#mob!au

And yet all your eyes could focus on was her. Natasha, radiant in ivory, her hand steady in Steve Rogers’ grasp as they faced the priest. You stood to the side, bouquet held loosely at your waist, chin lifted with quiet strength. You weren’t scared, even if everything about the setting warned you to be.

The petals scattered along the stone aisle shifted with the wind, delicate against the stark perfection of the Roman-style courtyard. Everything about this wedding screamed opulence: the marble columns, the low hum of strings echoing beneath the archways, the armed men in expensive suits pretending to be guests.

You were here for her.

So when you felt it — a tightening in your chest, like someone had just stepped into your space without moving an inch — you tried to ignore it.

But curiosity won.

Your gaze slid subtly across the stage.

And froze.

A man stood near the groom. Not in the usual sleek, designer sense of every other guest, but in a way that felt... still. Coiled. Sharp.

Mid-thirties, maybe. Short dark hair swept back. Black suit tailored to a body that could do more than just fill it out. His stance was patient, but there was an intensity in his posture that spoke of violence, barely caged. His eyes were on you.

Not glancing. Not skimming. Pinned.

You turned away, heart skipping. Your fingers curled tighter around the stems of your bouquet. Ignoring his gaze.

Across the stage, Bucky Barnes tilted his head slightly.

He hadn't meant to look at you. Not at first. But the moment he did — the moment your dress caught in the breeze and your eyes flicked up like you felt him — he couldn’t stop.

He’d never seen someone like you in this world. You didn’t move like the others. Didn’t scan the perimeter. Didn’t flirt or flaunt or pretend. You were strong without posturing. Present, not performative.

And stunning.

You looked at Natasha the way Bucky once looked at Steve. Like loyalty was oxygen. Like you'd die on a hill no one else would climb for her.

And he couldn’t stop watching you.

Not because of the dress, though God, that dress was doing something dangerous to his focus. It was the way you wore it—like it was for no one. Like you didn’t need it to be seen.

You laughed softly when Nat whispered something in your ear, and Bucky watched your nose wrinkle, the quick tilt of your head, the way you elbowed her back just enough to be affectionate and mildly threatening. And that’s when it hit him—You were real in a world where everything felt carefully arranged.

And it messed with him.

Bucky had been around women who knew what he was. Who leaned in because of it. They touched his wrist with manicured fingers, eyes flicking toward the men who nodded when he entered a room. They liked the suit, the danger, the command.

But you didn’t even look at him that way. Not once.

And that unfamiliar absence of attention had his mind spinning more than any brazen stare ever could.

You were magnetic, and you didn’t even know it.

The kind of woman a man like him shouldn’t touch. The kind of woman a man like him might ruin just by being close. But he couldn’t look away.

He didn’t know your name yet. But he already knew the way you moved through a crowd—like you were grounded when everyone else was performing their power. He saw it in the way you stepped aside so an older staff member could pass with a tray, offering a thank-you with a smile that didn’t feel obligatory.

You didn’t know the weight of the room you were standing in. Didn’t flinch when a groomsman slipped a pistol under his tailored jacket before walkingup the stage.

And maybe that’s what caught him hardest of all—You were the softest thing in a brutal place. And yet, somehow, you belonged.

Not because you were like them. Because you weren’t.

And Bucky… Bucky had spent a lifetime wading through the grey trying to remember what light looked like. And suddenly, there you were.

His fingers twitched at his side. He needed to know your name.

The officiant’s voice broke gently over the hush of the courtyard.

“You may now exchange your vows.”

It was a beautiful day. Warm sun, soft breeze, flowers draped in tasteful whites and greens. The kind of wedding only one can dream of.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something—beneath all the tulle and champagne flutes—was off.

Not wrong exactly. Just… off.

Too still. Too controlled. Like the calm before a storm that never quite hits.

You felt it in the way no one spoke above a murmur. In the way the servers moved too carefully. In the way certain men—broad, suited, eyes like glass—stood just outside the hedges, pretending to look at the sky.

It was subtle. Quiet. Like a layer of glass laid over everything.

And maybe no one else noticed. Maybe no one else cared.

But you weren’t used to weddings feeling like chessboards.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the bouquet, eyes drifting instinctively toward Natasha. She looked radiant. Focused. At peace, somehow.

You were proud of her. Happy for her. Still, your fingers tightened just a little around the stems.

And then you looked up. Across the aisle. Across the altar. To him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

You’d heard the name whispered hours before—low and clipped, like it came with a warning.

You hadn’t meant to look again, but something in your chest had stirred the second the officiant spoke, and now your gaze found him before your brain could offer a reason.

He stood just behind Steve, dark suit crisp, jaw set, eyes steady. He didn’t flinch when you met his gaze. Didn’t pretend he wasn’t already looking. He just… watched.

Not like a man trying to get your attention. Like a man who already had it, and was curious what you’d do with it. It wasn’t predatory. Wasn’t even overtly flirtatious. It was calm. Measured. Quietly certain.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because the longer he held your gaze, the more the world around you blurred. The vows, the guests, the champagne bubbles catching light. All of it dulled under the weight of his eyes. Your mouth went dry.

You glanced away quickly, heat creeping up your throat. Forced yourself to focus on Natasha, who was reading now—soft and honest, her voice dipping slightly when she looked at Steve.

You wanted to be there. Grounded. Focused. But that strange feeling hadn’t left your body.

Like you’d stepped into something delicate without realizing it. A web. A trap.

Or maybe something else entirely. Something watching you from across the stage, with eyes like frost and fire and far too much patience.

Inside the estate, everything was warm light and shadows. Chandeliers threw gold across crystal glasses and polished floors. Laughter clinked like cutlery, elegant and practiced, and you kept close to Natasha during photos and speeches.

But you knew he was still watching. And he was. From the far end of the ballroom, Bucky leaned against a pillar, eyes trained on the way you smiled politely at men you clearly didn’t want to talk to. He saw how you scanned the room before moving — not in fear, but instinct.

He noticed how you tilted your glass to avoid lipstick on the rim, how you crossed one arm protectively over your stomach during a toast.

You weren’t from this world. But you were built to survive in it.

He wanted to speak to you. But not with an entourage watching. Not with loaded glances and Steve’s subtle smirks behind his whiskey glass.

So he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

You slipped out onto the terrace sometime before sunset, heels clicking softly against the stone. The evening air was cooler now, brushing against your skin like a secret. You leaned forward on the carved railing, glass still half-full in your hand, letting yourself breathe for the first time all day.

You were proud of Natasha. You were. She looked happy. Really happy.But something about all of this made your instincts hum.

Still, you weren’t scared.

Not until you felt it again. That pull. Like gravity shifting in your direction.

“You always this graceful, or is it just a ruse?”

You straightened slowly, your hand still resting on the stone. And there he was.

Up close.

You didn’t let your expression give anything away. Not the way his voice felt like it slipped down your spine or how good he looked when the setting sun caught the sharp edge of his jaw.

“You always this forward,” you asked, tilting your head, “or is this just for me?”

His mouth curved. “Just for you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I’m trying to fix that,” he said, stepping forward, slow and unbothered. “I’m Bucky.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do.” He smirked. “Smart girl.”

You sipped your drink, letting him watch your mouth. “You’re used to women falling at your feet, huh?”

“I’m used to women trying,” he replied, gaze lazy, voice low. “But I’ve never had one look at me like you do.”

Your brow arched. “And how do I look at you?”

“Like you’re not impressed.” His smile widened. “It’s messing with my head a little.”

You gave him a slow once-over. “Maybe I just have high standards.”

He laughed — warm, surprised. “Yeah. I figured that out the second I saw you walk down that aisle.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I almost missed the vows,” he added, a little more under his breath. “You in that dress? Christ.”

You weren’t the blushing type, but the heat at the back of your neck betrayed you. You turned slightly, so he couldn’t see the full effect. “Do lines like that actually work for you?”

“They’re not lines if I mean them,” he said simply. “And trust me, sweetheart — I mean it.”

Sweetheart. You hated how good it sounded coming from him.

You set your glass down on the ledge. “Is hovering on balconies your thing when you see someone who might bite?”

He grinned — sharp, teeth barely showing, but his eyes never left yours. “I like the ones who bite. Means they won’t break.”

“You testing me?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. The distance between you disappeared in a breath. “I already know you’d pass.”

You stared up at him, a little dizzy from the nearness, from the quiet confidence in his voice — like he could command a room with a whisper and not even break a sweat.

Your lips parted. “Maybe you’re the one getting tested.”

“Maybe I like that.”

A beat passed. The silence between you wasn’t awkward — it was charged. Like a string stretched taut between two hands.

He offered his hand. “Dance with me.”

You looked at it. Then at him. “I’m not one of your girls.”

“I know.”

“I don’t say yes just because I’m supposed to.”

His head dipped slightly, smile almost reverent. “Say yes because you want to.”

You let your gaze drift from his eyes to his mouth, slow and deliberate. “You planning to behave?”

“I’m planning to make it hard for you to walk away,” he said, eyes dark. “Is that misbehaving?”

Your laugh was quiet but real. “Guess I’ll find out.”

Your heart thumped, traitorous. But your feet moved anyway.

The ballroom was dimmer now, the chandeliers above casting golden puddles of light that flickered with every movement. The guests were beginning to drift back from the courtyard, taking their champagne glasses with them, filling the room again.

You stepped onto the floor with him, letting him draw you in, one hand slipping to your waist with practised ease, the other curling around yours with surprising gentleness. He smelled like cedar and cold air. His frame was broad, immovable, like someone built to shield or destroy, depending on the moment.

Your chest brushed his. Not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the tension in the space between you like a live wire.

It was quiet between you for a beat too long.

