed.” She tilts her head. “Y/n didn’t tell you?”

Natasha’s brows knit in confusion. 

“Tell me what?”

Carol steps past her, pausing just long enough to speak low enough for only Natasha to hear.

“She asked me to come back.”

Natasha freezes. The words land like a crack in glass—subtle, sharp, spreading quickly against her once sturdy composure.

Carol gives her shoulder a light, almost pitying pat before walking away.

Natasha stands rooted in place, pulse quickening as her thoughts spiral.

You called Carol back? Why? Was it because you didn’t trust her? Didn’t believe she could handle things? Or…was there something else you needed that she couldn’t provide in her current position?

For the first time in a while, Natasha feels something she hates: uncertainty. And under that uncertainty, fear that she is losing something she was fighting desperately to keep.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

As much as you hate to admit it, Tony may have been right. Coming to this engagement party was a mistake. A beautifully decorated, painfully public mistake.

The moment you stepped into the castle grounds, the realization slammed into you. Everything about the space—the garlands, the lanterns, the elegant tables arranged for celebration—reminds you of one thing.

This engagement is real. Natasha’s engagement is real. And you have no place in it.

You told yourself you could handle being here, that you were strong enough to show up despite everything falling apart around you.

But Wanda didn’t come to help you prepare like she always does. Pietro practically disappeared into the air since earlier. And every noble passing by gives you either a pitying glance or whispers behind a politely raised hand.

You thought you were used to those looks. Tonight, they just feel even more suffocating.

The tightness in your chest, the one you’ve been pushing down since the confrontation with the twins, only coils deeper, like a fist slowly closing around your lungs.

You find yourself drifting toward the farthest edge of the courtyard, where torchlight barely reaches, and the music fades into a distant hum. A shadowed alcove, blessedly empty.

You brace a hand against the stone wall, staring at a random point on the ground as you try to breathe. 

In… out… slow… Don’t spiral. Not here.

The ache climbs up your throat, threatening to choke you, but you swallow it back. Your other hand presses firmly to your chest, grounding yourself as you try to ease the tightening there.

Just a moment. Just enough to—

A glass cup suddenly enters your field of vision.

You flinch before your gaze snaps upward.

The Carter commander stands there with a polished expression, his eyes unreadable but unsettling in their calm. He smiles pleasantly, offering the drink to you without stepping too close.

“Lady Y/n,” he greets. “You’d enjoy yourself more joining the festivities rather than standing off to the side alone.”

You accept the cup out of politeness, but your fingers only curl around the cool glass. You don’t drink.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, “but I think I’ll stay here for a bit. I doubt anyone wants my presence right now, considering everything.”

He tilts his head, regarding you with a thoughtful stillness.

“People often disappoint,” Ultron muses, almost idly. “Unable to differentiate between petty matters and the greater reality of someone’s importance in the grand scheme of things.”

The way he says it makes a chill crawl along your spine. His words feel…wrong. Too sharp beneath the softness.

You force a noncommittal response. “I suppose so.”

Ultron chuckles low, a hollow and humorless sound. 

“It makes one wonder,” he continues lightly, “how peace could ever be achieved when such small-minded individuals are allowed to flourish. Some simply need guidance.”

His eyes glint faintly as he adds, “Others…need to disappear entirely. Don’t you agree?”

Your heart stutters. What kind of question is that?

Before you can respond—not that you know how—he gestures subtly to the drink in your hand.

“You haven’t taken a sip. Do you not like it?”

Your fingers stiffen around the glass. You hesitate. Something in your mind is telling you not to trust him, not to trust the strange tension radiating off him.

“Y/n.”

Both you and Ultron turn as Melina strides toward you. She places a gentle hand on your arm in greeting, nodding at Ultron with a cordial but dismissive expression.

“Commander,” she says politely. Then, to you, “May I borrow you for a moment?”

Ultron inclines his head.

“Until next time, Lady Y/n.”

He steps away and vanishes into the crowd with unnerving ease.

You exhale, a quiet, shaky relief washing through you.

Melina’s sharp gaze softens. 

“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” she begins, “but Natasha still needs to make an appearance tonight. And knowing her, she’ll avoid it until forced out of hiding.”

You close your eyes briefly, pressing your thumb along your sternum to ease the tightening there. The last thing you want is to confront Natasha feeling like this—hollow, frayed, uncertain—but Melina’s request isn’t unfair.

And Natasha…

Truthfully, you came here partly because you hoped seeing her would steady something in you.

“I’ll find her,” you say quietly. Even though your voice is steady, it feels like a fragile thing.

Melina gives you a grateful nod and squeezes your shoulder before leaving you to your task.

You take one last breath to steady yourself. Then you set the untouched drink aside and step back into the fray, looking for the one person who might save you from drowning in this moment.

Your search leads you toward the castle gardens, your feet moving on instinct rather than thought. You know this path too well. Every turn, every stone, every bloom feels etched into your memory.

This is where you and Natasha decided on the fake stories about how the two of you “fell in love” for the sake of political theatrics, and then, after that, real stories, real feelings began to weave between the lies.

You slow near a familiar rose bush—the one she’d pick and offer with a smile she only wore for you. Your fingers brush one of the blossoms, craving that familiarity and comfort.

A sudden, sharp sting bites your fingertip.

You jerk back with a quiet hiss, staring at the bead of blood welling on your skin before examining the flowers more closely and spotting the thorns along the stem.

Strange. There weren’t any thorns on the one she gifted you. Unless she had made sure of it…that nothing sharp would ever touch you if she could prevent it.

Your chest tightens at the thought.

“That’s too—” 

Natasha’s voice echoes nearby, soft and frustrated, carried by the wind.

Your heart stutters, and you follow the sound before you can stop yourself.

The gardens twist and wind like a maze, but you navigate it easily, drawn by her voice. As you get closer, you catch fragmented words carried through the leaves.

“We don’t have to…”

Then the sound of someone else speaking. A woman’s voice, which you recognize as Sharon’s.

Your steps slow, as your pulse quickens. Before you can stop yourself, you round the corner.

And the world lurches to a halt.

Sharon’s hands cradle Natasha’s face.

And Natasha...

Natasha’s lips are pressed to hers.

Your breath is knocked clean from your lungs. The air feels too thin, too far away, your knees too unsteady to hold you.

Natasha pulls away first. She shoves Sharon’s wrists down, her eyes wide, voice breaking.

“What are you—what do you think you’re doing?”

But you don’t hear the rest.

All you can see is the kiss.  All you can feel is the sudden, crushing collapse in your chest—the coil of pain twisting violently, suffocating.

Your foot shifts back. Pebbles crunch beneath your step.

Natasha’s head snaps toward you at the sound. Her expression fractures with a mix of shock, terror, and something else you don’t want to interpret because everything already hurts too much.

You try to swallow, but your throat feels scraped raw. 

“S-sorry,” you whisper, voice barely audible. You force the words out through the tightness strangling you, your mind scrambling, desperate to latch onto anything normal. “Your…your mother is looking for you. She said you needed to…to show up.”

Your eyes dip involuntarily to Natasha’s hand still wrapped around Sharon’s wrist. The sight burns into your mind. Seals itself there. Refusing to go away.

You stumble back another step.

Natasha sees your recoil, the hurt in your eyes, the way your breath trembles, and her face goes pale.

“Y/n—wait. It’s not what you think. Please just—just let me explain—”

She steps toward you.

Without thinking, you step back again.

The look in her eyes when you do. It destroys something inside you.

“I… I’m sorry,” you manage, though you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for anymore. Existing? Loving her? Not being enough for her to choose you?

Your chest constricts sharply. Your breath stutters. The edges of your vision blur.

Not here. Not in front of her. Not like this.

You turn. And run.

Natasha calls your name, but her voice warps, muffled behind the ringing in your ears. The garden bends around you, twisting, hostile, and endless. Each corner blurs with your tears, each breath feels thinner than the last.

By the time you break out into open air, your vision is swimming. You barely register the cold night breeze before you slam into someone.

Strong hands catch you before you fall.

You blink hard, tears streaking your cheeks.

Carol smiles at you, warm and familiar, until she realizes you’re crying. Her expression shifts instantly.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” she says gently. “What happened?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The pain has risen too sharply after being coiled so tightly in your chest. A sound escapes you instead—small, broken, a choked sob.

And then you’re moving without thinking. Your forehead presses into her shoulder.  Hands grasping at her clothes as though she’s the only solid thing left.

Carol’s arms wrap around you immediately, protectively. One hand settles at the back of your head; the other rubs soothing circles along your spine.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers. “You’re okay. Just breathe. I’m right here.”

Your body shakes with silent sobs, each one tearing through the dam you’d fought so hard to keep steady. Carol keeps holding you, her embrace warm, steady, and grounding in a way that contrasts sharply with Natasha’s.

Not better. Not worse. Just…different.

Different enough to let you breathe again. If only a little. If only for a moment.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19

a/n: thank you for reading!

If you asked to be tagged and I missed it, please let me know again.

You look away, lips pressed in a thin line.

It shouldn’t matter. You know what Natasha is trying to do—how hard she’s working behind the scenes to break off this engagement. You believe her. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to watch. 

Especially not when Sharon matches Natasha move for move in sparring, speaks to her like the equal she is, and smiles like she’s already claimed a piece of something that isn’t hers to have.

You sigh and turn from the window, meaning to return to your path to Melina’s lab. 

But movement catches your attention. Something shifts behind the large banner hung on the far wall. With a quick rustle, the tapestry lifts, and two familiar cloaked figures step out from the concealed passageway behind it.

“Sneaking out?” you say dryly, arms crossing.

Yelena and Kate both freeze mid-step like children caught red-handed. But Yelena relaxes the moment she sees it’s you. A grin spreads across her face as she bounds over and clasps your hand in both of hers.

“You’ll cover for me if my mom asks, right?” she asks sweetly, batting her lashes. 

You let out a breath through your nose and shake your head. 

“I always have, haven’t I? What makes you think this time would be any different?” 

Yelena hesitates, her hands slowly slipping from yours. An uncertainty and a flicker of guilt shift in her expression. Her gaze wanders past you, drawn to the outside of the same window you were watching. You turn your head, following her line of sight. 

Natasha is still standing with Sharon. Still talking about something with the other woman. The pressure in your chest grows heavier. 

“She only agreed to the engagement because of me,” Yelena says quietly, pulling your attention back to her. “So… don’t be angry with her, okay?” 

Your expression softens at her concern. 

“I’m not mad.” 

You give a half-hearted wave, trying to dispel the tension in her eyes. 

“Things happen that are out of our control,” you add, though the words sting as you say them. Reminding you how much of your life has been dictated by things outside your hands. 

You force a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“Natasha and I… we’re okay.”

You reach out and gently pat Yelena’s shoulder. 

“She’s doing everything she can to fix this. That’s just who she is—Natasha will always protect the people she loves. And that includes you.” 

It’s one of the things you’ve always known and love about her. And you see it every time. The way Natasha’s protectiveness wraps around Yelena like armor. Similar to the way Wanda hovers protectively near Pietro like a storm, fierce and ever-present. 

And you? 

You’ve spent a lot of your life without a relationship like theirs. Not with your ‘father,’ who only ever saw you as something to control. Not Madam B, whose mentorship felt more like discipline than guidance. You’ve grown used to the idea of solitude in a family. 

But now, with the faintest hint of a chance to forge something with your only remaining blood relative, you can’t help but ache for something like what they share. 

“Having family that actually cares,” you say softly, the words slipping out unguarded, “it’s…a rare and beautiful thing.” 

Silence follows. 

You blink, realizing what you’ve just said aloud. Your hands lift in a quick wave of reassurance. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like—” 

But Kate is already stepping forward, grabbing your hand and squeezing it between hers, expression unusually serious. 

“Forget siblings,” she says, lifting her chin with faux confidence. “We, only children, can just stick together.” 

“Hey!” Yelena snaps, half-offended, placing her hands on her hips.  

You can’t help it—you laugh, and it feels good. Genuine. Especially with everything. The tension in your chest eases just a little. 

“Thank you, Kate,” you say, giving her hand a quick squeeze in return before letting go. “How’s everything going for you lately? You finally settling in with the council?” 

Kate makes a face and rubs the back of her neck. 

“Kind of. It’s a lot less tense now that the engagement was announced. Which is dumb, because they were pretty much against everything Natasha said before. Now they’re acting like they’ve always been on her side.” 

You give her a knowing look, then nod, your smile dimming. Of course they’re appeased. In their eyes, a strategic engagement with a princess from another kingdom is better than anything you could offer. 

Kate must’ve seen the flicker of sadness cross your face, because she quickly adds, “But, you know, give them some time and they’ll find something else to complain about.” 

You force a tight-lipped smile. “Right.”

Before they can attempt to say anything else, you exhale and gesture down the hall behind them. 

“You two should go before someone sees and reports you to your mom.”

They exchange glances, hesitating, until you give them a reassuring nod. 

“Go. And don’t worry about Natasha and me. We’ll figure it out.” 

You reach out and ruffle Yelena’s head softly—just the way Natasha does sometimes, affection buried under tough love. Yelena wrinkles her nose but doesn’t move away. 

“You’ve got your own lives to handle. Let us handle ours.” 

Yelena still looks a little uncertain, but she doesn’t argue. 

“Alright. Just…handle it faster.” 

Kate gives you a two-fingered salute and a grin. 

“And you know where to find us if you need us.” 

With that, the two disappear down the corridor. And the quiet returns.

You stand there for a moment longer, surrounded by silence and the weight of everything you didn’t say. Then, slowly, you turn back toward the window. 

And your heart stutters.

Green eyes locked on you through glass and distance.

Natasha’s gaze holds yours from below in the courtyard. And Sharon is nowhere in sight. 

Just her. Just you. 

You blink, startled by the rawness in her expression. The way she looks at you, like you’re the only thing that grounds her in this storm. 

You lift a hand in a small wave. 

Her lips curve into a familiar smirk, and her hand sweeps through her red hair in that unreasonably smooth way she knows drives you mad. Then—a teasing wink. 

You let out a breath of laughter, half amused and half exasperated. 

“Seriously?” you mutter, but the grin sneaks up anyway. 

Natasha sees it. Because of course she does. And her smile widens. 

She takes a step forward, like she’s about to cross the entire courtyard just to get to you. 

But before she can make it more than a few paces, Steve appears at her side, speaking to her with urgency. Natasha glances toward him—reluctantly—and nods, her path redirected.

Your smile fades, just slightly. You stay at the window for a moment longer, watching as Natasha is pulled into yet another conversation. 

When it’s clear they won’t be finished anytime soon, you turn away with a sigh. Time to continue with what you came here for. 

Even if your heart still lingers by the glass. 

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The muted clink of glass drifts through the door as you pause outside the lab, the faint scent of crushed herbs and other unknown ingredients curling through the air while you lift your hand to knock.

“Come in,” Melina calls, her voice calm and clipped as always.

You push the door open—and freeze.

Alexei sits on one of the stools by the central worktable, his broad frame awkwardly hunched forward, a grimace twisting his face as Melina tends to a reddened, angry burn running along his forearm. A faint wisp of steam curls from a pot nearby, its contents still bubbling.

“I—should I come back later?” you ask, lingering in the doorway.

Melina waves a dismissive hand without glancing up. 

“Nonsense. You’re here already. Come on in.”

You obey, stepping further in, though your hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed.

Alexei looks up, attempting a grin through the pain. 

“Don’t worry. This is nothing. I’ve survived worse.”

Melina snorts softly. “Barely.”

You approach the table, and before you can offer help, Melina pushes a mortar and pestle toward you. 

“Continue this. Same rhythm.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument, but you don’t give one—you’ve done this countless times before working with her. You nod, rolling up your sleeves and taking over the mixture, grinding the half-crushed herbs into the thick salve she was preparing.

Alexei’s injured arm rests on a folded cloth beside you, close enough for you to see the burn more clearly now—reddish, blistered, but not too deep. You glance at it briefly, and he immediately perks up.

“Aye, I know that look!” he declares, voice booming in the small space. “You want to hear how I earned this glorious battle scar!”

You bite back a smile, choosing not to correct him.

But Melina doesn’t share your restraint. 

“This glorious battle scar,” she says dryly, slicing through a root with her knife, “came from this oaf knocking over a pot I was boiling. Then deciding to ‘protect’ me from the splash that wasn’t even going to reach me.”

Alexei frowns at her, affronted. 

“If you tell it that way, you take away the heroics of my actions.”

“There were no heroics,” she replies without looking up, her tone matter-of-fact as she drops the sliced root into the bowl.

You glance between the two of them, amused at how easily their banter fills the room. The rhythm between them, this example of years of marriage, of exasperation mixed with quiet fondness, is something you don’t usually get to witness.

Melina leans over slightly, checking the mixture you’re grinding. Satisfied, she hums approvingly, then resumes preparing more ingredients.

“I believe,” she says after a moment, her voice thoughtful, “that there’s something else you should be hearing from my dear husband. Not another story.”

Alexei blinks in confusion, puzzled at her words. 

“What? What do you mean, ‘something else’?”

Melina’s foot shifts under the table, and you hear the soft thud of a kick.

“Ow—ah! Yes, right.” He straightens, sheepish now. “I…owe you an apology.”

Your hands pause briefly in their steady grinding motion as you look up, your brows furrowing slightly in confusion.

“For what happened with Natasha and the engagement,” he continues, sincerity creeping into his voice. “I didn’t…realize how much that would hurt you. Or her.”

The pestle slows in your grasp. You exhale quietly and nod once, not trusting your voice just yet.

Melina sets down her knife and steps closer. Her expression softens as she rests a hand gently on your arm, halting your movement entirely.

“You must know,” she says quietly, eyes meeting yours, “we would never want to hurt you. Not now…”

She hesitates. It’s subtle, but you catch it—the smallest pause before she adds, “Or ever.”

Something about the way she says it makes your chest tighten. It sounds like an apology for something more than the engagement, though you can’t quite place what.

Still, you manage a faint smile, shaking your head. 

“I know. And I don’t blame you. Either of you.”

The relief on Melina’s face is immediate, her shoulders easing slightly. She nods once, wordlessly grateful, before reclaiming the mortar from your hands.

“Good. That’s good,” she murmurs, taking over the task of applying the salve to Alexei’s arm with gentle, practiced motions. He hisses quietly but doesn’t pull away, and you suspect this is far from the first time she’s patched him up.

As she works, she glances up at you.

“Now then, what brings you here today?”

Her tone has returned to its usual composed calm, but there’s still a trace of warmth there—an unspoken gratitude for your forgiveness.

You clear your throat lightly, shifting your weight as you glance toward the rows of shelves filled with jars and vials. 

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about something from a few years ago,” you begin carefully. “Dreykov had this shipment of metal sent to the castle.”

Melina pauses mid-motion, her brow furrowing as she searches her memory. Then understanding flickers across her face. 

“Ah. You mean the vibranium.”

You nod, relieved she remembered. 

“Yes. That.”

Her attention returns to the salve as you continue, your words tumbling faster now, half a ramble and half an excuse of avoiding what you’re really trying to ask for. 

“I’ve been…working on something. It’s nothing major, just—well, I need a strong casing for part of the design. And I remembered that shipment, since I had some of it made into Natasha’s birthday gift that year. Clint mentioned it was one of the strongest metals he’d ever seen, so I thought—maybe—if there was still some left—”

Melina cuts in before you can spiral further, her lips twitching faintly in amusement. 

“You can take some,” she says simply.

You blink, caught off guard at the ease of her offer. 

“Really?”

She nods, returning her focus to Alexei’s arm as she spreads the salve in smooth, even strokes. 

“Yes. Take what you need for your project. I trust your judgment.”

A quiet breath escapes you, the tension easing from your shoulders. 

“Thank you.”

“Mm,” she hums, though there’s a small smile ghosting her lips. “You’ll have to go to the treasury yourself, though. I can’t leave this one unattended.” She shoots Alexei a pointed look when he starts to protest. “Ask Captain Rogers—or perhaps Natasha—to give you access.”

At the mention of Natasha, your chest tightens slightly. She doesn’t exactly know the specifics of what you’ve been working on, much less working with Tony Stark, and you don’t want to lie to her if she asks you about why you need the vibranium. You school your expression before Melina can notice. 

“I’ll find one of them,” you say evenly, offering a polite nod.

Melina doesn’t seem to catch the hesitation. She gives a faint wave of dismissal, already turning back to her task. 

“Good. Now go before Alexei decides to ‘help’ again.”

Alexei grumbles something unintelligible, but you’re already stepping toward the door.

You offer them both a small smile. 

“Take care,” you tell them lightly before slipping out.

The door closes softly behind you, and for a moment, you stand there in the quiet corridor, exhaling slowly.

Just as you turn to leave, Melina’s muffled voice carries faintly through the door. 

“Did you see Yelena at her lessons today?”

A beat passes before Alexei’s voice answers, full of reluctant honesty. 

“...I saw her disappear into one of the hidden corridors.”

You can almost hear Melina’s sigh, long-suffering but fond. A small smile tugs at your lips as you walk down the hall, your mind already shifting toward your next destination.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Your steps echo softly against the floors as you make your way down the corridor leading to the captain’s quarters. The air feels heavier here, thick with the scent of oil and parchment, faint traces of steel polish lingering from the armor racks that line the walls.

You lift a hand to knock, but before you can, the door opens.

Steve steps out first, a few papers in hand, his expression set in that familiar, thoughtful frown of his. But it’s the man who follows him that makes you pause.

He’s a stranger, someone you’ve never seen within the castle walls before. His black hair is slicked neatly back, framing sharp, pale features. His skin carries a faint metallic sheen, so subtle you almost question if you’re imagining it. But it’s his eyes that make your breath hitch, deep crimson, too vivid to be natural, catching the light as if something inside them burns.

He carries himself like a man used to command—calm, deliberate, and the faintest smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth as his gaze sweeps over the hall…until it lands on you.

His stare is too intense, too knowing, and you can’t quite look away. A chill ripples down your spine, instinct urging you to take a step back—which you do without thinking.

Only then does Steve seem to notice you. His expression softens immediately. 

“Hello, Lady Y/n,” he greets, his tone warm despite the faint weariness behind it. “Didn’t expect to see you down here. Everything alright?”

You force yourself to nod, pushing the strange unease aside. 

“Yes. I was actually looking for you.”

Steve tucks the papers under his arm and gestures for you to go on.

“I need access to the treasury,” you explain. “Melina said I could take some pieces of metal for a project I’m working on, but I’ll need your help to enter.”

“Ah.” Steve’s brow furrows, hesitation flickering across his face. “Normally I’d be happy to help, but right now…” He glances over his shoulder toward the man beside him before continuing, “I’m finalizing assignments for the new units that’ll be stationed in the castle and outer sectors.”

“New units?” you echo, caught off guard. “From where?”

“From Princess Sharon’s delegation,” he answers. “Her men are stepping in to help with the kingdom’s shortage of manpower.”

You stare at him, disbelief tightening your chest. 

“Does Natasha know?”

Steve nods once, cautious. 

“She approved it herself when the princess offered.”

The information hits you before he finishes, but the confirmation still stings. 

“Natasha…accepted Sharon’s offer?”

“She did.” Steve’s tone is gentle, understanding more than he says. “We’re stretched thin, and—well, she believes help from Sharon’s people will ease some things around here. Isn’t that right, commander?”

The man gives Steve a single nod, agreeing with his words.

“Indeed.”

You look away, forcing your face to remain composed even as something inside you twists.

Natasha believes…in Sharon.

The words echo in your head like a blade turning.

“I see,” you murmur quietly.

Steve shifts slightly, perhaps noticing your tone. 

“Tell you what,” he offers with an encouraging smile. “Once I finish here, I’ll walk you down myself. Shouldn’t take long.”

You shake your head, quickly waving him off. 

“It’s alright. You’ve got enough to handle. I’ll figure something out.”

He hesitates, then gives a slight nod. 

“Alright. Just…be careful, okay?”

“Always,” you say with a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Let’s go,” Steve says to the man beside him, and the stranger inclines his head smoothly in response.

As they move past, you can feel that same cold awareness settle in again like static brushing against your skin. You can’t help but glance back, and your gaze meets his once more.

This time, he doesn’t just stare. He smiles—a small, calculated curve of his lips that carries no warmth, only amusement.

The faintest smirk, but it freezes you in place. There’s something about it—about him—that tugs at the edge of recognition. Something you can’t name.

And then he’s gone, following Steve down the corridor, leaving behind only that hollow chill in the air and the faint echo of bootsteps fading into silence.

You exhale slowly, hand brushing unconsciously against your arm as if to chase away the unease.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The treasury sits deep within the castle’s lower halls, cold stone corridors that hum faintly. The flickering torchlight casts your shadow long against the walls as you approach the wide double doors guarded by two soldiers.

Before you can even open your mouth, the one in charge steps forward, his voice brisk and unwavering.

“I’m sorry, my lady, but you are not authorized to access this part of the castle. Please return the way you came.”

You exhale slowly through your nose, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. 

“I don’t know what I thought would happen,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. You’re half-tempted to turn around and trek all the way back to Melina’s lab to wait for when she’s available, when a familiar voice cuts through the hall behind you.

“It’s alright. She’s with me.”

You freeze, eyes widening.

The guards straighten instantly. 

Natasha strides towards you, confident and composed, her presence commanding even without trying. The crimson and black of her uniform gleams faintly under the torchlight, her hair now fixed and pulled back into a neat braid that sways with each step.

“Your Majesty,” the lead guard bows slightly before stepping aside.

Natasha gives him a curt nod before turning her attention to you. A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she passes, her hand brushing the small of your back—a quick, unseen gesture that lingers longer in your nerves than it should. With a tilt of her head, she silently urges you forward.

Still dazed by her sudden appearance, you obey, following her through the heavy doors that close behind you with a resonant thud.

The air shifts immediately, cooler, heavier, and filled with the faint scent of metal and parchment. 

You hurry to catch up as Natasha leads the way down the spiraling steps into the treasury’s heart, her steps light and purposeful.

“How did you even know I was here?” you finally ask once you’re certain no one else can hear.

Natasha glances back over her shoulder, eyes glinting in amusement. 

“You should know by now,” she teases lightly. “Wherever you are, I’ll always find a way to be by your side.”

You give her a flat look, though your pulse betrays you. 

“Alright, charmer,” you say, shoving her shoulder gently, “now tell me the truth.”

Her grin softens into something more genuine. 

“Fine,” she relents with a quiet huff of laughter. “I ran into Steve. He mentioned you needed something from the treasury. So I thought I’d save you the trouble of dealing with the guards.”

“Of course you did,” you mutter under your breath, though your lips twitch despite yourself.

The two of you step into the main chamber, the space opening to an expanse of shelves and chests stacked high with treasures from generations past. Gold glints dully in the low light, relics wrapped in velvet cloths and sealed jars line the tables, and in the center, rows of heavy crates filled with metal ingots shimmer faintly.

Natasha lingers by a nearby shelf, leaning against it casually as she watches you begin your search. 

“So this was the reason for your visit?” she asks. “To ask my mother’s permission to come here?”

You don’t think before you speak. 

“It’s not like I came to see you and the princess sweat all over each other.”

Silence falls.

You wince, instantly regretting your words and chiding yourself for letting your jealous feelings slip through. With bated breath, you look up cautiously. 

Natasha’s gaze is already on you—steady, amused, and soft in a way that makes your stomach twist. The corners of her mouth lift into a gentle, pleased smile, one that reaches her eyes filled with a fondness directed entirely towards you.

You quickly turn away, pretending to examine a cluster of metal pieces. 

“Stop that,” you mumble under your breath.

“Stop what?” she asks, voice thick with teasing innocence.

“Looking at me like that.”

Her chuckle is low, warm, and infuriatingly fond.

You keep rummaging through chests, trying to ignore how her presence fills the space. Then you hear the soft sound of her boots moving across the floor. Before you can turn, you feel her just behind you—close enough that her breath brushes your neck.

“I miss you,” she whispers.

The words hit like an arrow. You freeze, your grip tightening around the bar of metal in your hand. It takes everything in you not to turn around—to not give in to the ache clawing at your chest.

You force a small, uneven smile instead, glancing at her over your shoulder. 

“Help me look, will you?”

You catch the flicker of hurt that crosses her face before she masks it with a small nod.

“Of course.”

She moves beside you, kneeling to open the next chest. You stare at her profile for a heartbeat—strong lines softened by the faint glow of the torches—before you tear your gaze away.

“What are we looking for?” she asks quietly.

“Vibranium,” you answer before adding vaguely, hoping she won’t probe for more details. “For a project.”

Natasha lifts a few metal bars from another crate. 

“And these aren’t good enough?”

You shake your head, keeping your tone steady. 

“This metal’s stronger. It’s the same one I used for your birthday knife.”

Her eyes flick toward her hip where the dagger rests. She draws it smoothly, the blade glinting silver-blue in the dim light. For a moment, she studies it before your soft gasp of success pulls her attention, and she steps closer to you.

You’ve just found the pile of vibranium when she kneels beside you. 

Natasha glances at the supposedly strong metal curiously, not seeing anything remarkable about it. Without warning, she presses the tip of her dagger against one of the bars and pushes—leaving a faint indentation and scratch.

“Huh, I guess it makes sense,” she murmurs, examining the mark. “Even the strongest metal can’t withstand against itself.”

You huff a laugh. 

“Are you done damaging my materials yet?”

That earns a quiet chuckle from her, low and genuine. She slides the dagger back into its sheath, still smiling, before helping you pack the pieces into an empty chest.

You watch Natasha as she secures the lid, her focused expression with a faint furrow of concentration on her brow making you smile at the familiar, cute sight. You reach out before you can stop yourself—your hand cupping the side of her face, tilting her slightly toward you. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

Natasha goes utterly still, her breath catching as you pull back.

“I miss you too,” you whisper.

For a second, she doesn’t move. Then her lips curve, betraying the smile she tries to hide. Natasha ducks her head, shaking it with a quiet, disbelieving laugh before looking up at you again.

“What?” you ask, feigning innocence. “I’ve given you plenty of kisses on the cheek before. When we were just friends.”

Natasha’s tongue presses against the inside of her cheek, her expression half-amused, half-undone. She takes a small step forward, lifting the chest to occupy her hands before they decide to reach for you. As she straightens, she leans close—so close you feel her warmth ghost across your skin—and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.

You blink, stunned. Your hand instinctively rises to the spot she kissed as you stare up at her, the faint blush creeping across your cheeks betraying you completely.

Her smirk widens, brow arched in teasing challenge. 

“Friends, right?”

You let out a quiet, exasperated huff as she turns toward the exit, her laughter soft and victorious as it echoes through the vault.

And even as you follow her out, you can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your lips—one that lingers long after the doors close behind you both.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

It takes some convincing and a bit of gentle insistence, but you finally manage to pry the chest from Natasha’s reluctant grasp.

“Nat,” you chide softly, fingers brushing over the handles as you take it from her. “You have your own duties to return to. I’ll be fine.”

She gives you that look—the one that says she’d rather carry it herself, that she doesn’t quite trust anyone else to see you safely home. But after a moment, her lips part on a resigned sigh.

“You’re impossible,” she murmurs, though the words are fond.

You smile faintly. 

“And you’re late. Go.”

Her eyes soften at that, as though she wants to say something else, but instead, she nods once. 

“Get home safe,” she says quietly, then turns, disappearing back into the castle’s dim corridor.

You watch her go before exhaling a small sigh of your own and heading out toward the courtyard.

The evening air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of the stables and the flickering glow of torches. A single carriage waits for you by the gates. You set the small chest down at the foot of the carriage, wiping a bit of dust from your hands.

But when you turn—

You stumble back against the carriage in surprise.

The man standing before you is the same one who had accompanied Steve earlier—the commander from Sharon’s delegation. He’s silent for a moment, as though observing you, before offering a polite incline of his head.

“Good evening, Lady Y/n,” he says.

Your spine stiffens at the sound of your name coming from the stranger. You recover quickly, masking the unease behind practiced calm.

“Commander,” you return curtly, keeping your tone clipped. “Good evening to you as well. I was just preparing to return home.”

He smiles—or something like it. It’s the kind of smile that looks perfect in shape, but hollow in feeling, as though it’s been rehearsed too many times.

“Yes, I’m aware,” he replies, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “Your coachman had an…accident. Since it was all rather sudden, I volunteered to be your escort.”

Your heart drops, the unease steadily returning in your chest. 

“You’ll be taking me home?”

He inclines his head again. 

“It’d be an honor. I insist on ensuring the safety of the Queen’s favored people.”

You hesitate, unsure how to respond. You don’t want to seem rude—or suspicious—but the thought of being alone with him sends an uncomfortable prickle down your skin. There’s something off about him, something you can’t name.

Before you can force out a polite refusal, a familiar voice cuts through the courtyard.

“Hey!”