Then, as he turned you with precision, he murmured, “You don’t move like the others.”

Your brow lifted slightly. “Is that your opener?”

“No,” he said, tone thoughtful. “It’s just an observation.”

You tilted your head. “And how exactly do I move?”

“Like you’re not trying to be seen,” he said. “That’s what makes it hard not to look at you.”

Your breath stilled. Just slightly.

He was good. Not rehearsed. Not charming in that empty way most men were at weddings. This felt… specific. Like he actually meant it.

And God help you, your stomach tightened in response.

“You practice that?” you said, playing it cool.

He leaned in slightly, his voice a breath away from your cheek. “Do I seem like I need to?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because just then, you felt it. A shift. In the air. In the room.

You couldn’t explain it — the sudden hush beneath the music. The subtle way conversations lulled. How, one by one, eyes began to flick your way.

You didn’t know these people. But you weren’t stupid.

The tuxedoed men near the back wall? The ones who hadn’t touched a drink all night? The ones scanning the room like it was a chessboard and they were waiting for a piece to move? They were watching you.

No—him.

No. You both.

You swallowed, trying not to let it show on your face.

“What is this?” you said under your breath. “Why are they—”

“They’re not used to seeing me dance,” Bucky said simply.

You looked up at him sharply. “And why’s that?”

His mouth quirked, not a full smile. “Because I don’t.”

You wanted to step back. But his hand was still at your waist, steady, unrushed. Like you weren’t going anywhere unless you wanted to. And maybe… you didn’t.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Who are you?”

“I’m just the best man,” he said, gaze steady. “Same as you’re just the maid of honor.”

“That’s not what this feels like.”

“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”

He spun you smoothly, letting your hand glide along his shoulder as you turned, then caught you again just as the beat shifted. The world tilted slightly with it.

Your voice dropped. “They’re watching us.”

“They always watch me.” His voice was calm. Controlled.

Your heart thudded, unsteady now. He dipped his head closer. His lips almost brushed your ear. “I know what I look like. I know what I do. But I don’t lie. And I don’t pretend.”

You turned your face to meet his, close enough now that your breath mingled.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said.

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I haven’t looked at anyone else all night.”

You blinked. Heat spread across your cheeks.

The song wound down, notes growing softer, slower. But neither of you moved.

The rest of the room blurred at the edges — glittering laughter, clinking glasses, the soft swell of music — all of it dimmed like someone had lowered the volume just for you two.

He was still watching you, his gaze a little too steady to be casual. A little too fond.

You arched a brow. “You always stare at people like that? Must be my lucky night.”

“Just you,” he said easily. “The others flinch.”

You bit back a smile. “Charming.”

“Dangerous,” he corrected with a half-smile, voice low and smooth. “Apparently.”

You hummed, pretending to consider it. “I don’t know. So far, you’ve been more polite than the cake guy.”

That startled a quiet laugh from him — real and unguarded. You felt the sound vibrate in the air between you, felt it in your chest a little too much.

“Didn’t peg you for funny,” he said, eyes still locked on yours.

You gave him a mock-hurt look. “Wow. I was so close to letting you buy me a drink.”

“I don’t want to buy you a drink.”

“No?” you asked, feigning offense. “Then what do you want?”

He dipped his head slightly. Close. Confident. “Another dance. At least.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Traitor.

But your voice stayed cool. “Careful. I might say yes just to make the room stare harder.”

“They already are,” he murmured. “Let ‘em.”

You glanced over his shoulder — caught the way the dark-suited men near the walls were still watching. Sharp eyes. Stiff postures. Definitely not here for the shrimp cocktail.

“Friends of yours?” you asked, like you weren’t studying their positions out of the corner of your eye.

“Colleagues,” he said, like that answered everything. “Mostly bored. One of them bet I wouldn’t get a dance.”

“And now?”

“Now he owes me dinner.”

You tried not to smile again but failed. “And what do I get?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was considering it.

“My attention. For as long as you want it.”

You blinked, surprised by the weight of that answer.

The music shifted, and the spell thinned just a little. But he was still close, still watching you like you were a puzzle he didn’t mind spending the rest of the night figuring out.

You didn’t know what you were doing. Not fully. But for the first time all day, you weren’t pretending.

And neither was he.

From the corner of the ballroom, Natasha watched you spin beneath the golden light — dress swaying like spilled silk, your laughter trailing just above the music.

And across from you, solid and still and terrifyingly transfixed, was Bucky Barnes.

Steve’s best man. The one with blood on his hands and ice in his veins — except, somehow, not right now. Not with you.

His touch was careful, precise, like he didn’t trust his own strength. Like holding you too tightly might break something neither of you could name yet.

But his eyes — God, his eyes were anything but careful. They tracked every movement you made. Drank you in like a man who hadn’t seen softness in years. Like you were light in a world that had long stopped being kind.

And you — you didn’t even know.

You didn’t know what kind of room you’d wandered into. What kind of empire you were dancing in the center of. You didn’t recognize the glances, the nods, the silent tension that cracked like static between the suits lining the walls.

You didn’t see the way conversations stopped when Bucky looked at you. How no one dared step in.

But maybe that was the beautiful part. Because you moved through the chaos like it wasn’t chaos at all. Like you weren’t surrounded by criminals in tuxedos. Like the man holding you had never ordered a hit or buried a body at 3 a.m.

You laughed in his space. Teased him. Challenged him.

Natasha smiled to herself, slow and sure. Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass.

You had no idea what you were walking into.

But Bucky? Bucky already knew.

And she could see it written in the way his hand lingered at your waist. In the way he leaned in when you whispered something that made him smile.

He wasn’t going to let you walk back out.

Thank you for reading!! Like and reblog np. See you soon. I'll be lingering around in my blog even if I don't post anything 😙

Three housedresses, folded with military precision. Your mother's hairbrush, silver backing tarnished but bristles still good. Undergarments that made heat crawl up your neck at the thought of Bucky Barnes handling your worn cotton slips and mended stockings. Your good shoes, the ones you'd saved six months to buy, wrapped carefully in yesterday's newspaper. A bar of Ivory soap. Your father's shaving kit, though why he'd grabbed that, you couldn't fathom.

Each item pulled from the box felt like archaeology. Excavating the remains of a life that already felt ancient. A little over two weeks since your father's death. It might as well have been two years.

At the bottom, half-hidden beneath a winter slip, your fingers found worn leather.

The prayer book was small enough to fit in a coat pocket, edges soft from years of handling. The binding had started to separate from the spine, held together now by habit more than glue. Your father's prayer book, though calling it that felt like a lie. He'd attended church exactly twice a year: Easter and Christmas, and only then because your mother had insisted while she was alive.

But he'd written in this book nearly every day.

You opened it with careful fingers, throat already tight. His handwriting sprawled across the margins. Cramped, slanted, sometimes in pencil when ink ran out. Not prayers but observations. Thoughts. Sometimes just lists: Eggs, milk, thread for her coat. Other times, fragments of memory, small pieces of your mother: She wore yellow on our wedding day. Not white. Said white was for rich girls with nothing to hide.

Halfway through, the entries shifted. Became letters addressed to you, though he'd never mentioned them while alive.

My girl—Watched you at the factory gates today. Proud of you. Scared for you too. This world eats soft things.

You look like her when you sleep. Same way of curling up, like you're protecting something precious in your chest.

I'm sorry for the debt. Sorry for the mess. Sorry I couldn't be the father you deserved.

The last entry was dated three days before he died:

If you're reading this, I'm gone. The men I owe won't forget. But you're stronger than you know. Your mother always said you had steel in your spine. Don't let them break it.

"Planning to pray for your soul?"

Your head snapped up. Bucky leaned in the doorway, shoulder pressed to the frame, watching you with an expression smooth as still water. He'd appeared silently, a skill that made your skin crawl. He was already dressed for the day: charcoal trousers, white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his hips. His hair was damp from a bath, slicked back but not yet locked into place with pomade.

You tucked the prayer book behind you, pointless though it was. You swallowed thickly. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." He pushed off from the doorframe, movements liquid. Everything about him was like that: controlled, economical. Even his violence had precision to it. "I'm heading out. Business."

"What kind of business?" The question came out before you could stop it.

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "The kind that pays your debt, dollface. You want details? Want to know whose legs I'm breaking, whose thumbs get crushed? Would that make you feel better about your situation?"

You looked away, stomach turning. Through the window, you could see the street coming to life. Milk trucks rattling past, women in housedresses sweeping stoops, normal people living normal lives. "What am I supposed to do all day?"

"Whatever you want." He shrugged, the gesture too casual. "Read a book. Take a bath. Count the flowers on the wallpaper. I don't give a shit."

"Can I leave?"

"No." The word came out flat, final. He moved toward the door, then paused. "There's food in the icebox. Don't answer the door. Don't go into the basement. Don't touch anything in my room."

The list of prohibitions made something hot and defiant rise in your throat. "So I'm a prisoner."

"You're collateral." He glanced back, and for a moment something flickered across his face, gone too fast to read. "There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"Prisoners know their sentence."

The front door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed through the empty house. You sat there, still clutching the prayer book, listening to the brownstone settle around you. Somewhere, pipes groaned. The radiator hissed. The sounds of a building breathing, alive in its own way.

You thought about crying. About screaming. About throwing yourself against the door until your fists bled. Instead, you stood on unsteady legs and got dressed in one of your retrieved housedresses. Gray with small blue flowers, mended at the hem where you'd caught it on a factory nail. The fabric smelled wrong. Like his house. Like leather and tobacco instead of the lavender sachet you kept in your drawer at home.

Home. As if that place existed anymore.

The first three days passed in a haze of careful routine.