You look up to see Sam approaching with an easy grin, Redwing swooping through the air above him in a blur of red. The falcon circles once before diving sharply, forcing the commander to step back as it lands neatly on your shoulder with a chirp.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Sam says casually, stopping beside you before patting the other man’s shoulder. “I can take over the transport from here, Commander…” He trails off, realizing he has no idea what the man’s name is.

The commander’s crimson eyes flick to where Sam’s hand lands on his shoulder. There’s a beat of silence—then he reaches up, lifts Sam’s hand from his shoulder with unnerving precision, and lets it fall back to the knight’s side.

“Ultron,” he says smoothly. “Commander Ultron.”

Sam blinks, unfazed by the disdain in the other man’s tone. 

“Right. Commander Ultron.” His easy smile returns. “Appreciate you volunteering, but I’ve got this one covered. Queen’s order. You understand how it is.”

Ultron studies him for a moment too long and then turns that unsettling gaze back to you. The faintest curve touches his mouth again before he inclines his head. 

“Very well. Safe travels, Lady Y/n.”

You nod stiffly, watching as he strides away toward the far end of the courtyard, disappearing into the growing dusk.

Sam exhales an exaggerated shiver once he’s out of sight. 

“Okay, tell me it’s not just me,” he mutters, glancing after him. “So far, these guys the Carter princess sent over are a pain, but that one—that one gives me the creeps.”

You glance down the path where Ultron vanished, unease still lingering in your chest.

“Was there a problem with Sharon’s people?” you ask curiously.

Sam shrugs, leaning an elbow against the carriage door with an easy, thoughtful posture.

“Not exactly,” he says. “It’s just…hard to trust people you’ve never fought beside. You can’t tell yet if they’ve really got your back, you know.”

You hum quietly, mulling over his words as Redwing chirps softly on your shoulder. Your gaze drifts toward the horizon, and an idea begins to take shape—one that might help solve the kingdom’s shortage of soldiers…and, admittedly, lessen Natasha’s need to rely so much on the Carter princess.

You know it’s a selfish thought, but the sting of seeing them together still lingers, and you can’t quite bring yourself to deny it. 

“You said once,” you begin slowly, “that Redwing could find anyone, right?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Pretty much, yeah. Why?”

You turn to him, expression thoughtful. 

“Could he find someone…out at sea?”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18

a/n: 👀 now who’s out at sea 🤔 Again thank you for reading!

If you asked to be tagged and I missed it, please let me know again.

No response. Only the dull, distant look in her daughter’s eyes.

Melina frowns and glances around the room. 

“And where’s Y/n? She was assisting me before—”

At the mention of your name, Natasha flinches.

She squeezes her eyes shut and lifts an arm to press against them, like she can rub away the ache blooming behind them.

“She left.”

Her voice is hoarse and small—nothing like the woman Melina raised to carry a kingdom on her shoulders.

Melina straightens slightly, confused. 

“Left?”

Natasha’s next words are barely more than a whisper.

“She broke up with me.”

Her words hang in the air for a long, stunned moment.

“…Oh, Natasha.” Melina’s expression shifts, concern softening into sympathy as she places the vials aside and moves toward her daughter. She kneels down beside her, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face with a gentle motherly touch. “Did she say why?”

“She didn’t have to,” Natasha swallows, voice cracking. “It’s my fault.”

Melina’s brows raise in confusion.

“Is that what she said?”

Natasha shakes her head, but her shoulders hunch forward like the weight is too much. 

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “She’s been hurting, and I just…kept adding to it. I thought I could protect her, but everything keeps slipping through my fingers.”

Her hands flex open in her lap as if to prove the point—empty, trembling, useless.

Seeing the defeated posture and tone of her daughter, Melina exhales quietly, placing a comforting hand on Natasha’s shoulder.

“You have to understand, Natasha. Sometimes, we can’t do everything. Being a ruler means there are compromises. Sacrifices.”

Natasha’s eyes, red-rimmed but burning now, lift slowly to meet hers.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” she says quietly. “Sacrificing others.”

Melina stills, eyes furrowing at the sudden accusatory tone in her daughter’s voice.

There’s a long pause before she asks carefully.

“…What are you talking about?”

“You knew,” Natasha says, voice rising with disbelief and betrayal. “You knew Stark’s daughter survived the attack, and yet you covered it up.”

Melina goes silent, the faintest flicker of guilt visible in her face before she schools it into neutrality. 

“I’ve always suspected, but there was no way to confirm,” she pauses in thought before asking in a careful tone. “Does she know?”

Natasha shoves her mother’s hand away from her shoulder and pushes herself to her feet, unsteady but fueled by something white-hot and furious under the grief of heartbreak.

“That’s what you’re focused on? You really think Y/n is the kind of person who would what? Hurt us for revenge?”

“No, of course not, that’s not what I meant,” Melina shakes her head.

“How could you?” Natasha demands, glaring down at her mother. “You let that—that monster take her. You gave her to him like she was nothing!”

Melina rises to her feet slowly, holding out her hand in a calming gesture against her daughter’s evident anger. 

“I didn’t…I didn’t give her to him.”

“You didn’t stop him either,” Natasha’s voice cracks with every word, but she pushes on, relentless. “Every nightmare she’s had, every scar, every time she flinches now—it’s because of him. And you let it happen. For what? A fragile alliance? A chance at peace built on her suffering?”

“It’s not that simple!” Melina snaps, the composure slipping. “You think I sleep peacefully knowing what I allowed for the sake of the realm? You were just a baby, Natasha. You weren’t even there to know what it was like.”

“But I’m here now!” Natasha shouts. “I’m here now, and nothing has changed.”

The words feel like they shatter something in the air. Natasha’s voice falls quieter as she continues.

“She’s stuck in the middle of problems she didn’t even ask to be a part of. And I’m…I’m too busy playing queen to even love her right.”

Natasha takes a step back, eyes glossed with tears that she refuses to let fall.

“I guess it’s in our blood,” she says bitterly. “Sacrificing the people who love us.”

Melina opens her mouth to speak, but Natasha is already walking away.

The lab door slams shut behind her, echoing down the stone corridor.

Her boots strike the floor hard, quick, and angry, each step an effort to outrun the gnawing guilt in her chest. The cool air of the castle hallway does nothing to ease the heat rising behind her eyes. She exhales sharply, fingers curling into fists at her sides, willing the ache in her throat to go away.

She turns a sharp corner and nearly runs headfirst into another figure.

A pair of hands catches her by the arms just in time.

“Whoa—careful there, Your Majesty,” a voice says lightly, with a small, amused laugh. “Wouldn’t want to start a war because I knocked you down.”

Natasha stiffens.

Sharon Carter stands in front of her, slightly winded from the almost-collision but smiling politely nonetheless. Her grip is firm but not invasive, steadying Natasha with practiced ease before letting go. Natasha takes an instinctive step back, putting distance between them.

“Just…‘Natasha’ is fine,” she mutters, clearing her throat of the earlier anger and quickly regaining her composure. Her tone is flat but not hostile. She doesn’t have the energy for more hostility. Not right now.

Sharon raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on the reaction. Instead, she offers a mild, almost sheepish smile.

“Well, Natasha,” she says, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear as she glances over her shoulder. “I think I got myself a little turned around. But maybe it’s a good thing I bumped into you.”

Natasha frowns, confused. “How so?”

There’s a pause as Sharon tilts her head, assessing her.

“I’ve heard rumors,” she says at last, lips quirking into a playful smirk. “That you’re pretty good with a sword. And since it looks like we’ll have some time before the royal wedding becomes everyone’s favorite excuse to gossip, I figured…” She lifts one brow. “Maybe we could spar sometime? Friendly match. No politics, no court expectations—just steel and reflexes.”

The offer is casual and lighthearted, but her words land like a weight on Natasha’s shoulders.

The mention of the wedding cuts deep, twisting the knife that’s already embedded in her chest. Her face betrays the emotion before she can school it, a grimace flashing across her expression.

Sharon notices. She lets out a dry chuckle, arms crossing as she leans her weight to one side. 

“Not a fan of the arrangement, I take it.”

Natasha sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to compose herself. 

“It’s not you,” she says after a beat. “It’s just…”

“You didn’t ask for any of this,” Sharon finishes gently. “Neither did I.”

The words hang between them, the truth unspoken but understood. Silence settles for a moment before Sharon shrugs, attempting to ease the weight in the air.

“Look, I get it. You don’t know me. And I don’t expect this to magically become something real overnight—if ever.” She pauses, then adds, “But I also know what it’s like to be thrown into a position you didn’t choose.”

Natasha’s brow furrows slightly in confusion. Sharon notices and continues, her voice softening.

“My aunt took me in after my parents died. Technically, I’m a princess, but not because I was born for it. I’ve been trying to live up to the title ever since.”

A quiet chuckle escapes her.

“That’s why I do what I can. Follow orders. Play my part. Be useful.” She glances at Natasha, gaze calm but sincere. “We all have responsibilities. Maybe the least we can do is not be strangers while we’re carrying them.”

Natasha says nothing at first. She just studies her for a long moment. 

Sharon doesn’t seem like she’s lying. There’s no smugness in her posture. Just a woman, apparently, trying to survive a position she’s been given. 

And though a part of Natasha instinctively recoils at the idea of spending time with the woman who now wears the title that should’ve belonged to you…she knows that Sharon isn’t the enemy.

She’s just the consequence. 

And maybe learning more about the people involved in these shifting political tides—especially the ones who’ve managed to stay neutral for so long—might not be such a bad idea.

After a long pause, Natasha finally nods.

“Alright,” she says quietly. “One spar.”

Sharon lifts a brow. 

“Only one?”

“We’ll see how you hold up,” Natasha replies, voice gaining a sliver of its usual edge.

There’s a flicker of a grin on Sharon’s face. 

“I’ll take that challenge.”

But Natasha doesn’t answer. She’s already walking past her, boots echoing lightly against the stone floor. Too tired to pretend it’s anything more than a distraction. Too heartbroken to pretend it helps.

Still, as she turns the next corner, a question lingers in her mind.

Are you hurting too? Or did walking away come easier for you than it ever could for her?

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The sunlight glints off the scattered shards of crystal on the worktable, set up in a field on the outskirts of the kingdom. You reach out, absentmindedly tracing the jagged edge of one piece, your thoughts drifting far from the task at hand.

It’s been a few days now since that moment with Natasha. Since the breakup.

Even thinking the word feels foreign—wrong, like it doesn’t belong to you. Like it belongs in someone else’s story.

But it’s real. As real as the way your chest tightens every time you remember the look on her face…or the weight of your own words as you walked away. You never imagined it would come to this.

That she would ever be engaged to someone else.

Your hand stills, pressing the crystal down against the table as a sigh escapes your lips. You lift your other hand to press against your eyes, forcing back any lingering tears.

You’ve already cried enough, you remind yourself. That first night was enough.

You shake your head, trying to refocus.

Natasha had promised she would take care of the engagement situation. And you believe her—still, despite everything. At the very least, you can be of some use to her and help figure out the mystery behind the stone and these attackers.

Even if you’re apart now, you’re both still working toward the same end.

Even if it hurts to breathe without her.

You close your eyes for a moment and exhale, wondering if she’s thinking about you too.

A sharp flick to the side of your head snaps you out of the spiral.

You flinch and whirl around, only to find Tony raising a brow at you with exaggerated exasperation.

“I should be the one sighing,” he grumbles. “I’ve asked you to hand me those crystals three times. Three.” He slides the shards off the table into a bowl before pointedly plucking the one from your fingers. “If you were my assistant, I’d have fired you already.”

You roll your eyes. 

“Thank god I’m not. Working for you sounds like a miserable position.”

You glance toward the two figures lounging under the shade of a nearby tree.

“No offense, Vision.”

Vision inclines his head politely. 

“None taken. My position is more ceremonial than anything. A product of my family’s long-standing friendship with Sir Tony’s.”

Wanda hums in amusement, resting her chin on her palm. 

“In other words, you’re forced to be around someone like him.”

Tony scoffs. 

“Very funny. I’d be careful, witchling. Mocking the man wielding molten metal is rarely the right move.”

He lifts the tongs from the hearth, where a makeshift flame licks up from beneath the crucible, and carefully tips the melted materials into a circular metal mold. The liquid glows briefly as it settles. With a practiced hand, he submerges the mold into a waiting jar of water, steam hissing into the air. He claps his gloves off with smug satisfaction.

“There. Now we wait.”

You raise a skeptical brow. 

“Rushing the cooling process? Doesn’t seem like a good idea when we’re trying to create a secure structure.”

Tony gives you a flat look. 

“I’m sorry, who here has actually built one of these before?”

“The same who’s failed every attempt before apparently?” you answer plainly.

He scowls, hand waving dismissively at your point.

“My technique is fine. In case you forgot, I’m good at this stuff. It’s finding the right materials that keep screwing things up.”

You fold your arms, remembering something you read from Howard Stark’s notes. 

“There was a mention of a metal that could absorb energy in one of the last entries. That sounds pretty ideal for containing magic.”

“Ah, yes,” Tony says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Good ol’ vibranium. The old man spent so much time researching it. The fabled metal no one knows where to find.”

You and Wanda share a glance. A flicker of memory passes between you.

Tony narrows his eyes, immediately suspicious. 

“Unless you do know where to find some.”

You hesitate before recalling the memory.

“A few years ago, a shipment arrived at my manor. Before my...father returned from his trip, Pietro managed to sneak a few pieces of it out.”

Tony perks up with curious interest.

“You think it was vibranium?”

Wanda glances at you and shrugs. 

“Clint said it was one of the strongest metals he’s ever handled.”

Tony nods in contemplation. 

“Well, it’s worth a shot. Where’s it now?”

You wince slightly. 

“I…used it all to make a dagger. As a gift.”

Tony stares at you, blinking in disbelief but not surprised. He shakes his head. 

“Alright then. So where’s the rest? You said there was a shipment of this stuff.”

You open your mouth, only to realize you’re not sure. But before you can admit that, Wanda cuts in smoothly.

“Dreykov brought it to the castle before his last travels.”

Tony groans. 

“Of course he did. Damn Romanovs. Always up to something.”

You narrow your eyes. 

“That’s not fair. Just because they have the metal, that doesn’t mean they plan to use them as weapons or anything.”

Tony waves a finger at you. 

“Uh-uh. Ever since that trip into town, I’ve been doing some digging. Wondering why you’re so pro-Romanov,” he whistles, low and slow. “Childhood friends to lovers to exes. Yikes. Been there, done that. Trust me, in the end, it’s always better to keep it casual.”

His words hit harder at the wound that’s still healing.

You look away, jaw tightening, and say nothing. Wanda, sensing the shift in your energy, reaches out and rests a gentle hand on your shoulder. You glance at her to find her offering a small, reassuring smile.

Then she turns to Tony with a glare sharp enough to kill a man twice over.

Tony clears his throat, looking mildly uncomfortable. 

“Anyway,” he mutters, gesturing toward the jar in an attempt to shift the attention, “it should be cool enough now.”

He grabs the tongs again, pulling the mold from the water. The outer layer peels away with a hiss of steam, revealing the translucent crystalline form inside.

You eye it skeptically. 

“If you already know it’s not the right materials, why bother making it?”

Tony gives you a pointed look. 

“Because if I told you it wouldn’t work, you wouldn’t have believed me unless you see it for yourself, am I wrong?”

You don’t reply. He’s right. But you’re not giving him the satisfaction of admitting that aloud.

With a shrug, Tony holds the crystal toward Wanda expectantly.

Wanda hesitates, but you squeeze her hand softly, a wordless request. She meets your gaze, then closes her eyes and lifts her free hand over the crystal. A soft red glow blooms from her fingers and slowly seeps into the stone.

The stone pulses faintly and then begins to glow, a soft red shimmer blooming from within like a slow heartbeat.

Tony’s eyes light up with anticipation as he grins. 

“And now…for the fun part.”

You barely have time to frown before he rears his arm back and hurls the stone across the open field. It whistles through the air in a high arc before slamming into the earth with a loud, cracking thud.

A violent burst of red energy detonates outward, rippling across the clearing like a shockwave. The blast sends up a shower of dust and flower petals, rustling the nearby trees and flattening a wide circle of grass.

Even Vision shifts his stance, subtly bracing against the ripple of force, as Wanda holds onto your shoulder for support.

Tony claps his gloved hands together with a self-satisfied nod. 

“Well...that answers that. Still defective like the others.”

You stare at the small, smoking crater left behind. The heat still lingers in the air. The energy hadn’t been contained—not even close—but it was still a powerful force nonetheless.