You woke when you heard him moving around, usually before dawn. The floorboards above your head would creak in a specific pattern: bathroom, bedroom, stairs. By the time you dressed and made your way down, he'd have coffee brewing, the smell sharp enough to cut through morning fog.

He'd acknowledge you with a nod, nothing more. You'd sit across from him at the kitchen table, nursing your cup while he read the paper, the silence between you thick as wet wool.

He never looked at you directly. His gaze would skip over you like you were furniture, something to navigate around but not worth focusing on. It should have been a relief after that first night, after the things he'd said against your door. Instead, it made your skin prickle with awareness.

You caught yourself cataloguing details: how he held his cup with his left hand while turning pages with his right. The way his jaw worked when he read something that displeased him. How those hands that had broken Marcus's thumb could be so careful with newsprint.

After breakfast, he'd leave. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for the entire day. You'd drift to the window and watch him go, noting how the street seemed to part for him. Even in daylight, even doing something as mundane as buying cigarettes from the corner store, he moved like a man expecting violence.

Alone, you mapped the boundaries of your cage.

The brownstone revealed itself in layers. Surface first: dark wood, leather furniture worn soft in specific places, minimal decoration. But underneath, if you looked, there were tells.

A photograph tucked behind books on a shelf showed two young men in Army uniforms, one clearly Bucky before whatever happened to carve those lines around his mouth. The other unfamiliar but grinning wide, arm slung around Bucky's shoulders.

Sheet music on the piano bench in the parlor, Chopin nocturnes with fingering marked in careful pencil. A woman's handkerchief forgotten in a kitchen drawer, lipstick stain on the corner faded but visible.

You shouldn't have been building a picture of him from these fragments. But boredom was its own kind of torture, and your mind needed something to chew on besides the weight of your situation.

By the fourth day, you'd started cleaning.

Not because he'd asked. He hadn't asked anything of you since that first night. But idle hands made your thoughts spiral, made you feel like your skin might split from the pressure building inside.

So you organized his books by author, then by subject when that wasn't satisfying enough. You scrubbed the kitchen until surfaces reflected light. You even stood outside his bedroom door for five full minutes, hand on the knob, before remembering his warning. The flatness in his voice when he'd marked it off limits.

He never commented on your tidying, but you noticed things. How his fingers would pause on the newly polished table. The way he'd stand in front of the reorganized shelves, head tilted like he was reading something written in the spines. Once, you'd left his mail stacked neatly by the door, and his mouth had twitched. Almost a smile before his expression shuttered like a slammed door.

The fifth night, he didn't come home at all.

You lay in the narrow bed, counting heartbeats. Every sound became footsteps. Every distant door became his. By three AM, the pillow was damp with sweat and something else you wouldn't name. He could be dead somewhere, bullet in his brain or knife between his ribs. Could have finally pushed the wrong person, taken one risk too many.

The thought should have brought relief. Freedom from this limbo, from the weight of his presence and absence both.

Instead, your chest went tight. Breathing became work.

When grey dawn finally crept through the window, you gave up pretending to sleep. Made your way downstairs on unsteady legs, started coffee with hands that shook only slightly. You set out two cups without thinking. Only realized what you'd done when you saw them side by side on the counter: one poured, one waiting.

He found you like that, staring at the empty cup like it held answers.

"Expecting someone?"

You jerked, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He stood in the doorway, looking like he'd fought his way through hell and lost. Shirt untucked, jacket torn at the shoulder. A bruise bloomed along his jaw, purple-green like rotting fruit.

Heat crawled up your neck. You wrapped your fingers tighter around your mug, ceramic warm against palms gone suddenly cold. "Wasn't sure you'd be back."

The words came out carefully neutral, but something must have shown on your face. His eyes sharpened, fatigue momentarily forgotten.

"Worried about me, dollface?"

The suggestion made your stomach flip with indignation and something softer you refused to examine. Your spine straightened, clicking into place like armor.

"Worried about my debt. If you die, what happens to me?"

"Smart question." He moved to pour coffee, movements slightly unsteady. Exhaustion or injury, impossible to tell. "The old man would collect. Probably put you to work in one of his establishments. You know what kind of work that would be?"

The words conjured images you didn't want: perfumed rooms and strange hands and your mother's voice warning about girls who fell too far. Your silence was answer enough.

"So yeah," he continued, dropping into his chair with less grace than usual. "You should probably hope I stay alive."

The bruise drew your attention like a magnet. In the morning light, you could see the individual fingerprints where someone had gripped his face. Violence made intimate. Without thinking, you reached across the table, fingers hovering near but not quite touching the discoloration.

"You should put ice on that."

The air between you went electric. His eyes tracked your extended hand like it was a weapon.

"Should I?" His voice had dropped, gone soft in the way that meant danger.

You pulled back, face burning. Busied yourself with your coffee to avoid seeing whatever was in his eyes. "It'll heal faster."

"Concerned about my pretty face?"

The teasing edge made something defensive rise in your throat. You pressed your lips together, tasting bitter coffee and bitterer words.

"Concerned about you looking disreputable. Doesn't that reflect badly on me? As your..." The word wouldn't come. Prisoner felt dramatic. Guest was laughable. Property was too close to truth. "...whatever I am?"

"My whatever." His laugh was hollow as old bones. "That's one way to put it."

He stood abruptly, chair scraping against floor loud enough to make you flinch. "I need a bath. Try not to reorganize the entire house while I'm gone."

So he had noticed.

The admission hung in the air after he left, settling over you like dust. You sat at the table, studying the empty cup you'd set out for him.

Upstairs, pipes groaned as water started. You imagined him peeling off clothes stiff with dried blood, cataloguing new damages. Did he think about the violence while he washed it away? Or was it just another morning routine, like reading the paper?

You poured the waiting coffee down the sink and tried not to think about why you'd expected him to come home at all.

By the end of the first week, you'd developed a routine that felt almost like living.

Wake, breakfast, watch him leave. Clean something that didn't need cleaning. Read from his extensive library (mostly history, some philosophy, a surprising amount of poetry tucked behind other books like he was hiding it). Lunch alone. Afternoon spent at the window, watching the neighborhood rhythm. Dinner, sometimes with him, sometimes alone.

Sleep, eventually, though it came harder here than it ever had at home.

You were going slightly mad with it.

"I could work," you tested one morning, apropos of nothing. He was reading the paper, you were pushing eggs around your plate. "At the factory. I could keep working, pay you back faster."

"No."

The word landed flat between you. Your fork scraped against ceramic, a sound that made your teeth ache.

"Why not?"

He lowered the paper enough to look at you directly. Rare these days. His eyes were the color of winter mornings, cold and clear. "Because I said no."

Heat prickled along your spine, indignation rising like mercury in a thermometer. Your fingers tightened on the fork until your knuckles went white.

"That's not a reason."

"It's the only fuckin' reason you need."

The casualness of his authority made something snap inside you, sharp and sudden as breaking bone.

"So I'm just supposed to sit here? For how long? Months? Years?"

"For as long as I say."

You stood so fast your chair tipped backward, caught it before it could fall. The sudden movement made your head swim, pulse hammering in your throat like a trapped bird. You felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your chest. "You can just kill me, you know. Instead of wasting both our times."

He studied you for a long moment, and you saw something shift in his expression. A crack in that careful blankness. The corner of his mouth lifted, revealing teeth. He smiled then, all sharp edges, the predator showing through.

"What a fucking waste that would be."

The words hit low in your belly, made heat pool there despite yourself. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, seeking pressure, seeking relief from the sudden ache.

Some days you could forget what he'd said that first night, the promises he'd made against your door.

Then he'd look at you like this—like he was remembering exactly how you'd sounded, breathless and confused—and your body would betray you all over again.

"I need something to do." Your voice came out steadier than you felt, though your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the back of the chair. "I'm going crazy in this house."

"Join the club." He went back to his paper, but you caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on words. The muscle there jumped once, twice. A tell you'd learned meant he was holding something back. After a moment, he spoke again, not looking up. "There's a bookshelf in the basement. More poetry, if you're interested. Since you seem to like going through my things."

It was the closest thing to kindness he'd offered in days. You took it for what it was: a bone thrown to a restless dog.

The second week passed faster.

You started cooking elaborate meals just for something to do. He'd come home to find pot roast with vegetables carved into perfect spheres, or a cake decorated with careful precision. He never commented, but he ate everything you put in front of him.

Sometimes he'd stay in after dinner, reading in his study while you did dishes. The domesticity of it sat strange on your shoulders, like wearing someone else's coat. You'd catch yourself humming while you worked, then stop, guilty at finding even a moment's contentment in this situation.

One night, you found him asleep in his chair, book open on his chest. In sleep, the hard lines of his face softened. He looked younger, less like a weapon and more like a man. You'd stood there too long, studying the vulnerable curve of his mouth, the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks.

He'd woken suddenly, hand going to the gun you hadn't even known he carried. The metal caught lamplight as his fingers found the grip, body coiled and ready before his eyes had fully opened. For a moment, you'd stared at each other, both caught in something you couldn't name. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths that seemed too measured for someone just waking.

"Go to bed," he'd said roughly, voice still thick with sleep.

You'd fled on unsteady legs, feeling his gaze follow you all the way to the stairs.

Two weeks to the day since you'd moved in, he came home earlier than usual. You were in the kitchen, making a simple dinner, when you heard his key in the lock. But instead of his usual path—straight to his study or upstairs to change—he came to find you.

"Here." He tossed something at you. Fabric, dark blue, expensive by the feel. "Put it on. We're going out tonight."

Your hands shook slightly as you unfolded it. A dress, nothing like the conservative things he'd retrieved from your apartment. This had clean lines, a neckline that would show your collarbones, fabric that would cling rather than hide.

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" He was already heading upstairs. "Be ready in an hour."

You stood there holding the dress, heart hammering. Two weeks of careful routine, of pretending this was something survivable, and now what? What did he need you for that required a dress like this?

The fabric was soft against your fingers, whispering against itself when you moved it. It probably cost more than you made in a month at the factory. More than your father had owed, maybe.

You climbed the stairs to your room, each step feeling like a decision you weren't ready to make. The dress lay across your bed like a question, like a test, like a door you weren't sure you wanted to open.

Outside your window, Brooklyn was settling into evening. Golden light going purple at the edges, the sound of families calling children inside for dinner. Normal life happening just beyond these walls, close enough to see but too far to touch.

You had an hour to decide who you were going to be tonight. The girl who cowered and hoped to survive? Or something else, something harder, something that might actually endure what was coming?

Your reflection in the mirror had no answers. Just a woman in a shabby housedress, holding something that might transform her or might just be another kind of cage.

Somewhere in the house, you could hear Bucky moving around, getting ready. The sound of water running, a door closing, footsteps that had become familiar in their rhythm. He was humming something. Low, almost inaudible, but there.

It was the first time you'd heard him make any sound that wasn't words or violence.

You touched the prayer book on your nightstand, your father's handwriting a talisman against whatever came next. Then you started getting ready, fingers steady despite the tremor in your chest.

The dress slithered over your skin like water made fabric, each inch of navy silk a confession against flesh that had never known anything finer than cotton.

Your fingers trembled as they smoothed the material over your hips, feeling how it clung to curves you'd spent years hiding under shapeless work dresses. The neckline exposed the delicate architecture of your collarbones, that vulnerable hollow where your pulse fluttered like something caged and desperate to escape. Without your usual slip—it would have shown through the delicate fabric, creating lines where there should be only smooth flesh)—you felt naked despite being clothed. Each breath made the silk whisper against your skin, a constant reminder of how exposed you were.

The mirror threw back a stranger. Someone who belonged in those moving pictures at the Rialto, not standing in a borrowed room with fear sitting like stones in her stomach. Your mother's pearls lay cold against your throat, each bead a small weight that made swallowing difficult. The clasps fumbled under your shaking fingers, metal warming slowly against your nape where baby hairs already escaped the careful pins.

Your hands moved without conscious thought. Each pin slid home with mechanical precision while your mind spun like a penny on edge. The exposed curve of your neck made you feel peeled, vulnerable, like something soft-bellied turned over to show its weakest parts. Wisps of hair immediately rebelled, framing your face in a way that looked almost intentional if you didn't think about it too hard.

No lipstick. It felt like a small defiance. But you caught your bottom lip between your teeth, bit down until blood rushed to the surface.

The small pain grounded you, pulled you back from the edge of panic that threatened to spill over. In the mirror, your mouth looked bee-stung, flushed. Like you'd been thoroughly kissed, though no one had touched you in...

"Two minutes."

His voice carried through the door like smoke, seeping into every corner. Your stomach clenched, a fist of anxiety and something else, something that made heat pool low and insistent between your thighs. You pressed them together, feeling the silk of your last good stockings catch and release against skin that felt too sensitive, like you'd been flayed open and rebuilt wrong.

The shoes—your good ones, the ones you'd saved six months to buy—slipped on like armor that wasn't enough. The single inch of heel changed your posture, made you aware of the length of your legs, how much of them showed beneath the dress's hem. Everything about this costume made you hyperaware of your body as a body, as something that could be looked at, wanted, taken.

Your fingers found the prayer book one last time, pads barely grazing worn leather. Your father's words inside, his cramped handwriting that got worse as his eyes failed. You're stronger than you know.

But standing there, dressed like something you weren't, about to walk into God knew what? You felt about as strong as wet paper.

The doorknob was cold under your palm. You turned it slow, like maybe if you took long enough, the night would pass without you having to live through it.

Bucky waited at the bottom of the stairs.

The sight of him hit you like a physical blow, making your diaphragm spasm and forget its job.

He'd transformed himself into something from those gangster pictures, except this was real, close enough to smell, to touch if you were stupid enough to try. The black suit had been cut by someone who understood that clothes could be weapons, every line designed to emphasize the controlled violence of his body. His hair, slicked back with pomade that caught the light, exposed the brutal architecture of his face. Sharp enough to cut yourself on if you weren't careful.

He looked up at your approach, and his eyes...

"Stop." The command froze you three steps from the bottom. His gaze traveled down your body with deliberate slowness, lingering on the exposed curve of your throat, the way silk clung to your breasts, the nervous flutter of your hands against your thighs. "Turn around."

Your face burned, but something in his tone made refusal impossible. You turned slowly, hyperaware of his eyes on you, of how the dress moved against your skin with each small movement. The back was cut lower than you'd realized when you'd put it on, exposing the delicate ladder of your spine.

"Again. Slower."

The words sent heat pooling between your thighs, shameful and immediate. You turned again, even slower this time, feeling like a prize horse being evaluated. Or prey being circled. When you faced him again, his expression was unreadable, but there was something dark in his eyes that made your breath catch.

"Come here."

You descended the remaining steps on unsteady legs. The second to last step caught your heel, and you stumbled.

His hand shot out, catching your elbow before you could fall, fingers wrapping around bare skin. The contact was electric, sending sparks racing up your arm and down your spine, pooling hot and liquid in your belly. He steadied you, but didn't let go immediately. Instead, he pulled you closer, until you stood on the bottom step, eye level with him for once.

"Careful." The word rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Can't have you damaging the merchandise before I show you off."

The casual cruelty of it made you flinch, but his thumb was pressing against the sensitive inside of your elbow, feeling your pulse hammer against thin skin, and the contrast made your head spin.

This close, you could see the fresh shave that revealed the cleft in his chin, could count individual lashes that threw shadows on his cheekbones. Could smell his cologne: bergamot and cedar and something darker, muskier, that made your hindbrain recognize predator and male in equal measure. Your body's reaction was confused, caught between flee and something else, something that made you want to tilt your head and offer your throat.

"You clean up better than expected." His voice had gone rough, gravel over velvet. "Almost look like you belong in that dress."

The backhanded compliment might have stun, if his eyes were cruel. Instead, they tracked over you with weight, with intent, cataloging every inch of exposed skin like he was memorizing it for later. They lingered on the curve where your neck met shoulder, the delicate wings of your collarbones, the way the dress clung to your breasts, your waist, the flare of your hips.

You felt that gaze like hands, possessive and appraising.

"The dress is beautiful." Your voice came out breathier than intended, like you'd been running.

"The dress is expensive." He released your elbow only to trail his fingers down your arm, barely touching, raising goosebumps in his wake. "You're what makes it worth looking at."

The honesty of it hung between you like a blade. His jaw worked, muscle jumping beneath skin, and you watched him rebuild his walls in real time. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted to something harder.

"Let's go. We're already late because you took forever getting ready."

You hadn't—he'd only given you an hour—but protesting would mean admitting you'd been ready early, been waiting for him. He offered his arm, but when you reached for it, he pulled back slightly.

"Ask nicely."

Heat flooded your face. "I... what?"

"You want my arm? Ask for it." His eyes glinted with something that might have been amusement or cruelty. "Say 'please, Bucky, may I take your arm?'"

Your throat felt like sandpaper. Around you, the house felt too quiet, like even the walls were waiting to see what you'd do. Pride warred with pragmatism. You needed his protection tonight, needed to play whatever game this was.

"Please, Bucky." The words came out barely above a whisper. "May I take your arm?"

"Better." He finally let you take it, and your fingers curled around his bicep, feeling the coiled strength through expensive wool. "But next time, look me in the eyes when you beg."

His words sent liquid heat straight to your core, making you clench around nothing. The heat of him soaked through fabric, making you aware of every point of contact, every breath that brought you infinitesimally closer.

The car waited outside, engine purring. The night had turned cold while you'd been dressing, October showing its teeth. Wind cut through the silk dress like it wasn't there, raising goosebumps along every exposed inch. Your nipples tightened painfully against the delicate fabric, clearly visible through the thin silk, and you crossed your arms, trying to hide your body's betrayal.

"Don't." He caught your wrists, pulling your arms back down. "You're dressed like that for a reason. Let them look."

"Bucky..."

"Did I ask for your opinion?" He helped you into the car, his hand at the small of your back, but the touch was anything but gentlemanly. His palm pressed flat against silk, fingers splaying wide, thumb stroking one deliberate line up your spine that made you arch involuntarily. "No? Then keep quiet."

You expected him to take the front seat, to put distance between you.

Instead, he slid in beside you, crowding you against the door.

The bench seat shrank to nothing. His thigh pressed against yours from hip to knee, solid muscle that radiated heat like a furnace. When you tried to shift away, to put even an inch between your bodies, his hand landed on your thigh, keeping you in place.

"Sit still." The command was quiet but absolute. "You move every time I touch you. Makes you look skittish. Weak."

You clenched your teeth. "I'm not."

"You are." His hand slid higher, fingers curving around the inside of your thigh, tips pressing into soft flesh through silk. "You're soft. Sheltered. Everything about you screams victim."

A burning sensation pricked at your eyes, but beneath the hurt, something else stirred. Something dark that liked the weight of his hand, the cruel truth in his words.

"Where are we going?" You kept your eyes fixed on the driver's headrest, afraid of what your face might reveal if you looked at him.

"The Stork Club."

Your stomach dropped through the floor of the car.

Everyone knew about the Stork Club. It was in the society pages your coworkers read aloud during lunch breaks. Where celebrities went to be seen, where deals that shaped the city were made over champagne that cost more than you made in a month.