In the distance, a shout cuts through the air. You squint toward the source and spot Pietro halfway across the field, arms flailing as he struggles to calm a rearing horse beneath him—shouting something that sounds suspiciously like curses in your group’s direction.

Tony watches the scene unfold with casual disinterest.

“What’s twin number two going on about now?”

You sigh and press your fingers to your temple. 

“Probably the explosion you set off without warning.”

Tony waves it off. 

“He wasn’t even that close. And he seems to know how to ride somewhat okay. He’ll be fine.”

Wanda’s sharp huff draws both your attention. She steps forward with narrowed eyes, her arms folding tightly across her chest. 

“Pietro’s one of the best riders in the kingdom,” she snaps defensively. “But even the best can get thrown if you spook the horse like that.” Her glare sharpens, like she’s contemplating launching him across the field next.

“If you pull something like that again, you’d better make sure you’re not standing too close.”

With a pointed shove to his shoulder, she storms past him, heading toward her brother.

Tony watches her go, still smirking, but the smugness falters slightly when he catches the expression you’re giving him.

“What?” he asks, half-defensive.

You cross your arms. 

“Can you at least try to be tolerable? Right now, they hate you. And honestly? You’re not making it easy to defend you.”

Tony raises a brow. 

“Why does it matter if they like me?”

You exhale in frustration, jaw tightening.

“Because it matters to me.”

Tony blinks in confusion, caught off-guard. You rub your forehead and clarify before the weight of your words can settle too deeply.

“What I mean is—we’re working together. And I’m already keeping your secret identity from them. The least you can do is not make it harder to maintain peace.”

Tony doesn’t argue. He studies you for a beat, something almost unreadable behind his eyes.

Before he can respond, his attention is pulled past you.

“Ah, Jarvis,” he says suddenly, his voice lifting in both surprise and excitement. “Took you long enough.”

You turn to see a figure emerging from the trees—taller, older, his steps graceful yet purposeful. The man bears a striking resemblance to Vision, but with the added years of experience. His expression is serene, but his eyes are alert and kind.

Tony strides up to him and pulls him into a one-armed hug, clapping him on the back.

Jarvis merely nods. “It’s a relief to see you well, sir.”

“We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” Tony replies before glancing back toward the rest of the group and seeing that the twins were still in the distance. “What’s the status?”

Jarvis folds his hands behind his back. 

“The camp is established a safe distance from here, though I suggest remaining at your current location. There have been reports of attacks along the outer paths.”

Vision steps beside you and turns toward Jarvis.

“Any indication of who’s behind them?”

“Not yet,” Jarvis replies, eyes flicking briefly toward you with curiosity. “But some of the signs point toward mercenaries. Possibly hired.”

Vision nods before looking at you.

“If it’s acceptable, Lady Y/n, we’d prefer not to relocate until we’re sure the area is secure.”

A little startled to be included, you blink and step forward.

“Of course. That’s…probably best. At least until we figure out everything with this stone.”

You glance over at Tony, cautious now that his people have arrived. 

“Does this mean you’ll be meeting with Natasha soon?”

Tony taps his chin, then turns to Vision. 

“Have you confirmed anything yet?”

Your brows pull together. Confirmed what?

Vision shakes his head once. 

“Only whispers. But I have some leads.”

Tony exhales through his nose and nods, face momentarily serious until he hides it again behind a smirk and shrug.

“Well, guess the Queen can wait a little longer. Jarvis, keep the camp hidden. I’ll stay at Dreykov’s manor in the meantime.”

You’re about to ask what he means by his earlier comment, but Jarvis has turned to look at you once again—this time with something new behind his eyes that makes you freeze.

A faint shimmer crosses Jarvis’s eyes, the familiar sight unmistakable to you. A flicker of something deeper. Old and restrained power.

Then you feel it—a brush against your thoughts before you can block the secrets in your mind. Your breath catches. And just like that, the touch is gone.

Jarvis’s eyes widen slightly, but he says nothing. His expression shifts almost imperceptibly as he steps back, hands folding once more behind his back.

You swallow hard.

You recall that Vision once mentioned his family studied sorcery. And if Jarvis has even a fraction of an ability like Wanda’s…

In that moment, you come to a heart-sinking conclusion. He knows.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The steady rhythm of swords clashing echoes through the training courtyard, sharp and unforgiving like the thoughts running through Natasha’s head.

Her blade meets Sharon’s with precision, sparks flying as steel scrapes against steel. The other princess is good—surprisingly good. Skilled enough to keep Natasha’s reflexes sharp, which is why she’s been using these daily spars as an excuse: to channel frustration, to clear her head, to keep herself from doing something reckless… like sneaking off to find you.

But even the fight can’t silence her mind completely.

She hasn’t seen you since the breakup. Since the words you both didn’t want to say were said anyway.

And still, she hasn’t found a solution. Still stuck in this gods-forsaken engagement she didn’t ask for, and too ashamed to face you again without any good news.

She grits her teeth, shoving back against Sharon’s blade with a grunt of effort. Their swords lock, muscles straining.

Then—an opening.

Natasha pivots sharply, slipping inside Sharon’s guard and landing a solid kick to her midsection. Sharon stumbles back, her footing briefly lost.

Natasha surges forward, ready to disarm her.

And then she sees you.

Just a flicker of movement at the corner of her eyes, your form slipping quietly through one of the side doors of the castle, barely visible behind the courtyard arches.

Her breath catches.

Her stance falters.

She turns before she even realizes it, steps pulling her instinctively towards where you disappeared. But then a shadow appears in her periphery.

Natasha ducks just in time, Sharon’s counter kick whistling past her head. She tries to recover, but the follow-up kick lands squarely against her ribs.

The impact knocks her off balance. She hits the ground hard, sword skittering out of reach.

Before she can get to her feet, a blade rests at her throat.

“Looks like this match is mine,” Sharon says with a small, satisfied smile, eyes dancing.

She withdraws the sword and offers a hand instead.

Natasha’s gaze flicks again toward the now-empty doorway where you had stood only seconds ago.

Gone.

She exhales slowly, swallowing the ache rising in her throat, and accepts Sharon’s hand.

“That was impressive,” Natasha says as she stands, brushing dirt from her pants. She notices then that Sharon’s hand is still holding hers. Too long. 

Natasha clears her throat and gently pulls away, stepping back to retrieve her sword. 

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asks, more to shift from that unwelcome moment than curiosity as she sheaths her blade.

“My aunt taught me most of what I know,” Sharon replies easily, giving her sword a casual twirl before sliding it into its scabbard. “Though I like to think I’ve surpassed her by now. I’ve always admired her.”

She tilts her head at Natasha. 

“What about you? I imagine your mother’s legacy was… intense to grow up under.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens.

“I used to look up to her,” she mutters before she can stop herself.

Realizing the words slipped out, she quickly straightens, smoothing her expression. 

“My sister and I have been training since before we could walk. Fighting was just something we’ve always done.”

Sharon nods, contemplative. 

“Sounds exhausting.”

Her gaze lingers on Natasha, tone turning oddly thoughtful.

“Ever think about walking away from all of it?”

Natasha blinks, caught off guard. Something about the question feels like there’s more to it than she’s really asking. 

Before she can form a response, a low cough interrupts them.

Natasha turns to find Steve standing just off the sparring grounds, arms crossed and gaze serious. He gives a subtle nod to the side.

“Can I speak with you for a moment?” he asks.

Natasha nods and follows him a short distance away. The moment they’re out of earshot, her voice lowers.

“Any news?”

Steve shakes his head. 

“Not the one you’re hoping for. My scouts found the messenger we sent—dead. Ambushed on the outskirts of the kingdom.”

Natasha frowns. Not many people knew about her intent to contact the Carter Kingdom about the engagement.

“Someone’s watching us,” she says.

“Seems like it,” he agrees grimly. “I’ve already prepped a second messenger. He’ll go disguised, on a different route. Should draw less attention.”

Natasha nods in approval, though her mind is already racing at the possible suspects who would want to interfere with her affairs.

Ross? One of the other council members?

She then notices some hesitance on Steve’s face. 

“What?”

“There’s something else,” he says before sighing. “We’ve spotted a camp—just outside the kingdom’s walls. Well-hidden, but not enough to avoid my scouts.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow, piecing together the information. 

“Stark. He’s arrived?”

“Yeah, but the question is—why hasn’t he reached out yet?” Steve says. “He’s not exactly known for subtlety.”

Natasha crosses her arms as she considers why the Stark king would delay the meeting that he established. But like always, her mind can’t help but drift and wonder if she should let you know about this news too.

Even if you don’t want anything to do with the title, the man’s still the only blood-related family you have left. 

Steve’s sigh pulls her from her thoughts. 

“In any case, we should be prepared. Unfortunately, though, some of our soldier are still recovering.”

Before either of them can continue, Sharon’s voice chimes in behind them.

“If you’re looking for some security reinforcements, I could lend some of my men.”

Natasha turns, startled at her sudden appearance, before narrowing her eyes.

How much exactly did the other woman overhear?

Steve speaks up in her place. 

“We appreciate the offer, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Actually,” Natasha cuts in, giving Steve a glance to let her handle it. “We’ll take the help.”

Sharon beams at her acceptance. 

“Alright, I’ll get everything sorted.”

She turns and walks off, already calling out orders to her attendants.

Steve rounds on Natasha with a frown of confusion. 

“What are you doing? The Carters aren’t official allies. Giving them that kind of access—”

“I know,” Natasha says quietly. 

She watches Sharon’s retreating form, suspicion growing in her gut. 

“But there’s something off ever since she arrived. And the way she fights…the things she says.”

Steve looks at her sharply. “You think she’s hiding something?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha responds honestly before patting Steve on the shoulder. “Assign a few of our men to keep close to hers. I want anything unusual reported immediately.”

He nods. “Done.”

Natasha’s gaze lifts to the castle once more, unable to stop herself.

Her eyes catch on one of the upper windows, the glass panels catching the light like fractured crystal. And there, just beyond the reflection, she sees you.

Your figure is unmistakable. Standing near the large frame, hands subtly animated in conversation with someone else.

But your back is to her.

You don’t see her.

You don’t even know she’s looking.

Still, she lingers.

Her fingers curl slightly at her side, as if holding back the instinct to reach for something she can’t have—not anymore. Not until she fixes this. Not until she becomes the version of herself you once believed in without hesitation.

Just a glimpse should’ve been enough. But it isn’t.

It only makes the ache sharper. Only makes the distance feel heavier. Only makes her want you more.

Her voice, when it comes, is low and firm. Laced with something almost desperate beneath the steel.

“Make sure that messenger is sent,” she murmurs to Steve, her eyes still locked on the window. “As soon as possible.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17

a/n: I’m alive 😅 if you’re still with me, thank you for your patience and for reading!

If you asked to be tagged and I missed it, please let me know again.

You draw your knees up to your chest and rest your chin on them, eyes locked on the ripples until they fade. The numb ache in your chest hasn’t left since the morning, but out here, at least, the world feels a little quieter. 

Like you can travel back to the ease of the past when everything wasn’t so complicated.

The soft crunch of grass and fallen leaves behind you pulls your attention. You quickly swipe at the corners of your eyes, brushing away the lingering sting of unshed tears before glancing back.

“Bucky?” Your voice comes out more confused than surprised. “What are you doing here?”

He stops a few paces behind you, glancing at the lake before slowly stepping closer. 

“You’ve talked about this place before,” he says quietly. “Figured you’d be here.”

There’s no explanation beyond that. He doesn’t mention how dangerous it is for him to be out in the open or how someone could recognize him. He doesn’t have to. You understand the risk without needing it spelled out—and you also know why he came anyway.

He settles beside you, close but not crowding, eyes trained on the lake’s quiet surface. He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask. He just sits in that silence with you, offering the quiet kind of supportive presence without needing to say anything at all.

A breeze stirs through the trees, sending a flutter of scarlet petals to the forest floor. 

You tilt your head up, following their descent, and spot a small bloom—bright red, fragile—clinging to the tree’s highest branch. 

Despite the heaviness in your chest, your lips twitch into a faint smile.

“Do you think I could reach those flowers?” you ask softly, breaking the silence.

Bucky follows your gaze. 

“Why would you risk falling out of a tree for that?”

Your smile falters. 

“It’s just...something Natasha used to do,” you murmur, voice thinning around the edges of her name. You pause, swallowing around the lump that threatens to rise again. 

“The first time I met her was here, and every year after, she always used to try.”

You keep your eyes forward, hoping your voice doesn’t tremble too obviously. But when you glance sideways, Bucky’s jaw is tight, his expression shaded with quiet concern. He noticed.

You shift, trying to deflect, even though it’s futile now.

“You heard the announcement,” you say, tone flat. 

Bucky exhales heavily. 

“It’s all anyone’s talking about in the kingdom.”

You nod once. The words had reached you this morning—rushed in on Pietro’s breathless voice, his expression tight with confusion.

Queen Natasha Romanoff is engaged to Princess Sharon Carter.

It echoed in your head like a curse.

You remember Wanda’s eyes flicking to you across the room, her lips parting with disbelief. Pietro had asked if you knew. 

You had shaken your head once—slowly—and walked away before anyone could ask more.

Now you’re here. Wondering. Replaying the moments from that night together days ago. Wondering if Natasha knew then, if she had kept it from you because…

There’s nothing she can do about it.

The devastation of that thought makes your shoulders sag as you curl into yourself further. 

If it’s already done—already decided—then where does that leave you? 

The one who loved her in the open for only a brief moment, and then in secret, content with sharing stolen moments if it meant being together with her.

And now you may lose the chance for even that.

The helplessness of the situation presses in again, slow and suffocating.

Bucky breaks the silence gently. 

“Where are the twins?”

You don’t answer right away. You know what he’s really asking.

Why are you out here alone?

A soft huff escapes your chest, not quite a laugh, more like the ghost of one. It’s too hollow to carry any real humor. Do you really appear that dependent on others for comfort?

Your hands clench against the fabric of your clothes before uncurling with a sigh. 

“I told them I just needed a little air. To clear my head.”

You don’t tell him how Wanda had looked at you, eyes wide and cautious, as if she was bracing for something breaking. How Pietro had hovered in the doorway, tense, like he was waiting to catch you before you crumbled again. 

Like last year. Like before. 

So you left before they could see it happen.

“I apologize for intruding, then,” Bucky says quietly. He keeps his eyes on the lake, respectful of your privacy even now.

You shake your head, brushing the remnants of tears from your cheek with your sleeve.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

Bucky doesn’t look at you, but his response is firm and quiet.

“It’s okay not to be.”

The words settle over you like a weight, not crushing but grounding. Something shifts in your chest, loosening the tension there just slightly, and you stare out at the lake again—still, reflective, like it’s holding your emotions for you.

A moment passes.

“What should I do, Bucky?” 

He turns to glance at you, expression unreadable at first. Then there’s a furrow between his brows as he exhales and rubs the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable but still trying.

“I’m not really someone people go to for relationship advice,” he admits, with a half-grimace.

A soft laugh escapes you, genuine this time. His discomfort with the topic, the slight twitch of awkwardness, is oddly comforting. It breaks through the ache enough to let a breath of warmth in.

“Well, what would you do then?” you ask gently, tilting your head toward him.

Bucky considers for a moment, nodding slowly.

“Tactically?” he says, slipping into the language of battles like it’s second nature. “When things get too chaotic to control, the best move is usually to step back. Re-evaluate the field. Decide if it’s a fight you can win...or survive.”

You blink at him, then give a soft, incredulous laugh. 

“You’re treating this like a battlefield?”

He shrugs, faintly amused. 

“Sometimes matters of the heart are.”

You smile despite yourself. 

“There may be a soft romantic under that grumpy exterior after all.”

“Not likely,” Bucky mutters, scoffing with a shake of his head.

You hum thoughtfully, eyes drifting back toward the trees. The weight in your chest hasn’t left, but it feels...lighter somehow. Less like it’s crushing you and more like something you can carry, at least for a little while longer.

You take a breath, grounding yourself again. 

“Thank you, Bucky.”

You rise to your feet, brushing the dirt off your hands. With as much composure as you can gather, you turn toward the small path that leads back to your horse.

But Bucky’s arm swings out in front of you, halting your steps.

You freeze, startled. 

“What is it?” you ask.

His gaze is sharp, focused on the shadows just beyond the trees. Then, without further explanation, he stoops down, grabs a stone, and hurls it into the dense brush with startling precision.

“Ow!” 

You blink in surprise at the yelp before a blur of feathers bursts from the trees with a screech, a familiar shape twisting in the air before hurtling directly at Bucky.