"I'm not... I don't know how to..." The words tangled on your tongue, panic making you frustrated and inarticulate.

"You don't need to know anything."

His hand was still on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, deliberate circles that made thinking impossible. The heat of his skin seared through silk stocking, making every nerve ending from knee to hip spark to life.

"Just smile pretty and keep your mouth shut unless someone asks you a direct question. Can you do that?"

There should have been rebellion in you. Some spark of pride that railed against being ordered around like a child. Instead, his thumb pressed harder, finding the sensitive inner thigh, and your thoughts scattered like startled birds. You pressed your thighs together instinctively, trying to ease the sudden ache, but that only trapped his hand more firmly between them.

"I asked you a question." His fingers tightened, not quite painful but close. "Can you do that?"

"Yes." The word came out steady. Too steady.

"Yes, what?" His voice had dropped an octave, velvet over gravel.

Your throat clicked as you swallowed. "Yes, I can do that."

"Good girl." The praise was mocking, but your body didn't care. It hit you like a shot of bourbon, warm and dizzying. Your nipples tightened further, visible through the silk, and you knew he could see it, could see exactly what his words did to you. "At least you can follow simple instructions. More than most can manage, these days."

The city blurred past in streams of light. His cigarette smoke filled the car, mixing with cologne and leather into something that made you dizzy. His hand stayed on your thigh, possession and threat in equal measure, fingers occasionally flexing like he was testing how much pressure you could take.

"There'll be other families there." His fingers walked higher, stopping just before indecency. "The Lombardis, definitely. Maybe the Rileys. Some legitimate businessmen who like to play at being dangerous."

You nodded, not trusting your voice. The heat between your legs had become an ache, insistent and shameful.

"They're going to look at you and know exactly what you are. A factory girl playing dress up. Debt payment dressed in silk." His hand slid back down to your knee, the loss of contact making you bite your lip to keep from whimpering. "Let them think that."

"Why?" The question slipped out despite your better judgment.

"Because the truth would be worse." He turned to look at you then, and his eyes in the passing streetlights were dark as the river. "The truth is you're starting to like this. The danger. The way I touch you. The way your body responds even when your mind says no."

You open your mouth to protest, but he interrupts.

"Don't lie." His hand lifted from your knee entirely, leaving cold silk in its wake. "I can see it all over you. The way you're pressing your thighs together. The way your breath catches every time I move my hand. How badly you want me to put it back on your thigh. Higher this time."

You turned your face to the window, cheeks burning with shame at your own thoughts, at how accurately he'd read you. In the reflection, you could see him watching you, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry, dollface." His voice was mockingly gentle. "Your secret's safe with me. Though by the end of tonight, everyone's going to know anyway. The way you look at me gives it all away."

The Stork Club materialized from the Manhattan night like something from a fever dream. Art deco and neon, beautiful people in beautiful clothes, doormen who looked like they could kill you with their white gloves still on. The crowd parted for Bucky's car without question, velvet ropes might as well have not existed.

"Mr. Barnes, welcome back."

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Barnes."

"Your usual table, Mr. Barnes?"

They spoke to him with careful deference, the kind reserved for people who could end you with a phone call. Bucky emerged from the car first, then turned back for you. His hand engulfed yours, calluses rough against your palm—working hands despite the expensive suit. You tried to exit gracefully, hyperaware of the dress riding up, of all the eyes tracking your movement.

Someone in the crowd whistled, low and appreciative.

Bucky's hand moved to your waist faster than your eyes could track, fingers splaying possessively across silk. He pulled you against his side, hard enough that you stumbled, catching yourself against his chest. His other hand came up to steady you, but it was deliberate—palm flat against your lower back, pressing you flush against him from hip to sternum. You could feel every line of his body through the thin dress, the barely contained violence radiating from him like heat from a forge.

He held you there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, letting everyone see. Letting them understand. His jaw muscle ticked, eyes scanning the crowd with predatory focus until whoever had whistled melted back into anonymity.

The crowd went silent.

When he finally let you step back—just an inch, his hand still iron on your waist—the message had been received. The doormen looked anywhere but at you. The crowd found other things infinitely more interesting than the woman on Bucky Barnes's arm.

Inside was all golden light and cigarette smoke, jazz that seemed to come from the walls themselves. Crystal and velvet and perfume so thick it made your eyes water. Beautiful people arranged themselves artfully at tables, each one performing for everyone else in an elaborate dance you didn't know the steps to.

Heads turned as Bucky guided you through the room. You caught fragments of whispers, each one landing like a small cut:

"Barnes's new girl—"

"—won't last the month—"

"—pretty enough, but did you see those shoes? Department store—"

"—must be somethin' special in bed if he's bringing her here—"

Your face burned, but Bucky's hand on your waist kept you moving forward. His thumb stroked one small circle against your ribs, and somehow that tiny gesture gave you enough strength to keep your chin up.

The corner booth held court like a throne. George Barnes sat at its center, those flat eyes tracking your approach with measured interest. The other men around him deferred without seeming to, letting him hold the center of gravity.

"James." He didn't rise, didn't smile. Just watched with that calculating stare that made your spine straighten involuntarily. "Didn't expect to see you tonight."

"Change of plans." Bucky's tone was carefully casual.

George's gaze shifted to you, taking in the dress, the pearls, the careful positioning of Bucky's hand. "The girl from dinner. Interesting choice, bringing her here."

The words were neutral but the undertone wasn't. Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into palms.

"She's with me," Bucky said simply.

"So I see." George lit a cigarette with deliberate movements. "Sit. Both of you."

Bucky guided you into the booth, the horseshoe shape trapping you between him and the wall.

"Business has been good this week," George said, eyes still on you. "Though I heard there was some trouble at Marcus's table earlier."

This was news to you. You recall the first warning to Bucky's brother-in-law. The broken thumb at dinner, the threat of something worse.

Bucky's hand squeezes your thigh.

"Misunderstanding," Bucky replied. "It's handled."

"It better be. Can't have people thinking we've gone soft." George's attention shifted to his son. "Or distracted."

The implication was clear. Your presence was a distraction, a liability.

"I know what I'm doing, Pop."

"Do you?" An older man across the table leaned forward—Italian, well-dressed, with the kind of quiet authority that didn't need to announce itself. "Because from where I sit, looks like you're making statements. Statements have consequences."

"Everything has consequences, Lombardi." Bucky's thigh pressed against yours under the table, a silent message to stay quiet. "Question is whether they're worth it."

Lombardi smiled, thin and knowing. "That's always the question, isn't it? What something's worth. What someone's willing to pay."

A waiter appeared with champagne. The crystal flute was pressed into your hand before you could refuse.

"To business," George said, raising his glass. "And knowing the price of things."

"Drink." Bucky's voice was low, meant only for you. "Slowly. Don't drain it, but don't ignore it either."

You took a small sip, letting the champagne fizz on your tongue. It tasted like wealth: complicated and golden and nothing like the beer your father sometimes brought home. The crystal felt foreign in your grip, too delicate, like it might shatter if you held it wrong.

Conversation flowed around you in currents you couldn't follow. Talk of shipments and territories, percentages and protection, all in code that barely masked the violence underneath. Bucky's hand found your thigh under the table, just resting there, weight and warmth through silk. Not moving, but impossible to ignore.

You tried to make yourself invisible, to become part of the booth's velvet backdrop. But you could feel eyes on you: assessing, calculating, determining exactly what you were worth. Some looked at you with desire, some with contempt, some with the kind of interest that made your skin crawl.

"Your boy hit our numbers hard last week," Lombardi said to George, tone deceptively casual. "Three of our runners taken out."

"Your runners were skimming." George sounded bored. "We did you a favor."

"Some favor. Cost me two grand in lost product."

Under the table, Bucky's hand shifted slightly on your thigh. His pinky finger pressed harder, a silent signal to stay still, stay quiet. You pressed back into the booth, trying to become smaller.

"Cost you nothing. We delivered the full take to your people, minus our handling fee."

"Handling fee." Lombardi's voice went cold as winter stone. "That what we're calling theft now?"

The tension ratcheted up so fast you could taste it, metallic on your tongue. Every muscle in Bucky's body coiled tight, ready for violence. His hand on your thigh became a brand, holding you in place when every instinct screamed run.

They stared at each other across the table. Two apex predators deciding if territory was worth bloodshed. The silence stretched like taffy, sticky and suffocating.

Finally, Lombardi laughed. The sound was like glass breaking in reverse, sharp pieces coming together wrong.

"You always were a ballsy fuck, George." He raised his glass. "To Brooklyn."

They toasted, crystal chiming like funeral bells. The tension eased but didn't disappear. It never fully disappeared here, you realized. Just waited, coiled and ready, for the next provocation.

A hand touched your shoulder.

Not Bucky's.

You flinched so hard champagne sloshed in your glass. A young man leaned over the booth, all slicked hair and hungry eyes that traveled down your body like he was unwrapping a present.

"Wanna dance, sweetheart?"

Bucky's hand tightened on your thigh hard enough to bruise. The pain made you gasp, quiet enough that only he heard. "No, she doesn't."

"I wasn't asking you, Barnes." The man's smile was all teeth, no warmth. "Lady looks bored. Thought I'd show her a good time."

"Tommy." Lombardi's voice carried warning. "Don't be stupid."

But Tommy was drunk on youth and bravado and whatever else was coursing through his bloodstream. His hand slid down your bare arm, fingers trailing over skin like he had every right to touch. The contact made bile rise in your throat, made your skin try to crawl away from your bones.

"Come on, doll. One dance. What's the har—"

The world exploded into motion.

Bucky moved faster than your eyes could track. One moment he was beside you, the next Tommy was pinned against a marble pillar with Bucky's forearm across his throat. The entire club stopped. Conversations died mid-word, the band faltered into scattered notes, even the cigarette smoke seemed to freeze in the air.

"Touch her again," Bucky said very quietly, voice carrying despite its softness, "and I'll mail pieces of you to your mother over the course of a year. A finger here, an ear there. Let her collect you like trading cards."

Tommy's face was turning purple, eyes bulging as he clawed at Bucky's arm. The muscles in Bucky's forearm stood out like iron cables, not giving an inch.

"Bucky." Your voice came out as barely a whisper, throat tight with fear.

His head turned slightly. Not enough to look at you, just enough to acknowledge he'd heard.

"Ask nicely." The command was soft but absolute.

Your face burned with humiliation.

Everyone was watching, waiting, eager to see you perform. You could feel their eyes like hands, grabbing, assessing, determining exactly how much degradation you'd accept.

"Please." The word tasted like copper pennies.

"Please what?" He pressed harder against Tommy's throat, making him wheeze.

The power dynamic was so clear it might as well have been written in neon above your heads. You swallowed your pride like broken glass, feeling it tear all the way down.

"Please let him go."

For a moment, you thought he wouldn't. His arm tensed further, and Tommy made a sound like air leaving a punctured tire. Then Bucky stepped back, letting him drop to the floor in a gasping heap.

"Apologize to the lady."

Tommy massaged his throat, eyes watering, face still purple-red. "S-sorry," he wheezed.

"Sorry what?"

"Sorry for touching you." The words came out strangled. "Won't happen again."

"No," Bucky agreed, straightening his cuffs with deliberate calm. "It fucking won't."

He turned back to the booth, offering you his hand. You took it without thinking, letting him pull you to your feet. Your legs felt like water, knees threatening to buckle.

"We're leaving." He announced it to the table at large.

George watched with those flat eyes, expression unreadable. "Night's young."

"Not for us."

Bucky's arm went around your waist, and this time the possession in it was blatant, a clear warning to anyone thinking of approaching. He guided you through the club, past the staring faces and whispered speculations. You could feel the weight of their judgment (whore, property, thing, toy) but underneath it, something else.

Fear. They looked at you and saw Bucky Barnes's willingness to commit violence, and they were afraid.

The night air hit like a slap, cold and sharp after the club's smoky warmth. You gulped it gratefully, trying to steady your racing heart. Your skin still crawled where Tommy had touched you, phantom fingers leaving invisible stains.

"That was—"

"Get in the fucking car."

The order was flat, emotionless, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched like he was imagining them around someone's throat. You slid into the backseat, expecting him to give the driver an address.

Instead, he got in beside you and pulled you roughly against him.

His hands moved over your arms, checking for damage with clinical efficiency. When he found none, his touch gentled but didn't stop. Fingers traced the path Tommy had taken, as if trying to erase the unwanted contact with his own.

"Did he hurt you?" The question came out rough.

The question stopped you in your tracks. "No, I'm—"

"Don't lie to me." His hand came up to cup your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. In the dim light, they looked almost black.

"I'm not hurt." You caught his wrist, feeling his pulse race under your fingers. "I'm fine."

He stared at you for a long moment, something raw flickering across his face. Possession, maybe, or something deeper, more dangerous. His thumb traced your cheekbone, the touch so gentle it made your chest ache.

"You should be terrified right now." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I am."

"No." His thumb moved to your bottom lip, pressing slightly. "Not of the right thing."

You swallowed audibly. "What should I be afraid of?"

"Me." The word came out like a confession. "What I wanted to do to him. What I want to..."

He cut himself off, jaw clenching hard enough that you could hear his teeth grind. This close, you could smell him: cigarettes and violence and that cologne that made your head swim. Could feel the barely leashed control in every line of his body.

"Driver," he called out, never looking away from your face. "2847 Fulton Street."

Your father's address. He was taking you home. Relief flooded through you so fast it made you dizzy.

His hand moved from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Feeling your pulse flutter against his palm like a trapped moth. "You did well tonight," he said, voice strange. Almost surprised. "Didn't rise to the bait. Didn't make a scene."

"I'm getting good at being degraded in public." The words came out sharper than intended.

His thumb pressed against your pulse point, and you felt him smile more than saw it. "That mouth is going to get you in trouble."

The car slowed. Too soon. You looked out the window to see an unfamiliar street, industrial buildings looming like broken teeth. The driver was turned around, speaking urgently to Bucky in Italian. Your stomach clenched.

"What's happening?"

"Shut up." But his hand tightened on your throat, protective rather than threatening. He leaned forward, listening to the driver, and his entire body went rigid. "Fuck. Fuck."

"Bucky—"

"Someone's at your place. Three cars." His jaw worked, mind calculating. "They knew I'd take you home. They're waiting."

Your blood turned to slush, cold and thick in your veins. "Who?"

"Does it matter?" He was already redirecting the driver, barking an address. "Pier 47. Now."

"The docks?" Panic crawled up your throat. "Why—"

His hand moved from your throat to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape. He pulled, firm enough to make you look at him. "Listen to me very carefully. We're about to walk into something bad. You stay behind me. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No questions, no hesitation. Understood?"

Your mouth had gone dry as sand. "What kind of bad?"

"The kind where people die." His grip tightened, and you felt the tremor in his hand that he was trying to hide. "I didn't plan this. Didn't want you anywhere near this. But we're out of options."

The drive took forever and no time at all. Manhattan dissolved into industrial wasteland, all rust and shadow and the smell of the Hudson creeping through the windows. Bucky's hand had moved to your thigh, higher than before, fingers pressed into the soft inner flesh hard enough to bruise. Every time the car hit a bump, his grip tightened, and heat shot straight to your core despite the terror.

"You're shaking," he murmured, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh through silk.

"I'm scared," you croaked. It felt like the understatement of the century.

"Good. Terror keeps you alive." His hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your underwear. "When we get there, you stay close enough that I can feel you breathing. Someone approaches you, you scream. Someone touches you..." His fingers flexed, and you bit back a whimper. "You fight like your life depends on it. Because it will."

The warehouse materialized from the darkness like something from a fever dream. No lights except weak moonlight filtering through broken windows. Your heels sounded like gunshots against the concrete as Bucky pulled you from the car, his hand immediately going to your waist, fingers splaying wide enough to span from ribs to hip.

"I don't like this," you whispered.

"Neither do I." He pulled you tighter against his side, and you could feel the gun tucked into his waistband pressing against your hip. "But Gallo's here. Has to be dealt with tonight."

"Who's Gallo?"

"Someone who should've stayed in fucking Chicago."

The inside was a cavern of shadows and echoes. Your eyes couldn't adjust fast enough, dark shapes moving in peripheral vision that might have been men or machinery or nothing at all. Bucky's hand on your waist was the only solid thing in a world suddenly made of smoke.

Then lights blazed on, harsh and blinding.

"Barnes!" The voice boomed from somewhere above. "Right on time."

You blinked repeatedly, vision swimming back into focus. Five men stood in a loose semicircle, all armed, all staring.

At you. Only at you.

"Gallo." Bucky's voice was perfectly neutral, but his fingers dug into your waist hard enough that you knew there'd be marks tomorrow. "Thought we were meeting alone."

"Plans change." Gallo stepped into better light. Scarred face like a topographical map of violence, dead eyes that reminded you of Bucky's father, smile that didn't reach past his teeth. "Well, well. Didn't know you were bringin' party favors."

His gaze traveled down your body, slow and deliberate. You could feel it like hands, like a violation. Your skin tried to crawl off your bones. Bucky shifted, putting himself partially in front of you, but Gallo just laughed.

"What's the matter, Barnes? Worried we'll damage your toy?" He took a step closer. "Pretty thing like that, all dolled up... Lombardi sends his regards, by the way. Says you owe him for the disrespect tonight. Says maybe the girl could be part of the payment."

The trap snapped into focus. You'd been bait without knowing it. The dress, the club, all of it leading here. Your knees went liquid.

"Lombardi can—"

The first gunshot was impossibly loud, sound that felt like a physical blow.

Bucky moved faster than thought, his body slamming into yours, driving you behind a concrete pillar. Your knees hit concrete with a crack that sent lightning up your thighs. Your palms skidded across rough ground, skin peeling away like tissue paper. Wetness bloomed across your knees, hot and immediate.

More gunshots, so many they became one continuous roar. Concrete exploded inches from your face, sharp fragments cutting across your cheek like tiny razors. You pressed yourself against the pillar, trying to become part of it, trying to disappear.

Then, sudden silence that was somehow worse.

"You okay?" Bucky's voice, close and rough.

You opened eyes you didn't remember closing. He was crouched in front of you, gun in hand, his other hand running over your body, checking for holes. A cut on his cheek leaked steadily, blood running down his jaw to drip on your silk dress.

"I—" Your voice wouldn't work properly. "I think—"

"Office. Now."

He hauled you up, and your legs barely held. The room spun. You could hear shouting, footsteps running, getting closer. Bucky half-dragged you toward a door, your heels catching on debris, ankles turning. The office door slammed behind you, and immediately Bucky was shoving furniture against it. Desk, filing cabinet, another desk.

"Barnes!" Gallo's voice, muffled but too close. "Send out the girl and we'll call it even."

"Fuck you," Bucky snarled, checking his ammunition. You watched his hands move, efficient and steady despite the blood now soaking his sleeve.

"Come on, be smart. She's nobody. Just some factory cunt you're slumming with. Worth what, a few nights of fun? I'll give you five grand for her."

Your stomach heaved.

Being sold. Priced. Reduced to meat.

"Ten," another voice called out. "Ten grand and we all walk away. You can find another piece of ass tomorrow."