“What the—?!” Bucky ducks, arms up, fending off the sudden aerial assault. 

“Redwing?” you blurt, eyes widening.

“What the hell is a Redwing?!” Bucky growls, swatting at the persistent bird. “And why is it attacking me?!”

“Hey! Easy!” a voice calls out, cutting through the chaos.

A sharp whistle follows, and Redwing circles back, letting out one last indignant chirp before retreating to perch on a shoulder. Sam steps out from the woods, hands raised in caution.

“Sam?” you ask, brows lifting, suspicion blooming behind your eyes. “What were you doing hiding in the trees?”

He grins, only slightly sheepish. 

“I wasn’t spying, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was sent to bring you to the castle, but when you weren’t at your manor, I had Redwing do a quick search.”

Redwing lets out a proud little trill and flutters from Sam’s shoulder to yours, circling before settling gently in place.

You let out a slow breath, reaching up to stroke the bird’s feathers with practiced ease. His familiar weight is oddly reassuring.

“Natasha sent you?” you ask, your voice quieter this time.

Sam hesitates. 

“Actually...her mother.” 

You lift a brow curiously.

He nods in confirmation before continuing. 

“Said something about needing your assistance with...something.”

You huff softly, dry amusement flickering in your expression. 

“Is that how she phrased it?”

Sam shrugs. 

“Look, I’m just here to bring you to the castle.”

Bucky steps forward, expression guarded. 

“If she wants to go.”

Sam’s brows furrow. 

“Buddy—”

“It’s Bucky.” 

“Sure. Anyway, no one’s forcing her,” Sam says, shifting his attention to you. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. This wasn’t an order or anything.”

You glance between them at Sam’s practiced ease and Bucky’s protective stance. Then at Redwing, still perched calmly, like this is all just routine.

You sigh and offer a small smile. 

“It’s okay. Maybe this ‘something’ is just what I need to clear my head.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, but he nods once. 

“Just remember what I said, alright?”

You meet his gaze with a slight tilt of your head.

“You don’t owe anyone anything.”

You hesitate before giving him a single nod.

“I know.”

Bucky doesn’t look convinced, but he lets you go.

And with one last glance at the lake, at the scarlet bloom still clinging high in the trees, you follow Sam to the castle.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The quiet rhythm of your steps echoes lightly against the stone floor of the castle corridor as you make your way toward the lab wing. The deeper you move into the private quarters of the royal halls, the more the hum of palace life fades behind you. You welcome the silence.

That is, until you turn the corner and nearly falter mid-step.

Councilor Ross is approaching from the other direction, his gaze fixed on the stack of parchment in his hands, brows furrowed in thought. 

For a moment, you hope he’d pass you by unnoticed. You adjust your posture, force your pace steady, and offer a polite nod and bow as you move to pass him.

But just before the feeling of relief could settle—

“Lady Y/n.”

You stop. Your back stiffens as your name cuts clean through the corridor.

Closing your eyes briefly, you breathe out through your nose to keep the tension at bay, then turn to face him. 

“Yes, Councilor? Was there something you needed?”

You silently curse the faint defensive edge in your voice, revealing your true feelings.

Ross lowers the papers in his hand, his expression unreadable save for the thin line of his mouth.

“As I’m sure you know,” he begins slowly, “the Carter Kingdom has long maintained neutrality in matters beyond their borders.”

You nod once, warily. “I’m aware.”

Your jaw tenses. You already see the path he’s trying to take, diplomacy dressed in a veil of condescension. His tone is measured, but you hear the weight behind every word. His implication.

“And I assume,” Ross continues, “you understand the strategic significance of gaining them as an ally, especially at a time like this.”

The polite curve of your lips disappears, replaced by something flat and pointed. You meet his gaze evenly.

“Let’s not pretend we’re here to discuss international policy. If you have something to say to me, Councilor, say it plainly.”

Ross’s eyes narrow just a fraction. There’s a glint of approval at your directness, or perhaps irritation that you’ve denied him the pleasure of dancing around the point.

“I simply hope,” he says with the tone of someone delivering a thinly veiled message, “that you are a woman of your word. That you won’t let personal attachments cloud what is clearly best for the kingdom. I’d imagine Princess Sharon did not come here expecting to engage in anything as…frivolous as a competition for affection. Especially not when there are more pressing matters at hand.”

Your hands curl subtly into fists at your sides, the weight of his words digging deeper than you’d like to admit.

Ross’s gaze dips briefly, noting the motion, before flicking back up to your face with that same infuriating calm. He’s waiting—for you to react, to falter, to confirm whatever he’s already believed about you in his mind.

But before you can speak, another voice cuts through the standoff, crisp and clear.

“That’s funny,” the voice says, cool and self-assured. “I don’t remember expressing my expectations to you, Councilor.”

You turn toward the sound.

A woman steps forward from around the corner with effortless grace, her expression neutral yet edged with quiet command. The golden light from the window plays off her blonde hair, framing her like a regal portrait—composed, confident, and resolute.

Ross straightens slightly. “Princess Sharon.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the identity of the woman. She stops beside you, her gaze still focused on Ross.

“I understand your concern for diplomacy,” Sharon says, her tone polite but unmistakably sharp, “but perhaps it would be more productive to discuss my expectations with me rather than assuming them for the sake of your point.”

Ross offers her a shallow nod, recovering quickly. 

“Of course. My intent was not to presume—only to advocate for what is in our mutual interest.”

“Then you’ll understand if I prefer to be the one to speak for myself.”

There’s a long beat. Ross doesn’t apologize, at least not sincerely. But he inclines his head in acknowledgment and adjusts his papers, his tone cooling further.

“Then I’ll leave you to it. If you’ll excuse me, I have some kingdom matters to attend to.”

With that, he turns and walks off, the sharp click of his boots echoing down the corridor until they fade.

You exhale slowly, the tension lingering in your chest even after he’s gone.

Sharon glances over at you. 

“You okay?”

You meet her eyes—light blue and calm. No trace of smugness, only composed regard. 

“Yes,” you answer stiffly. “Thank you...for that.”

She waves it off gently. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. Not to you.

Because this woman who chose to step in and help you is the same one who’s now engaged to Natasha. 

You study her—her posture, poised and elegant, but not performative. There’s an ease to how she carries herself, confidence that isn’t boastful, just...sure.

Certain in who she is and the role she’s stepped into.

You can’t stop the tight pull of something bitter in your chest.

Sharon seems to observe you in turn. She studies your face with faint recognition before tilting her head, her smile curling just slightly.

“I knew your voice sounded familiar.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

Sharon’s smile widens, a touch of amusement softening her features. 

“At the masquerade. Not a fan of the crowds, right?”

Your lips part in surprise. The stranger. The one who’d spoken with you briefly that night under masked anonymity, trading friendly wit and unexpected candor in a stolen moment of reprieve.

“That was you?”

Sharon chuckles. 

“Guilty. It was...a strange night. But in any case, I hoped it turned out better for you than me.”

You don’t know what to say to that, ducking your head as you remember special moments of that night.

“It did,” you whisper.

For a brief moment, everything was perfect in the world.

Only for reality to force its way back in as you face the one who has unintentionally managed to take it all away.

“You know, I haven’t exactly had time to make friends since arriving,” Sharon continues with a soft shrug. “Everyone treats me so carefully. It’s...exhausting. But that moment with you was the only one that actually felt normal.”

There’s an honesty in her tone that catches you off guard. Something sincere.

“So, I’m glad I got the chance to meet you again. Officially, Lady Y/n,” she says with a soft smile. 

You swallow. Hard.

That bitter feeling claws at your chest again.

Because she’s kind. Because she’s not the villain you had quietly painted her to be in the back of your mind. And because it would be so much easier if she was.

You push the feeling down.

“Likewise,” you murmur.

Your words are true, even if they feel like they’re scraping something raw on the way out.

Sharon smiles again, and for the briefest moment, it feels like the start of something complicated.

Maybe friendship.

Or maybe just another weight you’ll carry quietly.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The doors to Melina’s lab swing open with a forceful creak as Natasha strides inside, already mid-rant, her tone clipped with frustration.

“Councilor Ross may have been knowledgeable during your reign, but I’m this close to sending him into early retirement. I know it was him who leaked the news about the—”

Her words stop dead in their tracks the moment her eyes find you standing quietly at one of the work tables.

For a beat, neither of you says anything.

Then your lips twitch into the faintest smile. 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.”

Natasha breathes out your name like a prayer. 

“Y/n…”

It comes soft, stunned—almost disbelieving. Her frustration melts away at the sight of you, replaced by something far more vulnerable. She closes the door behind her without looking, her steps quick and sure as she crosses the room.

By the time she reaches you, her hands are already finding their place at your waist, instinctive and grounding. She draws you in close until your foreheads touch, her breath stuttering slightly as she exhales against you, her eyes fluttering shut as if just being near you is enough to calm the storm in her chest.

You hesitate at first, but then your hands slowly rise to rest on her arms. Familiar. Warm. Safe.

Your eyes close too—for a moment, you let yourself feel it. The pull. The peace. The illusion that nothing has changed.

But it has.

You sigh quietly and shake your head, pulling back just enough to look into her face. 

Natasha opens her eyes to meet yours, and when you raise your hand to her cheek, she turns into the touch, kissing your palm so gently that it makes your heart ache.

A soft smile begins to form on your lips—until reality rises again like a tide.

Your expression falls. 

“You’re engaged.”

The words come out as barely a whisper, but they hit like a hammer between you.

Natasha’s eyes widen in quiet devastation. She reaches up to cover your hand on her cheek, holding it there like she can will your doubt away. 

“You weren’t supposed to find out like this.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you slowly slip your hand from her grasp, your arms folding tightly across your chest like a shield.

“Were you going to tell me?” you ask, voice quieter now.

Natasha’s fingers twitch, aching to reach for you, but she forces them to stay still. She sees the way you’re pulling inward, how your shoulders round and your eyes lower like the weight is suddenly too much. And it shouldn’t have come to this. She was supposed to protect you from this.

“I was,” Natasha says quickly. “I was going to tell you. Once I had a plan.”

You glance at her, your brows lifting in a mix of disbelief and hurt.

She scrambles to explain. 

“It’s not real,” she says, like the words alone will undo the damage. “I mean—the arrangement is real, but I’m not—I didn’t—” She exhales in frustration, jaw clenching. “I never intended for this to get out before I fixed it. I already sent a messenger to Queen Peggy about dissolving the engagement, but somehow, the entire kingdom heard about it first.”

You look away, your gaze falling to the stone floor.

“Does Sharon know what you’re trying to do?”

The casual use of the other woman’s name makes Natasha blink.

“You know her?”

You nod and turn to the lab table, still not facing her directly. 

“I met her on my way in. Well…technically, I met her at your birthday party. She was the masked stranger I was talking with before you found me.”

Natasha’s eyes widen slightly at the realization, but you continue before she can process it.

“She seems…” you murmur, hands fidgeting with glass vials on the lab table, “...nice.”

And just like that, Natasha’s arms are around you again—tighter this time, wrapping you up from behind like she can anchor you both in place. Her head dips close, her breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“Don’t,” she murmurs, already sensing where your thoughts are heading. “Please. Don’t do that. It’s not going to happen. I can fix this.”

You lean into her briefly, eyes closing at the way she holds you like she’s afraid you’ll disappear. But then your shoulders slump. 

Not in comfort—in despair.

“But what if you can’t?” you whisper.

The moment the words leave your lips, you feel her whole body stiffen behind you, breath catching.

Natasha’s heart begins to race.

You—the person who’s believed in her since childhood, who’s never wavered in your faith in her, even when she couldn’t believe in herself. You were the one constant, the one voice that always said she could.

And now, you doubt.

Panic begins to claw its way up her spine.

She turns you around in her arms, holding your face between her palms, her voice raw.

“Hey, look at me,” she pleads. “Y/n, I love you. I’ve only ever loved you. Please—tell me you still believe in me. Tell me you’re still with me.”

You reach up, resting your hands over hers as you hold her gaze. 

“Of course I am,” you say softly. “I always will be.”

Relief floods her expression for the briefest moment. But then you add, just as gently:

“But Natasha…this might be too much. For you.”

She frowns, confused and wary.

“You’re rebuilding an entire kingdom. You have Stark’s diplomatic visit coming. You’re trying to keep the council in line, and now this engagement. You’re juggling everything at once—don’t you think it’s too much?”

“I can handle it,” Natasha says quickly, almost desperately. “I have to handle it.”

You step back, just slightly—enough to look at her with a knowing expression, one only someone who’s known her since childhood could wear.

“But that’s not what you’ve been focusing on these past few days, is it?”

She says nothing. Doesn’t need to.

You both know the answer to what—to who—has been her top priority these days. More than her duties. More than the kingdom.

Her silence speaks volumes. Her breath hitches as a growing fear crosses her face.

You watch her carefully, then ask, your own heart aching, “What are you so afraid I’m going to say?”

Natasha’s voice is a whisper now. 

“What are you saying?”

You take a breath.

“I think…” You swallow, forcing the words through the tightness in your chest. “I think we need to step back. Just for now. Just so that you can focus on the more important matters of the kingdom rather than…me.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Natasha pulls you into her again, her grip desperate, almost shaking.

“You’re breaking up with me,” she whispers.

Her voice cracks.

You close your eyes, forehead pressing against hers, and nod.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper back, the sorrow in your voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “But I think we need to.”

Natasha doesn’t answer.

She just holds you tighter, like maybe if she never lets go, she won’t have to accept that you’re slipping away.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

a/n: ...sorry for the angst 😅 but thank you for reading!

If you asked to be tagged and I missed it, please let me know again.

Taking a deep breath, Natasha makes her way over. She has been holding onto this conversation for days now, ever since Steve’s revelation about her mother’s actions after the Stark incident.

And now, with her mother momentarily alone, the opportunity presents itself.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Natasha says as she approaches.

Melina turns, momentarily surprised before her eyes narrow in immediate disapproval.

“Oh my—Natasha,” she exclaims, gesturing at her with a pointed glance. “You’re not even dressed yet! The guests will be arriving soon.”

“I will be,” Natasha assures her, brushing off the remark with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But first, there’s something I need to ask you. After the attack on the Starks, you—”

Before she can finish, Melina’s expression shifts. Her features tighten briefly before she exhales, and when she speaks, her tone is firm but laced with something carefully concealed underneath.

“Natasha,” she says, cutting her off before she can go any further. “I know you’ve been working tirelessly to fulfill your duties as Queen. But today is your birthday.”

She reaches out, placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, squeezing comfortingly.

“You deserve to enjoy this day for yourself,” she continues, her voice softening. “Especially after last year.”

Natasha stiffens slightly at the reminder, her mind momentarily pulling her back to that disastrous celebration—the one that had left you both hurt, distant, and struggling to mend what was broken between you.

Melina pauses, her eyes searching Natasha’s face before she adds, even softer now, “You and Y/n both deserve a night to be happy without worrying about something for once.”

A small frown tugs at Natasha’s lips. She hates it when her mother does this—when she manages to disarm her with carefully chosen words and wisdom that always seem to target the heart of the matter.

Because she is right.

Tonight is a chance to have one evening where the two of you can be together, uninterrupted, without the weight of secrets and expectations hanging between you.

With a quiet sigh of resignation, Natasha nods.

Melina gives a satisfied hum before swiftly shifting back into her commanding tone.

“Now, go and get ready. I refuse to let my daughter be late to her own party.”

As Natasha turns to leave, Melina calls out one last thing over her shoulder, her tone more amused than stern.

“Oh, and have someone check in on your sister. Kate stopped by earlier, and I have a strong suspicion those two are up to something.”

Natasha suppresses the slight smirk that immediately threatens to form at her mother’s words.

If only she knew.

Of course, Yelena and Kate were up to something.

But what Melina doesn’t know is that Natasha is the one who planned it.

With that thought, she leaves the ballroom to prepare for the masquerade celebration.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The lavish mask sits heavier on your upper face than expected—not in weight, but in the quiet anxiety that coils in your chest. The question of whether it is enough lingers in your mind.

Enough to shield you from the prying eyes that always seem to follow and judge your every move recently.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, a restless fidget betraying the hesitation creeping in. You linger just outside the grand ballroom, the muffled sounds of music and laughter seeping through the towering doors, a stark contrast to the uncertainty pooling in your gut.

With Pietro still upset, Wanda had chosen to stay behind at the manor, leaving you to arrive at the castle without a familiar, friendly presence at your side.