Bucky looked at you then, and for one horrible second, you saw him calculating. Saw him weighing your life against whatever this was. Then he crossed to you in two strides, caging you against the wall with his body.

"Stay down," he said against your ear, his breath hot on your neck. "No matter what happens, you don't move. You don't make a sound." His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your lips. "If I die, you play dead. Understood?"

You nodded, unable to speak past the pressure of his thumb.

"Good girl." The praise was grim. "Such a good girl."

He started toward the door—

The window exploded in a shower of glass.

A man swung through, young and wild-eyed, gun already tracking toward you. Your body moved without permission, hand finding the letter opener on the desk, driving it into his calf before conscious thought caught up. The blade slid in with horrifying ease, catching on something that might have been bone.

His scream was high, animal. The gun swung toward your face, and you could see your death in the black eye of the barrel—

Bucky's fist connected with the man's jaw with a sound like wet concrete breaking. The man crumpled, but more were coming. Two, three, climbing through the shattered window.

Something silver flashed in Bucky's hand. When had he pulled a knife? He moved like liquid mercury, the blade becoming part of him. An artery opened in a graceful arc, blood hitting the wall, hitting you. Hot drops across your face, in your mouth. The taste of copper and salt.

You should have screamed. Should have vomited. Instead, your hand found the dropped gun, fingers curling around the grip like you'd done this before.

"Safety's on the side," Bucky barked out without looking, currently using someone's tie to strangle them. "Red means dead."

Your thumb found the safety. The gun was heavier than expected, cold and solid.

The door exploded inward despite the barricade. More men, too many—

"Down!"

You flattened yourself as Bucky spun, firing over your head. The sound was deafening, made your ears ring. Bodies fell, but one shot caught Bucky in the shoulder, spinning him back. Blood sprayed across your dress, across your face, hot and thick.

"No!" The word ripped from your throat.

He grimaced, switched the gun to his left hand, kept firing. But you could see him slowing, could see the blood soaking his shirt, could see death walking into the room wearing familiar faces—

The man in the doorway was different. Calm in the chaos, suit somehow clean despite stepping over corpses. Dark skin, easy gait, professional eyes that catalogued the scene in an instant.

"Barnes," he said conversationally. "You look like shit."

"Wilson." Bucky's smile was all teeth and blood. "Took your fucking time."

Wilson raised his gun and shot two men trying to flank Bucky without looking at them. "Traffic was a bitch. That her?"

"Yeah."

Wilson's gaze found you: huddled against overturned furniture, gun clutched in shaking hands, blood that wasn't yours painting you red.

"Huh. Thought she'd be taller."

They moved together then with practiced synchronization. You stayed frozen, watching them work with terrible efficiency. When Gallo tried to run, Wilson caught him at the door like it was choreographed.

"Leaving so soon?"

"This wasn't the deal," Gallo gasped. "Lombardi said—"

"Lombardi says a lot of things." Bucky approached slowly, favoring his wounded shoulder. The blood had soaked through his jacket now, dripping steadily onto concrete. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to deliver a message for me."

The knife appeared again. Then it was in Gallo's shoulder, buried to the hilt. The scream echoed off the walls, off the ceiling, seeming to go on forever.

"The message," Bucky continued, twisting the blade slowly, "is that my girl is under my protection. Anyone who touches her, looks at her wrong, even thinks about her too hard—" Another twist, and Gallo sobbed. "—they'll end up like your friends here. But it'll take days. We clear?"

"Y-yes! Clear!"

Bucky yanked the knife free. Gallo crumpled, clutching his shoulder.

"Run," Bucky said softly. "Before I change my mind."

Gallo scrambled out, leaving blood smeared across the floor like a child's finger painting.

Wilson surveyed the carnage. Six bodies. Walls painted with arterial spray. You, still frozen, gun still clutched in white-knuckled hands.

"Jesus," he muttered. "You really know how to show a girl a good time."

"Shut up, Sam."

"I'm just saying, most people do dinner and a movie."

"Most people aren't me."

"Thank Christ for that." Sam approached you slowly, hands visible. "Hey there. You can put the gun down now."

You looked at the weapon like it was foreign. Your fingers had locked around it, knuckles gone white. They wouldn't let go.

"It's okay," Sam said gently. "You're safe. It's over."

Bucky crossed to you, gently prying the gun from your grip. His fingers were so warm against yours, steady despite everything. You could feel his pulse through his palm, too fast but strong.

"That's it, sweetheart" he said quietly, just for you. "You did good. The letter opener was smart. Quick thinking."

"There's blood on my dress." Your voice sounded strange to your own ears, distant.

"Shame, that. I'll buy you a new one."

"It's your blood."

Something shifted in his expression. "Yeah. Some of it is."

"You're hurt." Your hands reached for his shoulder without permission.

He caught your wrists, gentle but firm. "I've had worse."

"That's not reassuring."

Sam snorted. "Tell her about Budapest."

"Shut up, Wilson."

"Or Prague. Prague was a shitshow."

"I said shut up."

The banter washed over you, surreal after the violence. Bodies on the floor. Blood pooling black in moonlight. They'd been alive five minutes ago. Now they were nothing.

"We need to clean this up," Sam said, already pulling out a lighter. "You got accelerant in here?"

"Storage closet." Bucky hadn't looked away from your face, studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. "Give us five minutes."

"Make it three. Cops have been paid to be scarce, but fire department's harder to buy."

Bucky guided you out, past the bodies, through blood that made your shoes stick to the floor with each step. Outside, the night air hit like cold water. You gasped, gulping it down, but couldn't get the taste of copper out of your mouth.

"Your car's fucked," Sam called out. "Gallo's boys shot it to hell."

"Fucking hell. Fine, we'll take the sedan around back," Bucky replied, already steering you toward it. "Red Hook safehouse?"

"You've got it, boss."

The drive to Red Hook passed in a blur of streetlights and silence. You sat between them, trying to stop shaking. Every breath tasted like copper. Every blink brought back the image of that man's throat opening, the surprised look on his face like he couldn't believe his body had betrayed him. Your dress was starting to stiffen where the blood had soaked through, silk turning to cardboard against your skin.

"She's in shock," Sam said, clinical but not unkind.

"I know."

"She needs—"

"I know what she needs, Wilson."

Bucky's hand found yours on the seat between you. Not holding, just covering it with his own. The weight of it was grounding, something solid in a world that had gone liquid at the edges.

The safehouse materialized from the darkness: a narrow brownstone that looked abandoned from the outside. Peeling paint, dark windows, the kind of place the city forgot on purpose. Sam helped you both inside, Bucky's good arm heavy around your waist.

"Three hours," Sam said from the doorway. "Then I'm checking in."

"Four."

"Three." Sam's eyes found yours in the dim light. "You did good tonight. Most people freeze their first time. You didn't freeze."

First time.

The words followed you up the narrow stairs, Bucky's hand at your back, guiding you through the darkness. The safehouse smelled like dust and old smoke, like a place where people came to hide from their mistakes.

He pushed open a door to reveal a bedroom that had seen better decades. A bed with military corners, a dresser missing half its handles, streetlight filtering through yellowed curtains.

"Sit," he said, guiding you to the edge of the bed.

You sat, hands still trembling in your lap. He knelt in front of you, started unlacing your shoes with careful fingers. The domesticity of it made your chest tight. When he looked up at you, his eyes were dark in the half-light.

"We need to get you cleaned up," he said softly. "Get the blood off."

"I can still taste it." The words came out small, broken.

Something shifted in his expression. He rose, cupped your face in his hands. His thumbs stroked your cheekbones, and you realized he was wiping away tears you hadn't known were falling.

"Listen to me," he said, voice low and steady. "What happened tonight changes things. Changes you. And we're going to deal with that. But right now, you need to let me take care of you. Can you do that?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

"Good girl." The praise was gentle this time, lacking its usual edge. "That's my good girl."

He helped you stand, turned you toward the bathroom. "Shower. Hot as you can stand it. I'll find you something clean to wear."

At the bathroom door, you paused. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"After. Will you..." You couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't articulate what you needed.

But he understood. He always understood.

"I'll be right here," he said. "Not going anywhere."

You closed the door behind you, started peeling off the blood-stiffened dress with shaking fingers. Through the thin walls, you could hear him moving around. The creak of drawers opening. The soft curse when his shoulder caught wrong. These ordinary sounds in extraordinary circumstances.

As hot water finally hit your skin, washing pink spirals down the drain, you thought about what he'd said. Changes you.

You could feel it already—something fundamental shifted, some innocence you'd never get back. You'd stabbed a man tonight. Watched others die. Felt relief instead of horror when they stopped moving.

But underneath the shock and trauma, something else stirred. Something that recognized the predator in Bucky Barnes and wanted to learn how to show teeth too. Something that had picked up that letter opener not in panic, but with intent.

Tomorrow, you'd have to reckon with what you'd become.

Tonight, you just had to wash the blood off and trust that the man in the next room—dangerous, complicated, morally gray Bucky Barnes—would keep you from falling apart completely.

Through the wall, you heard him pour bourbon. Heard the soft hiss of pain as he tried to deal with his shoulder one-handed.

"I'll be right here," he'd said.

For tonight, that had to be enough.

“I just needed to escape for a little while,” you admit with a meager shrug, absently trailing your finger along the condensed glass.

“Are things that bad?”

“You could say that,” you huff humorlessly before taking a long sip of your shake. The man hums thoughtfully in response before reaching into his pocket and producing a wallet.

“In that case,” he says warmly while setting a ten dollar bill on the counter, “your shake’s on me.”

You stare at the man in bewilderment, unused to such acts of genuine kindness from complete strangers. Most people tend to stay clear of you, the people that occupy your home never so much as even sparing you a passing glance, and you find yourself speechless as you process the genuine joy you feel at finally being seen.