A part of you considers turning back—perhaps returning to the entrance, where Steve is stationed, checking each arriving guest.

At least he’s a familiar face in the sea of masked strangers.

But you know that leaving is not an option.

It would mean missing this night—a night meant to celebrate one of the most important people in your life.

And that? That’s simply out of the question.

So, with a steadying breath, you push forward, straightening your spine as you step past the towering double doors into the heart of the celebration.

The ballroom is alive with movement and sound. The music swells through the air, carrying with it the soft murmurs of guests deep in conversation.

Couples twirl across the polished marble floors, their identities concealed behind elaborate masks and flowing attire.

And for the first time in a long while, you feel free.

No suspicious glances. No whispered accusations as you pass. No nobles shifting uneasily in your presence.

Instead, smiles greet you. Friendly nods of acknowledgment.

A welcome change from the usual coldness that surrounds you.

Yet, even as you take in the splendor, your focus is on one thing—finding her.

Your eyes scan the crowd, searching for any sign of Natasha. But with everyone hidden beneath masks, distinguishing her from the guests proves more difficult than expected.

Still, you aren’t the only one searching for the elusive Queen.

Since your arrival, you’ve caught snippets of speculation and excited whispers—guests claiming to have spotted Natasha’s unmistakable red hair among the masked figures.

Each time you follow the murmurs, however, you find not the Queen herself, but something far more amusing.

On one side of the ballroom, nobles practically surround a striking figure with fiery red hair.

At first glance, it seems to be Natasha—poised, confident, effortlessly regal.

But then, a familiar canine at her side tilts its head at you.

Fanny lets out a single greeting bark in your direction.

The supposed Queen turns toward you slightly, and behind her mask, Yelena offers a mischievous wink before returning to her role, effortlessly imitating Natasha’s composed demeanor as nobles flock around her.

You shake your head in amusement, quickly piecing together what was happening.

Curious, you venture to the other side of the room, where another supposed Queen Natasha is encircled by eager guests.

Only this one appears significantly more flustered.

Lucky prances up to you happily, his tail wagging in excitement as you approach.

Your eyes land on this Natasha, her body tense, stiffly nodding as a noblewoman leans in much too close, speaking in a hushed, flirtatious tone.

The sight is all the confirmation you need.

Unlike Natasha—who would have effortlessly brushed off such advances—Kate looks moments away from losing her composure entirely.

You bite back a chuckle.

So that’s the plan.

Yelena and Kate, imitating Natasha, lure the attention of the nobles who would otherwise be hounding the real Queen with their endless requests and demands.

It’s a clever distraction.

But then, where is the real Natasha?

You retreat to the side of the room, taking a sip from the glass in your hand as you survey the room from a distance.

As you lower your cup, someone steps up beside you.

A masked woman, her long blonde curls cascading over her shoulders as she looks around at the ballroom with a curious gaze.

“Not a fan of crowds?” she remarks casually, her tone light and conversational.

You glance at her, noting the unfamiliarity in her presence. She doesn’t carry herself like the other nobles—there’s no stiffness, no air of calculated poise. Instead, she seems relaxed, approachable, as if she belongs and yet stands apart at the same time.

You shake your head lightly before offering a polite response.

“Just taking a moment to admire everything. The Queen’s mother always outdoes herself when preparing for these events.”

The woman hums in quiet interest, glancing around as if to see the truth of your words for herself.

“And you?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. “Are you enjoying your evening?”

She smiles then, with an almost thoughtful expression. Her eyes linger on yours a beat longer than expected, searching—like she’s looking for something beneath the surface.

“I suppose I’m more intrigued than anything,” she admits, her voice laced with quiet amusement. “This is my first time attending an event in the Romanov Kingdom.”

Something about the way she says it makes you study her a little closer.

“Where are you from?” you ask, curiosity laced in your tone.

She inclines her head slightly, dipping into a subtle bow.

“The Carter Kingdom,” she reveals. “And I must say, I’ve never seen a celebration quite like this.”

Her answer piques your interest, and you study her more closely.

The Carter Kingdom—a realm known for its neutrality, likely a result of its position between Stark and Romanov territories. Ever cautious, their kingdom has always walked a careful line and maintained a careful balance, never fully aligning with either side and distancing themselves from conflict whenever tensions threatened to rise.

So why is someone from Carter here, in Romanov’s court?

The thought lingers, but before you can dwell on it further, the woman’s gaze drifts across the ballroom, her following words pulling you back to the present.

“I was hoping to find someone tonight,” she admits, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. “But with everyone hidden behind masks, that may prove to be impossible.”

You nod in understanding.

“You’re not the only one searching for someone.”

The words barely leave your lips before you feel it—a hand slipping into yours.

The fingers intertwine with yours in a way that is both familiar and unmistakably intentional.

You turn sharply, and your breath catches in surprise.

Short, platinum hair. A mask covering part of her face.

But those eyes.

Brilliant, familiar, impossibly green.

Natasha smiles softly at you, her expression warm and full of love.

The blonde stranger beside you chuckles.

“Well, it appears they have found you.” Her words are laced with amusement as she inclines her head slightly. “Enjoy your evening.”

With that, she steps away, disappearing into the crowd.

Natasha watches the stranger go before turning her attention back to you.

“Who was that?” she asks, her voice calm but laced with curiosity.

You shake your head slightly, glancing back, but the woman has already disappeared into the crowd.

“I don’t know.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, but the moment passes quickly as she focuses entirely on you.

Her free hand gently lifts yours, bringing it up as she twirls you slightly, making you spin in place before pulling you close against her.

“You look beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice dipping lower, just for you.

You smirk, tilting your head.

“And you look…different.”

Natasha grins. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s…an adjustment,” you tease, your fingers reaching up to ghost along the edge of her platinum hair, tucking in a stray strand of red hair peeking out under the wig slightly. “But I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”

Her grip on your waist tightens slightly as she leans in, just enough for her lips to hover close to your ear.

“And I’ll always find you,” she whispers.

Your smile softens as you fondly run your hand along her arm before raising a brow.

“I assume this was all part of another plan of yours?”

She nods, her lips barely grazing your temple as she pulls back.

“I want tonight to be for us,” she says, sincerity woven into every word. “No distractions. No obligations.”

Her voice softens, her fingers gently squeezing yours.

“Just you and me.”

Your heart swells at her words. Cupping her face, you kiss her cheek lightly before whispering softly.

“Happy Birthday, Natasha.”

She smiles before extending her hand, her expression playful yet full of affection.

“Dance with me?” she invites, her green eyes twinkling beneath the mask.

You take her hand without hesitation.

“Always.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The two of you spend most of the evening wrapped in each other’s company, enjoying the rare ease of the moment.

No suspicious glances, no prying eyes—except once from Natasha’s mother, who seems to recognize her daughter from across the room despite the disguise.

Her gaze lingers on the two of you for a moment, then, with a roll of her eyes, pointedly ignores whatever suspicions she may have had, allowing Natasha’s plan to continue undisturbed.

You even manage to make brief contact with the other so-called Natashas scattered throughout the ballroom. Yelena and Kate’s performances, each their own exaggerated take on Natasha’s mannerisms, draw quiet amusement from you both.

Eventually, the night slows. The lively energy of the ballroom shifts, giving way to something softer, more intimate, as couples take to the dance floor with their partners.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, the two of you find yourselves swaying to the gentle rhythm of the music, lost in a world entirely your own.

Your hands rest lightly against the back of her neck, fingertips idly tracing along the warm skin there, while Natasha’s arms remain securely wrapped around your waist.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Then, in the quiet intimacy between you, you murmur, “Was there anything else you wanted for your birthday?” Your voice is soft and low—just for her.

Natasha’s forehead presses against yours, her breath warm as she holds your gaze.

“The only thing I want,” she whispers, “is for the rest of tonight to be a happy memory for both of us.”

Her words settle deep in your chest, weighty in their simplicity.

You contemplate them, your mind briefly flitting back to the memory that still lingers in the shadows of your heart—the last birthday celebration, a night marred by pain for the two of you.

But not this time. Tonight is different.

Tonight is a chance to rewrite the past—to make something beautiful, something worth remembering.

A playful smirk tugs at your lips as you glance around, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Not that anyone would know, but…want to sneak away? For old times’ sake?”

Natasha chuckles, her grin mirroring your own, the mischief in her eyes unmistakable.

“I’d go anywhere with you.”

Hand in hand, the two of you slip from the ballroom, weaving effortlessly through the castle corridors. Stifled giggles escape between hushed breaths, echoes of youth and recklessness resurfacing—reminiscent of all the times you once evaded Natasha’s royal obligations together.

As the distant hum of celebration fades behind you, replaced by the quiet hush of empty hallways, the atmosphere of the night seems to lighten even further.

You lead her to the castle kitchen—a familiar refuge, tucked away from the grandeur of the ballroom.

In the quiet solitude, with no one around, you shed the mask you’ve worn all evening.

Natasha wastes no time removing her disguise. With a few deft movements, she pulls off the blonde wig and unfastens the pins, her familiar red locks cascading down over her shoulders.

Without thinking, you reach out, catching a few strands between your fingers, watching as the soft curls slip through your grasp. A small smile tugs at your lips at the sight of the color that has always been hers.

“As good as the disguise was,” you murmur, your tone warm, “I like your real hair more.”

Natasha smirks, tilting her head playfully.

“Not a fan of blondes?”

A soft huff of laughter escapes you as you give her a light shove, rolling your eyes at her teasing.

Releasing her hand, you stride toward the cabinets, humming in satisfaction when you open a familiar one and find exactly what you are looking for.

“Same spot,” you remark, pointing to the hidden flask tucked away in the same position as last year. Instead of attempting to reach for it this time, you lean back against the counter, raising a brow as you flash Natasha a playful look.

“Do you mind?”

She steps forward, chuckling softly as she reaches up to retrieve the flask. Her hand brushes against yours on the counter—just a fleeting touch, but one that sends a shiver through you.

Like before, the motion brings her close. Too close.

Your breath stutters as the space between you disappears, your fingers clenching onto the edge of the counter in an attempt to ground yourself.

But Natasha doesn’t hand you the flask.

Instead, she places it behind you, leaning in further—enclosing you between her arms, her body pressing subtly against yours.

Her breath is warm against your cheek, her proximity overwhelming in a way that leaves you momentarily breathless.

This time, there are no barriers.

No interruptions, no poison, no looming danger—just the heat of her presence, her gaze locked on yours with an intensity that makes your pulse race.

Your hands lift instinctively, fingers clutching the fabric at her sides, pulling her closer as if afraid she might slip away.

She doesn’t resist.

Natasha tilts her head, her lips mere inches from yours, those impossibly green eyes watching you like she’s waiting—waiting for you to close the final distance.

“You know,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, “when we were in this position last year…I think I really wanted to kiss you back then.”

A small chuckle escapes Natasha, her breath mingling with yours.

“If you had done that,” she muses, “we’d probably already be married by my coronation.”

Her words catch you off guard.

You blink, huffing lightly, rolling your eyes in disbelief. “Sure.”

But Natasha doesn’t laugh.

Instead, her expression softens, her seriousness disarming. There’s no teasing in her gaze now—just quiet certainty.

“I love you, Y/n,” she says, her voice firm yet gentle. “I told you before, I don’t care what the others say. I only want you to be the one by my side.”

Her words strike deep, dismantling every lingering doubt you’ve ever had.

Your heart swells, your gaze softening as you tilt your head forward, finally closing the remaining distance.

The moment your lips meet, it’s soft at first—tentative, as if savoring the feeling. But beneath it, there’s something deeper, something unspoken that neither of you needs to say aloud.

The kiss lingers, unhurried yet filled with everything you’ve held back for far too long.

And when you finally part, your forehead rests against hers, your breath uneven, your heart pounding.

“I want you too, Natasha,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Natasha exhales softly—a mix of relief and joy—and then she’s kissing you again. This time, it’s different.

Deeper. Hungrier.

Her hands thread into your hair, pulling you impossibly close, while yours settle on her waist, holding her against you like she belongs there.

The air grows heavier, tension mounting as kisses grow feverish and hands start to wander.

Somewhere in the haze of it all, the flask is pushed aside with a soft clink, forgotten.

But neither of you notices. Neither of you cares.

Natasha breaks the kiss first, only to trail her lips along your jaw, her breath coming faster, her voice barely a whisper against your skin.

“Come with me.”

It’s not just a request. It’s a plea.

And as her eyes meet yours—alight with longing, filled with love—you know your answer was decided long before she ever asked.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Without hesitation, you follow Natasha as she takes your hand, leading you through the quiet halls to her room. The journey is a blur of hurried steps and stolen kisses, the anticipation building until you reach her chamber.

Once inside, the door clicks shut, enveloping you both in the quiet warmth of Natasha’s private space.

The faint hum of the celebration down the halls is a distant memory now, replaced by the sound of your breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as Natasha turns to face you, her expression soft yet filled with desire.

Moonlight filters through the windows, casting her in an ethereal glow that makes your heart ache with affection.

Natasha takes your hand, leading you to the edge of her bed. She sits, her fingers moving to linger on your waist, and tilts her head to look up at you with a mix of love and adoration.

You stand between her legs, the quiet of the room broken only by the sounds of your breathing.

The weight of the moment settles heavily between you, an intoxicating mix of nerves and anticipation that makes your pulse race.

Tentatively, your hands rise to her shoulders, brushing over the smooth fabric of her tunic, warmed from her body. The feel of it under your fingers and the thought of what comes next sends a shiver through you.

Slowly, you let your hands drift downward, finding the soft, exposed skin at the hollow of her collarbone, where her pulse beats steadily beneath your touch.

You pause, your heart pounding. Lifting your gaze to hers, you search for reassurance, silently asking for permission.

What you find is a look that sets your soul alight—love, trust, and something deeper, something raw and undeniable, all shining back at you.

Taking a steadying breath, your trembling fingers move to the edges of her crimson and black vest.

You begin to work the buttons, one by one, the faint sound of fabric slipping free magnifying in the quiet. As the vest loosens, it slides down her shoulders, revealing the curve of her neck and the elegant strength of her arms.

You take it gently, placing it aside before your hands return to her, pausing at the hem of her undershirt—the final barrier between her skin and your touch.

With a featherlight caress, your fingers trail along her sides as you lift the fabric.

The shirt resists only briefly before surrendering to your movements, sliding upward to reveal the toned expanse of her abdomen, the curve of her waist, and the gradual swell of her breast as the fabric lifts, teasing at what lies beneath.

At the end, Natasha helps you pull it free, and the moment it leaves her body, the air in the room seems to change entirely.

You exhale softly, unable to help the way your eyes roam over her, drinking in the sight of her bare skin bathed in the moonlight, accentuating every contour, every line of her form.

This is not the first time you’ve held her close—felt the quiet power of her embrace—but to see her laid bare like this is entirely new, something that takes your breath away.

You look back up, meeting her gaze once more.

There’s a glimmer in her eye—a blend of amusement and triumph at your reaction, as though she’s both teasing you and utterly reveling in your awe.

Before she can form the teasing words you know she’s crafting in her mind, your lips find hers, leaning in close as you cup her face.

The kiss is deep and urgent, swallowing whatever clever remark she might have planned. It’s a clash of passion and hunger, your emotions spilling over into the fervent press of your mouths.

Natasha gasps softly, the sound like music to your ears, her earlier smirk dissolving as you thread your fingers through her red hair, tugging gently.

Time blurs as you both shift, gravity and longing guiding you onto the bed.

Soon enough, you find yourself straddling her, your knees framing her hips, the warmth of her body anchoring you in the moment.

Her hands move instinctively, trailing up the curve of your spine with a touch so light and reverent it sends a shiver through you.

It’s as if she’s tracing the outlines of a fragile work of art, afraid to press too hard and ruin its beauty.

When Natasha reaches the clasp of your dress, she pauses, pulling back just enough to search your eyes.

The question is unspoken but clear, lingering in the charged air between you.

You meet her gaze, offering a soft, steady nod as you shift slightly, giving her the room she needs.

Her fingers work with deliberate care, undoing the clasp with an almost ceremonial precision.

Each movement is unhurried, as though she’s savoring every second, stretching the intimacy between you like a thread. The fabric falls from your shoulders in a slow cascade, pooling at your waist before sliding off entirely.

The lace underneath slips away just as easily, joining the growing pile on the floor.

The cool air kisses your newly exposed skin, sending a ripple of awareness down your spine—a stark contrast to the warmth radiating between you.

For a long moment, Natasha doesn’t move.

She simply looks at you, her gaze sweeping over every newly revealed inch of bare skin.

But this isn’t a passing glance or a mere act of admiration.

No, the way her lips part slightly, her chest rises and falls in a slow, measured rhythm, and her green eyes darken under the dim candlelight.

She isn’t just seeing you. She’s memorizing you. Capturing this exact moment in her mind as if she never wants to forget how you look like this, just for her.

Heat blooms across your cheeks under the intensity of her gaze, a flutter of nervousness rising in your chest.

Instinctively, you reach for the discarded fabric, your fingers brushing against the soft material in a reflexive attempt to cover yourself.

But Natasha’s hand moves quickly before you can, catching yours mid-motion.

Her fingers entwine with yours, firm yet gentle, her touch grounding you.

And then, she lifts your hand to her lips.

The kiss she presses there is soft, reassuring—a silent vow wrapped in warmth.

Her free arm encircles your waist, guiding you effortlessly back into her lap until your bodies are flush against each other.

There’s no space left between you now, only the steady rhythm of your breathing and the quiet thrum of your heartbeats, aligned in perfect sync.

“Beautiful,” Natasha murmurs, her voice barely more than a breath.

The word lingers in the air, heavy with sincerity, and in that moment, every doubt, every flicker of self-consciousness dissolves.

The only thing that matters is you and her. Together.

Her lips find your neck next, warm and soft, leaving a trail of slow, open-mouthed kisses just beneath your jaw.

A soft sigh escapes your lips as your head tilts instinctively, baring more of your skin to her.

Natasha takes full advantage, trailing her mouth lower, her breath a gentle whisper against your collarbone before she presses her lips there.

A sound rises in your throat at the sensation, but you bite it back, refusing to give in so easily.

Natasha notices.

She pulls back just enough to glance up at you, her lips curving into a knowing smirk.

“Don’t hold back on me, Y/n.”

The teasing lilt in her voice sends a shiver down your spine, but before you can respond, her hands begin to explore, fingertips skimming over your skin with the slow reverence of someone unwrapping a precious gift.

A breathless sound escapes before you can stop it, and Natasha stills at the noise, her eyes flicking up to meet yours.

There’s a flicker of something triumphant in her expression, but it’s softened by the overwhelming affection in her gaze.

“You’re not playing fair,” you manage to say, your voice shaking with the weight of your own restraint.

But you’re already retaliating.

You know her weaknesses too, the places where her resolve frays.

Your lips find the sharp edge of her jaw, trailing lower, pressing kisses that gradually shift into light nips and teasing grazes of your teeth.

Natasha shudders beneath you, her breath catching slightly as her head tilts back, giving you even more access.

A faint hiss escapes her lips when you find the sensitive spot just below her ear, and a smug smile tugs at your lips at the way she reacts to your touch.

“Alright,” Natasha murmurs, her voice dipping into something lower, something more dangerous. “Two can play at that game.”

Her hand, warm and steady, trails lower, fingers ghosting over your skin with featherlight touches that leave your nerves alight with anticipation.

She pauses at your inner thigh, lingering just before the edge of where you want her, the maddening stillness making you whimper softly. Your forehead rests against hers, your breathing uneven as you fight the instinct to pout.

Natasha’s lips twitch in amusement, her competitive streak refusing to yield.

And then—she moves.

It’s subtle, just an innocent shift in her position beneath you, but it’s enough.

Enough for your hips to adjust and, for the briefest second, graze against one of her fingers.

The sensation steals your breath, and a surprised gasp escapes before you can stop it.

Natasha doesn’t move again, waiting.

Your eyes meet hers, a silent battle of wills playing out between you.

You know what she’s doing.

It’s the same challenge you and her always partake in, seeing who will give in to the other first.

And while you have been confident in your odds recently since the two of you got together, a flicker of hesitation appears in your stubborn expression at the feeling of her hand so close yet purposely still in its position.

As if acting on their own, your hips press down against her hand, a slow, seeking motion that makes a small, desperate sound escape your lips.

A knowing smirk ghosts across Natasha’s lips, but she still doesn’t move.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of her patience, the unbearable anticipation stretching between you.

And then, finally, your resolve cracks.

Leaning in until your lips brush against hers, you whisper, barely above a breath, “Natasha, please.”

That’s all she needed.

Her hand moves immediately. No more teasing, no more hesitation—just deliberate, unrelenting pressure exactly where you need it.

The relieved moan that escapes you is swallowed by her lips as she kisses you deeply, her mouth claiming yours in a way that leaves you breathless.

The moment she teases at your entrance, your entire body tenses, a strangled moan falling from your lips.

At the sound, Natasha pulls back just enough to watch you, her breathing heavy, her pupils blown wide.

She swallows hard, her expression shifting into something focused—determined.

And then, carefully, she presses a finger into you, slow and steady, watching your face for any sign of discomfort.

The sensation drags out a broken moan from you, your back arching slightly as your fingers tighten against her shoulders.

Natasha lets out a quiet, awed breath at the way you react to her, as though she’s just discovered something sacred.

Her movements are careful at first, but the second you whisper, “Keep going,” against her lips, Natasha adds another, and with a sharp thrust, you cry out, your grip tightening as your body responds instinctively.

Natasha groans softly at the way you clench around her fingers, the sound vibrating against your skin.

Her pace quickens, her movements more deliberate, her thumb pressing into you with unerring precision.

You let out a shaky breath, your forehead pressing against hers, your lips parting as you whisper, “You feel so good, Natasha.”

Natasha freezes for a split second.

And then—something shifts.

A quiet exhale falls from her lips before her pace increases, her fingers moving with a newfound urgency. As if your words have lit something inside her, her determination renewed at your praise.

Natasha thrusts deeper, her thumb pressing more firmly, her breathing growing heavier as she listens—as she feels the way your body responds to her.

Her other arm tightens around your waist, anchoring you and keeping you close as she works you closer and closer.

She can feel the exact moment when you’re teetering on the edge, your body trembling, your nails biting into her skin.

“Look at me, Y/n,” Natasha whispers, her voice hoarse but filled with a barely concealed need.

And you do.

Your gaze locks with hers, and for a moment, time stops as you take in her expression.

Her lips are parted in awe, and her eyes darkened with desire yet softened by something deeper—something that makes you feel completely seen and cherished.

Meanwhile, Natasha sees everything in your expression—the vulnerability, the trust, the overwhelming love.

“Come for me,” she whispers breathlessly in a soft plea.

And that’s what undoes you.

Natasha watches, utterly mesmerized, as you fall apart in her arms, her name spilling from your lips in a choked, breathless moan.

And as you tremble against her, she holds you close, whispering quiet comforts against your temple, her arms an unyielding shelter around you.

For a long while, the room is silent save for the sound of your uneven breaths mingling with hers.

Natasha’s hand strokes your back in soothing circles, her touch grounding you as your head rests against her shoulder.

Her lips brush soft kisses to your temple, each one filled with quiet devotion.

“You’re incredible,” Natasha whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

The quiet sincerity in her tone sends a warm flush through you. Your heart swells, the lingering tension in your body fading as you bask in the tender moment shared between you.

When the heady bliss finally begins to ebb, you summon the strength to lift your head.

Your gaze meets hers, and Natasha’s green eyes are an exquisite blend of softness and intensity, locking onto yours as if you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

The weight of her adoration is overwhelming in the best way, making your breath catch all over again.

For a moment, neither of you speak, lost in the quiet, unspoken reverence of the moment.

Leaning in, you brush your lips against hers, slow and unhurried this time.

There’s no urgency in the kiss—only a deep, mutual understanding of how deeply you cherish each other.

Pulling back, you cradle her face in your hand, your thumb tracing a gentle line along her cheekbone.

“That’s my line,” you murmur, your voice warm with affection, a playful edge just beginning to creep in.

In the pale moonlight, Natasha’s lips tug into a faint smirk—the kind of pleased, self-assured expression that never fails to both amuse and frustrate you.

You huff softly, your breaths still uneven.

“Don’t look so smug,” you warn lightly, narrowing your eyes with playful defiance. “It’s your turn next.”

Natasha chuckles, the sound low and rich, her chest rising and falling beneath you as her competitive nature sparks to life again, even amid such tenderness.

“Sure, we’ll see about that,” she murmurs, her voice carrying the promise of a challenge as her lips brush against the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of featherlight kisses.

Her hands roam your sides, teasing and confident, her fingers tracing patterns that send goosebumps skittering across your skin.

She thinks she’s regaining control.

But just as Natasha begins asserting herself again, you move swiftly and decisively.

In a blur of motion, you press her back into the bed, her head landing atop the pillows as you straddle her hips.

Her eyes widen in surprise, a soft gasp slipping from her lips, but the shock quickly gives way to playful defiance.

Leaning down, you meet her gaze with that look—the one you know she can never resist, the one that always makes her melt at your every request.

“Come on, Natasha,” you coax, your voice soft yet commanding, teasing yet undeniable. “I want to hear you, too.”

Natasha swallows, her breath hitching slightly, and for just a moment, her unwavering confidence wavers.

You smile at her rare speechlessness and decide to return the favor of her earlier teasing.

With deliberate slowness, your fingers trace a languid path—starting at her shoulder, gliding down the curve of her chest, then trailing lower, across the taut plane of her stomach.

The featherlight scrape of your nails leaves a trail of goosebumps in their wake, her muscles tensing beneath your touch in anticipation.

Your hand stills at the waistband of her pants, fingers toying with the fabric, dragging out the moment as you steal a glance at her.

There’s no resistance or hesitation in her gaze. Instead, the anticipation in her eyes burns hotter, her breath shallower as Natasha waits—trusting, wanting.

Finally, your hand slips beneath the fabric.

The first brush of your fingers against her heat draws a sharp intake of breath, a sound that sends a thrill through you—a rush of excitement at how completely she responds to you and at the revelation of how truly she was affected from earlier.

When you press further, Natasha’s breath catches, a faint groan slipping free as her hips shift toward your touch on instinct.

Her grip on the sheets tightens, knuckles whitening as her self-control wavers, visibly slipping through her grasp.

And god, you love seeing her like this.

Natasha—so effortlessly composed, so in control—unraveling beneath you.

Just as suddenly, you withdraw, leaving her breath hitching in protest.

Natasha exhales a shaky sigh, a moment of relief passing over her features, believing you’re offering her a reprieve.

But she should have known better.

Her breath stutters—a sharp, unsteady pause—when her eyes follow your next movements, watching as you lift your fingers to your mouth.

Your tongue darts out, tasting her, your gaze never once leaving hers.

Natasha’s lips part, pupils blown wide, and in that instant, the confidence she clings to begins to crack.

She’s completely at your mercy now. And she knows it.

Gently but decisively, you remove the last barrier between you, sliding the remaining pieces of clothing down her legs, leaving her completely bare beneath you.

Her breathing is heavier now, anticipation thick between you.

As you move back up to her face, Natasha expects a kiss—expects you to claim her lips again—but you veer off course, pressing your lips to her shoulder instead.

You trail kisses down her collarbone, across the swell of her chest, following the same path your fingers traveled moments ago.

Natasha’s body tenses beneath you, a shiver rolling through her as your mouth grazes her stomach.

Her breath hitches, her hands tightening in the sheets as you move lower, each kiss deliberate, each touch designed to build her up, to make her want, to make her need.

When your lips finally meet where she needs you most, her head falls back against the pillow, and your name spills from her lips in a soft, shaky whisper.

The sound alone sends warmth flooding through you, satisfaction curling in your chest.

Her resolve slowly crumbles with every calculated movement of your mouth, each flick of your tongue drawing her closer to the edge.

Mesmerized, you keep your eyes on her, watching every single detail of her reactions.

The way her lashes flutter, the way her lips tremble, the way her breath stutters in a battle between restraint and surrender. Her stubbornness only fuels you, only makes you more determined to see her fall apart as entirely as she did for you.

And she’s so close now, her body trembling, her breathing uneven.

But you want to hear her break.

Your grip tightens on her thigh, just enough to get her attention, to make her half-lidded eyes find yours.

“Let go, Natasha,” you murmur against her skin, your voice a soft but insistent command. Holding her gaze, you continue with a low whisper, “Let me hear my queen.”

The title shatters what little control she had left.

A broken, breathless cry rips from her throat as her body arches into you, as pleasure crashes over her in waves.

Her hands abandon the sheets, tangling in your hair, gripping onto you as if you’re the only thing anchoring her to the world.

You don’t stop—not yet.

Not until her gasps turn into soft, pleading whimpers, not until her body slackens beneath you, utterly spent.

Not until she’s completely yours.

Pressing soft, reverent kisses along her inner thighs, across her stomach, and back up her chest, you finally settle beside her.

And the moment you do, Natasha turns immediately, gathering you in her arms, curling against your side as if she needs you close, as if she never wants to let go.

Her lips brush against your neck, each kiss slow, tender, worshipful.

For a long while, neither of you speak.

The world outside seems to shrink to this moment—just the quiet rhythm of Natasha’s fingers tracing absentminded patterns along your skin, the slow, steady rise and fall of her breath against your shoulder, the warmth of her body molding perfectly to yours.

You don’t move. You don’t need to. You just exist together, tangled in sheets and moonlight, the scent of her still clinging to your skin, her presence anchoring you to something deep and unshakable.

Finally, Natasha breaks the silence, her voice hoarse, raw with emotion.

“I love you, Y/n. So much.”

The words land softly, but their weight sinks deep, settling somewhere comfortably in your chest.

Your breath catches for just a second before warmth blooms inside you. You tighten your hold on her instinctively, pulling her impossibly closer, pressing your lips to her bare shoulder in a slow, lingering kiss—your response whispered against her skin, wrapped in just as much devotion.

“I love you too, Natasha.”

Her arms tighten around you in response, as if she’s trying to etch the words into her very being, as if she wants to hold onto this moment forever.

For a while, you stay like that—wrapped up in each other, the silence stretching between you in the most peaceful way.

But then, the familiar spark of mischief creeps back into your voice.

“So…does this mean I win?”

You don’t miss how her body tenses slightly against yours, nor the sharp exhale following your words. It’s enough to make a grin creep across your face, though it quickly falters when Natasha shifts, propping herself up on one elbow, her expression a slow-burning mix of mock indignation and something far more dangerous.

She scoffs softly, tilting her head as if genuinely amused.

“Win?” she repeats, arching a brow. “Oh, no, Y/n.”

Her voice drops into a lower, velvety challenge, one that sends a familiar shiver racing down your spine. The same tone she uses when she’s already decided she won’t back down from a challenge.

“You have no idea what you’ve just started.”

Natasha’s confident smirk returns, sharp and knowing, and before you can so much as blink, her lips crash against yours, swallowing whatever retort you might have had.

The kiss is deep, consuming, decisive—leaving no room for argument, no room for anything but the two of you.

You barely register the way her hand slides down your side until you feel her nails drag teasingly along your skin, her touch deliberate, already mapping out the next way she’s going to undo you.

A sharp inhale escapes you, your body betraying you as heat stirs again, reigniting with startling ease under her practiced touch.

Natasha pulls back just enough to look at you, her green eyes dark and filled with intent.

Your breath is already uneven as you try composing yourself, but it’s useless—not when Natasha looks at you like that.

You sigh, part exasperation, part surrender—but mostly adoration.

“You’re so competitive,” you murmur, yet your hands betray you, already finding their place around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer until she’s atop you.

Natasha smirks, her confidence unwavering, her voice dipped in amusement.

“And you love it.”

You don’t bother arguing—there’s no point when you both know the truth.

Instead, you close the distance between you, capturing her lips before she can say anything else.

But her smirk only widens against your mouth, the victorious glint in her eyes undeniable as she pulls you closer still.

The night stretches on, time slipping away as the world outside fades, shrinking to nothing but the two of you—entwined in fire and tenderness, love and devotion, in a battle neither of you ever truly wants to win.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The soft, rhythmic sound of knocking on the door cuts through the quiet stillness of the night, causing Natasha to blink herself awake, the remnants of sleep still lingering in her mind as the soft moonlight pours through the window, casting gentle shadows across the room.

A gentle pressure on her shoulder draws her attention downward, and her features soften as her gaze settles on you, taking in your peaceful, sleeping expression as you lay beside her.

The memories of the intimate moments you shared earlier are still fresh in her mind, filling her with a warmth that momentarily drowns out the annoyance of the persistent knocking.

Careful not to wake you as she shifts beneath the blankets, she slowly slips out from under you.

Her hand lingers for a moment on your bare shoulder, as if savoring the warmth of your skin before she gently pulls the blanket over you, ensuring you remain covered.

She allows herself one more lingering look at you, her heart clenching with affection, before throwing on a simple set of night clothes and padding softly to the door.

Natasha opens the door just enough to peek out, a slight frown on her face as she prepares herself for whatever interruption this is.

The second the door cracks open, her gaze narrows at the figure on the other side.

“What do you want, Yelena?”

Her sister regards her with an appraising glance, her arms crossed and her expression rife with suspicion as she takes in Natasha’s slightly disheveled appearance.

Her hair is loose, her cheeks are faintly flushed, and there’s a glow about her that Yelena can’t ignore.

“Something about you is different,” Yelena comments, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she peers closer before attempting to glance into the room, but Natasha quickly shifts her body in the doorway, blocking her view.

Before Yelena can investigate further, Natasha steps out into the hall, closing the door behind her with a swift motion. She turns to face her sister, her arms crossing as if to shield herself from Yelena’s probing gaze.

“Don’t even start,” Natasha warns, her voice firm.

Yelena’s lips curve into a slow, teasing smirk as realization dawns in her eyes.

“Ohhh,” she drawls, dragging out the syllable in exaggerated delight.

Natasha groans inwardly, but she doesn’t have the energy to deal with her sister’s teasing at the moment.

“What do you want?” she asks, trying to divert the subject.

Yelena’s grin only widens, but she doesn’t push further—yet.

“Mom is calling an emergency family meeting,” she replies with a shrug.

Natasha furrows her brows in confusion.

“Now? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I don’t know,” Yelena responds with another shrug, already turning to walk away.

Natasha casts a brief glance back at her door, her heart heavy with the desire to return to you, but duty calls, and she sighs before following her sister down the corridor.

“Ask her when we get there,” Yelena continues nonchalantly, though a mischievous glint dances in her eyes as she glances over her shoulder. “Should we invite Y/n, too? You know, since she’s still here.”

Natasha’s only response is a soft groan as she pushes her sister forward before she can turn back to the door.

Yelena laughs, her tone dripping with amusement, but she doesn’t press further.

When the two reach the family common room, Natasha immediately notices the tension in the air.

Her mother stands near the fireplace, her posture stiff and her hands fidgeting nervously. Her father sits nearby, his expression apprehensive, and his eyes avoid meeting hers entirely.

Natasha’s gaze sharpens as it drifts to the stranger in the room—a woman with golden-blonde hair, looking poised and unreadable.

In stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere, Yelena plops into a chair with a relaxed posture, one leg slung over the other as she watches the scene unfold with interest.

Natasha, however, remains standing, her arms crossing defensively as she turns to her mother.

“What did you want to talk about?” Natasha asks, her voice firm, though a thread of suspicion laces her tone that she will not like this conversation.

There’s a long pause, and Natasha watches as her mother hesitates, almost as if she’s unsure how to begin.

That in itself is a further warning sign to Natasha.

Finally, with a small gesture, her mother motions to the woman.

“This is Princess Sharon Carter of the Carter Kingdom,” she begins, her voice uncharacteristically careful. “She’s here to discuss the details of…a contract between our kingdoms.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow sharply, her voice dropping to a dangerous edge.

“A contract about what exactly?”

The room falls into an uneasy silence.

Her mother fidgets, her gaze flickering away, while her father shifts uncomfortably in his seat, still refusing to look at her. Even Yelena straightens in her chair, her curiosity clearly piqued as she watches the tension build.

When no one answers, the woman steps forward with an air of grace and confidence. Her movements are deliberate, and her posture is flawless as she inclines her head in acknowledgment.

“A contract regarding our engagement,” Princess Sharon Carter states, her voice calm and precise, the barest trace of a smile on her lips as she meets Natasha’s widened eyes.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14

a/n: Thank you for reading! 🫣

If you asked to be tagged and I missed it, please let me know again.

The sound draws your attention, and for a brief moment, you glance back at her.

Natasha straightens, her heart flickering with hope, but the moment is fleeting. 

Once you see she’s relatively okay, you quickly shift your focus back to your conversation with Sam, effectively shutting her out again. 

“So, how far can Redwing fly?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch the falcon hover effortlessly above.

Sam perks up immediately, his tone turning proud. 

“Oh, he can make it all the way to the Mar-vel Kingdom and back in a day. No problem,” he boasts, clearly delighted to share the falcon’s capabilities.

Your expression softens into genuine interest as you nod, absorbing every detail Sam shares.

Natasha watches you from a step behind, the faintest smile softening her expression despite herself.

She’s always admired the way you connect with others, your genuine curiosity and openness drawing people in. It’s a quality that makes her heart ache even more at the thought of you feeling shunned and ridiculed recently. 

To her, it’s unfathomable how anyone could associate you with Dreykov’s scheming persona.  

Your thoughtful hum pulls Natasha out of her musings.

“And he can find anyone?” you ask.

Sam nods with certainty.

“Greatest tracker I’ve ever worked with.” 

As if to prove his handler’s point, Redwing emits a short chirp and begins circling a spot some distance ahead, drawing all of your attention.

Sam glances back at her with a serious nod.

“Found him,” he states simply, quickening his pace toward the location to scout the area. 

You fall in step beside Natasha, keeping your word to stay close to her, though you maintain your pointed silence.

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. 

With Sam far enough ahead, she seizes the opportunity to address the lingering tension. 

Natasha takes a deep breath, steeling herself as she nudges your shoulder lightly.

“Y/n,” she calls softly, her voice a quiet plea.

You don’t respond, your gaze fixed ahead, and Natasha’s heart sinks. She takes another breath, her words tumbling out earnestly. 

“I’m sorry,” she begins. “I should have told you about Redwing. It’s just…” She hesitates, searching for the right words. “Ross had his men following you, and I knew he wouldn’t stop unless there was some kind of surveillance to replace his.” 

Your eyes narrow slightly at her words, though you still don’t look her way.

Natasha hurries to clarify, her voice faltering.

“Not that you need to be watched,” she says hastily. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe. That’s all. I swear.” 

Her voice falters as you continue to remain silent, and she sighs heavily, running a hand through her hair as frustration and regret simmer within her. 

“I really am—” Natasha freezes mid-sentence, her words catching in her throat as she catches the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Her eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Wait a second…” she mutters before letting out an exasperated sigh. “At what point did you forgive me?”  

You finally look at her, a playful glint in your eyes. 

“At the first ‘I’m sorry,’” you admit with a shrug.

Natasha exhales sharply, shaking her head. 

“You were messing with me this whole time?”

“Maybe a little,” you confess with a soft chuckle. “I told you, it’s cute when the charming princess gets flustered.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes, though a faint blush dusts her cheeks. Reaching out, she catches your hand, stopping you and turning you to face her.

“You know,” she mutters, a teasing smirk playing on her lips, “having your queen grovel for forgiveness might be grounds for punishment.” 

Laughing lightly, you step closer, leaning into her body, your voice dropping as you reply in a challenge.

“Then punish me, my queen.”

Natasha’s breath hitches for a fraction of a second, the warmth in your tone and the proximity sending her heart racing.

But before she can respond, you step back with a knowing grin, your eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Natasha mutters under her breath, though the smile tugging at her lips betrays her true feelings.

“And you love it,” you quip before stepping to follow Sam toward Redwing’s signal.

Natasha huffs, shaking her head as she refocuses on the task at hand, though a faint, lingering smile refuses to leave her face.

The alley stretches ahead, cloaked in dim light and deepening shadows as you all silently approach the narrow entrance where muffled voices echo from within. 

The three of you press against the wall, staying hidden. 

Sam raises a finger to his lips, signaling for silence as he leans forward, peeking cautiously around the corner.

“It’s Sitwell,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “And he’s not alone.”

Natasha creeps forward to peer around the corner, her sharp gaze taking in the scene as the lord’s voice becomes clearer. 

“It’s not my fault that Commander Hill took over Rumlow’s operations before I could!” Sitwell’s voice is frantic, a mix of frustration and desperation. “She locked everything down.”

“And what of the weapons?” a second voice asks, calm yet menacing. It’s muffled, belonging to the cloaked and masked figure pinning Sitwell against the wall. 

“I—I don’t know where they are!” Sitwell stammers, his voice trembling.

The figure’s grip tightens as they brandish a knife, the blade gleaming faintly in the low light.

“We had a deal,” the figure hisses, their tone laced with quiet fury. 

Sitwell fumbles frantically, producing a glowing stone similar to the one Natasha had seen before at the tavern. He offers it to the figure, his hand shaking.

“Wait!” he pleads. “I can get you more! Rumlow wasn’t the only one who knew the man who made them—I do, too.”

The figure hesitates, taking the stone and examining it. They motion for Sitwell to continue.

The lord swallows hard, seizing the chance to plead his case.

“Rumlow had a deal with him. He was supposed to deliver secrets about Dreykov and Romanov’s Widow operations in exchange for the weapons,” Sitwell says hurriedly. “But he double-crossed him and used it for himself. Now, only one person can give him what he wants.” 

“Who?” the figure demands.

“Lady Y/n—she’s the one he’ll trade for,” Sitwell blurts out, his voice shaking.

Natasha stiffens, her head snapping toward you. Her expression hardens with a mix of alarm and fury.

Sam clenches his jaw, his focus shifting to her as if awaiting orders. 

Natasha looks between you and the alleyway, her mind racing, before coming to a decision.

She gestures for Sam to take you away.

With an acknowledging nod, Sam starts to nudge you back, but you shove his arm aside when you realize that she intends to stay. 

The masked figure tilts their head, processing Sitwell’s claim, before their attention snaps to the faint movement from your group.

Their gaze locks on Natasha, their body tensing in readiness.

In an instant, they shove Sitwell to the ground and bolts.

“Secure Sitwell!” Natasha commands Sam as she charges forward after the fleeing figure.

Natasha closes the distance quickly, her movements precise as she grabs the figure’s cloak, yanking them back.

The figure stumbles but smoothly pivots on their heel, delivering a swift kick toward Natasha’s head.

Natasha ducks under the attack, but with surprising skill, the figure follows up quick with a sharp kick aimed at her torso. She blocks it at the last second with her arms, but the impact forces her to stumble back. 

You’re immediately at her side, steadying her with firm hands.

“Thanks,” she mutters breathlessly, her eyes never leaving the figure. 

The cloaked individual looks between the two of you cautiously before they suddenly lunge, their knife flashing as they swing at Natasha with calculated precision. 

Natasha pushes you away from her side as she sidesteps each swipe, narrowly dodging the blade.

Grabbing the figure’s wrist mid-swing, Natasha twists sharply, forcing them to drop the weapon with a metallic clatter. She traps their arms in a hold, locking them in place.

“Now!” Natasha shouts to you.

Understanding her unspoken command, you move quickly, delivering a powerful kick to the figure’s side. The impact forces a grunt from them as Natasha releases her hold, letting them stumble back into the wall. 

The glowing stone slips from the figure’s hand, falling to the ground.

The moment it hits the pavement, a loud crack resounds, and an intense, blinding light explodes outward, flooding the alley with a searing brilliance.

“Get down!” Natasha yells, shielding you with her body as the light engulfs the area.

The overwhelming brightness disorients you both, your vision obscured for several long seconds. When the light finally fades, Natasha blinks rapidly, her sight still hazy as she surveys the alley.

But after a quick scan, it’s clear that the mysterious individual is gone.

Natasha curses under her breath when there’s no trace of where they went. Only the faintly glowing, fractured stone remains on the ground, pulsing weakly with light.

“Damn it,” Natasha mutters, frustration evident in her tone.

Your hand comes to rest on her arm, grounding her for a moment.

She turns to you instinctively, her eyes darting over you, scanning for any sign of injury. Her hands come up to cup your face, tilting your head slightly to inspect every angle. 

“I’m fine, Natasha,” you assure her softly, gently pulling her hands from your face and placing them back at her sides. 

The warmth in your touch lingers even as you step back, creating a subtle distance between you. 

Your eyes flick briefly to where Sam stands, your awareness of the others pulling you back into your carefully maintained composure.

The sound of a struggle draws Natasha’s attention to where Sam restrains Sitwell, who thrashes ineffectively in his grip.

“Unhand me!” Sitwell shouts, his voice sharp and panicked.

Natasha stalks over to the squirming lord, her presence looming with command.

“Who was that?” she demands, her voice cold and threatening.

Sitwell recoils at her tone, his earlier bravado crumbling into fear. 

“I don’t know!” he exclaims. “They’re just…some black market arms dealer. Rumlow had a deal with them.”

Natasha’s expression hardens, remembering the way Sitwell targeted you at the council meeting, making you experience all sorts of discomfort as he questioned you. 

“All your talk of loyalty to the kingdom, yet here you are—a traitor.” 

Her words cut like a blade, and Sitwell visibly flinches.

“No, Your Majesty,” he pleads, desperation creeping into his tone. “I was trapped in Rumlow’s deal. When he didn’t fulfill his part, they came for me. I had no choice.”

“That’s a pathetic excuse,” Sam scoffs, tightening his grip on the struggling man.

Natasha steps closer, her icy glare silencing any retort from Sitwell.

“If you want even a chance at leniency, you’ll tell me who Rumlow was working with. Who made these weapons?”

Sitwell hesitates, the weight of her demand pressing down on him.

Finally, he opens his mouth to answer.

But before he can speak, a sharp whistling sound cuts through the air.

An arrow buries itself in Sitwell’s chest. His words die on his lips as his body crumples to the ground.

Natasha’s head snaps upward, her sharp gaze locking onto a shadowy figure perched on a rooftop above. 

The figure’s silhouette is menacing, their face obscured, but Natasha doesn’t miss how their focus shifts directly to you.

“Natasha,” you whisper, your voice tinged with worry as you instinctively grab her arm, tugging her back. 

But Natasha immediately moves to shield you, pushing you behind her protectively.

Her eyes narrow dangerously as she glares up at the figure.

For a moment, they linger, their presence a silent threat, before disappearing into the darkness.

Only once Natasha confirms the area is safe does she drop her hand from your side.

Sam kneels beside Sitwell’s body, his expression grim.

“He’s gone,” he confirms.

Natasha clenches her fists, her frustration mounting.

Sitwell’s death has left more questions than answers, and her mind churns with thoughts of who these mysterious figures could be.

Before she can voice her thoughts, she notices you moving away from her side.

Natasha turns to see you kneeling beside the fractured stone, its faint glow drawing your attention.

The light pulses weakly, almost hypnotically, and your hand hovers inches above it. 

Natasha remembers her earlier experience back at the tavern when her hand had brushed the similar stone on the attacker’s glove—the flashes of the worst moment of her life and the fear that had gripped her mind and heart.

“Y/n, don’t touch that,” Natasha warns, stepping forward and reaching for your arm.

The moment her fingers graze your skin, your reaction is sudden and uncharacteristically harsh.

You swat her hand away with surprising force, startling her.

Natasha pauses and pulls back from you, her eyes widening in shock. 

“Y/n?” she calls again, softer this time, her voice laced with worry as her eyes search your face.

For a brief second, your expression is distant, your eyes unfocused. Then you blink rapidly, as though shaking off a haze, and your gaze shifts to her, confusion flickering across your features.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, your voice tinged with genuine puzzlement at her expression.

Natasha’s lips press into a thin line, her sharp eyes scrutinizing you. 

“You pushed me away when I tried to stop you,” she says cautiously.

“I did?” Your brow furrows in surprise, and your gaze darts back to the now-dimming stone. Its glow fades completely, leaving only the cracked surface behind.

Natasha watches you closely as you stare at the stone, your expression unreadable.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken questions.

“Y/n?” Natasha says softly, her hand reaching for your arm again.

This time, you don’t pull away. You turn to face her, your eyes meeting hers.

“You don’t remember?” she presses, her voice gentle but firm. 

You hesitate for a moment, your hands fidgeting nervously in front of you at her words, but then you shake your head lightly and give her a reassuring smile.

“I'm sorry, my body must’ve still been on the edge after everything that just happened,” you reply softly.

Natasha studies you for a moment longer, unease flickering in her chest.

Whatever had just happened, it wasn’t normal like you’re suggesting. And as much as she wants to press further, she holds back, not wanting to push you too hard.

“That’s enough for today. Let’s head back,” she finally says, her tone steady despite the worry lingering in her gaze.

You nod silently in agreement before making your way out of the alley. 

But Natasha lingers in place, turning her attention back to the fractured stone on the ground. Her mind races with the mystery of its power—and the brief, unsettling moment when it seemed like you weren’t entirely yourself.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

a/n: And we're back. 😁 Time for more mysteries, secrets, and challenges for the two. Thank you for your patience and for reading!

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