“Thank you,” you utter gratefully, swallowing down your emotions as you turn to look at the bill on the counter. “I-“

The glint of silver catches your eye and you freeze when you make note of the metal fingers that rest upon the dollar. Your horrified gaze slowly trails up his hand and along his bionic arm before meeting his innocent smile. Your blood feels like ice in your veins, stomach heavy with dread as you force yourself to swallow down the accumulation of nervous spit that had pooled in your mouth, and you suddenly find yourself wishing you hadn’t left the house alone.

“Judging by the look on your face I assume you know who I am and what I do for a living,” he says coolly, raising his hands in surrender to signal his innocence.

“I… I do,” you manage to get out despite the tremble of your voice.

“Good, that’s good. Saves us both some time.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” You whimper softly, bottom lip quivering in a way that tugs at the man’s heartstrings.

“No, sweetheart, I’m not going to hurt you,” he assures you sweetly despite his intimidating aura. “Despite my line of work, I make it a point to treat all dames with respect. It’s how I was raised. That’s why I’m sitting here asking you nicely to come with me. I really don’t want to manhandle you or drug you or throw you into the back of a van like your meathead fiancé would. I want you to walk out of here with me feeling dignified and respected.”

Your mind is reeling from the contradictory nature of the man sitting before you. You’re not an idiot, you’ve heard the stories of Bucky Barnes and the things he’s done to get to the position he’s at now. You know he’s the leader of a rival gang here in New York, and you know he’s been at it with your fiancé for months over territories in the city and shady business deals that always seemed to fall through, and yet here he was behaving like the perfect gentleman.

“Does that sound good to you, y/n?” He presses gently, the sound of your name coming from his lips filling your stomach with dread. He flashes a charming grin that would have had you giggling like a school girl in different circumstances, but in this instance it only has you fearing what is to come.

Knowing you have no way out of the situation and that the best possible outcome for you has been thrown into your lap, you reply in defeat, “I’ll walk out of here with you.”

“Smart girl,” Bucky coos with a grin before standing up from the stool and offering his arm for you to take. You swallow nervously while slowly lowering yourself off the stool and locking your arm with his own, allowing him to guide you out of the diner and towards the black SUV that sits waiting for you both.

Your body trembles against his own, fingers digging tightly into the fabric of his expensive suit jacket the closer you get to the car. Your entire body feels like it’s moving on autopilot due to the fear coursing through your veins, and you don’t even try to put up a fight as he opens the rear door and helps you into the car.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re in good hands,” he assures you with complete sincerity. You merely sit in silence and watch him shut the door closed, leaving you alone with the thoughts that race through your head.

While most would assume your frightened nature to be the result of essentially being kidnapped by one of the most notorious mob bosses in New York, it wasn’t Bucky that had your entire being on edge. You didn’t fear him, and despite his reputation you trusted his word that no harm would come to you while in his care. In fact, Bucky was the least of your concerns.

What frightened you most was what your fiancé would do to you once you were returned to him and the consequences you would face for leaving the house on your own. You knew that you’d rather endure whatever Bucky had planned for you than be met with your soon-to-be husband’s wrath, and you didn’t look forward to what was to come. He’d be livid to know you’d willing let yourself be taken by his biggest opponent without so much as putting up a fight, and he’d take out the hit to his ego on you.

You were utterly screwed.

~~~

You arrive at a mansion hidden in the outskirts of New York about half an hour later. You aren’t given much time to enjoy the scenery as you’re rushed inside, but you note the luxurious front lawn and pristine water fountain that make the home appear much nicer than your own. You’ve never been one for wealth or material items, but you had to admit Bucky had excellent taste.

Your heels click along the marble tile as you’re guided down a hallway and towards an office nestled in the back. Bucky sits waiting for you in his leather chair, a blond man and redheaded woman standing intimidatingly at his sides. The door shuts softly behind you, and Bucky quietly signals for you to take a seat in the chair across from him. You swallow nervously before slowly sinking down into your seat, on edge for what is to come.

“What do you think?” He prompts with a subtle grin, gesturing to the space around him. It’s much bigger than your fiancé’s office and much nicer too, equipped with a fireplace and antique decor. It’s inviting and warm despite being owned by a notoriously cold blooded man.

“It’s… nice,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve never been in a mansion like this.”

“I’m glad you like it, because while you’re here with me I want you to think of this as your home. You’re free to walk around and explore or to enjoy the gardens and the pool as you please.”

You’re stunned by his admission, definitely unused to such hospitality from mob men like Bucky. Your own fiancé didn’t even treat you so kindly, and your own home came with restrictions and a total loss of your autonomy. You felt guilty for being almost grateful at the fact that Bucky has decided to take you in, but you remind yourself that it isn’t permanent, and he’s only doing this to achieve a much larger goal at hand.

“The only rule is you can’t leave the grounds, and while I want to trust you’ll keep your word, I’ll still have to keep eyes on you at all times just in case you start getting antsy. Sound fair?”

“That’s fair,” you answer truthfully despite your underlying distrust. Surely this must be some sort of trick or cruel joke he’s playing on you, his hospitality a facade to catch you off guard, but so far he’s kept to his every word.

“I’m glad you see it that way,” he exhales while sinking back into his seat. “I don’t exactly enjoying holding you hostage like this, but your stupid fiancé left me no choice. Rumlow hasn’t been taking my threats seriously, so I figured kidnapping his girl might finally catch his attention.”

The mere mention of his name fills your entire body with dread, but you’re quickly able to mask the feeling with practiced ease. Every bad thing that’s happened to you since your engagement has been because of him, but you know that when all is said and done this little incident will be blamed on you. You hate him, but you’ve been conditioned to keep such things to yourself, so you only offer Bucky a quiet nod and keep your eyes glued to the ground like you normally do in the presence of mafia men.

“If there’s anything you need you let me know, and if you can’t find me you can ask Steve or Natasha,” he says while gesturing to the two beside him. “They’re my best workers which means I trust them with my life and yours. In the meantime, I’ve got work to do, so Natasha will show you to your room.”

“Thank you,” you utter meekly before rising from your seat, chancing a glance at the man across from you. His eyes are still full of kindness like they’d been at the diner, and you find your stomach flipping at the mere sight of his careful smile. You feel like you should be more afraid, you shouldn’t be so willing to be this man’s prisoner, but you can’t find it in you to care.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll be taken care of here with me,” Bucky assures you with a wink before signaling for Natasha to show you out.

You keep your gaze low as you follow the woman down the hallway and up the stairs, too intimidated by her to speak yet too curious to resist casting a look her way. You’re startled to find she’s already looking at you, a small smirk forming on her lips at your jumpiness.

“He means it, you know,” her smooth voice says while taking careful steps up the stairway. “He won’t hurt you, and we’ve been given strict orders to look after you.”

“So you’re one of his workers too?” You ask in astonishment. Rumlow never hired women to work for him, and he never so much as dared make business deals with them either. She chuckles.

“It’s like he told you- Bucky treats all dames with respect,” she notes fondly, reaching the top of the steps and turning a corner down another hallway. “We’re all equals here, including you.”

“How long will I be here?”

“That depends on Rumlow. Your fiancé won’t keep off our territory and owes Bucky a hefty amount of money. He also doesn’t like people taking his property, which is why you’re here. He always brags about you during business meetings, so Steve suggested you might be a good motivator for him to fall in line.”

You try your best not to let show the hurt her words bring, especially because she means no harm, but it’s degrading to hear yourself referred to as property. Though, you suppose it’s true considering he owns you and your autonomy as a result of your engagement, and you know that once you’re married you’ll never be free to be your own person ever again. This thought sits with you long after Natasha shows you to your room and leaves you to your own devices.

You find yourself unable to sleep for most of the night.

~~~

You’re awoken the next morning by a maid knocking on your door to inform you of Bucky’s request that you join him for breakfast. She leaves you a dress reminiscent of the ones you have in your own closet back at home, displaying Bucky’s excellent attention to detail when it comes to business. It seems he’d planned this out much more in depth than you’d thought, and you’re not sure whether this detail should be taken as a comfort.

You make yourself presentable and slip into the dress with ease before making your descent down the stairs and towards the dining room. The house is awfully quiet despite the morning hour, but you appreciate the stillness. Brock can be loud and overbearing, and his henchmen aren’t any better, so you enjoy the change of scenery.

Bucky sits at the head of the table when you finally peek your head in, a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other as he passes the time until your arrival. An appetizing breakfast spread fills the table, immediately prompting your stomach to growl loudly. Your last meal had been the shake at the diner, so it’s safe to say you haven’t exactly eaten proper food in some time.

“Good morning,” you greet timidly to alert him of your presence, seating yourself across from him while he quickly sets his paper aside with a smile.

“Good morning,” Bucky responds pleasantly, his sole attention now on you. “How did you sleep?”

“I slept okay… all things considered.”

“I can understand that,” he hums thoughtfully before gesturing to the food laid out on the table. “I had the kitchen staff prepare a little bit of everything so help yourself. What’s mine is yours.”

“Thank you,” you murmur sincerely. An awkward silence settles in the room as you begin to fill your plate with fruit, Bucky simply watching your every move much to your discomfort.

“I knew that dress would suit you,” he compliments in an attempt to break the silence. You flash him a meek smile but say nothing as you pop a strawberry into your mouth. “It looks good. Although, I’m thinking I should have gotten one with longer sleeves to cover that hand shaped spot on your arm there.”

His words have you freezing in place, eyes widening in dismay as he brings your attention to the ugly bruise that paints the skin of your arm purple and blue. You quickly slap a hand against the mark to hide it in vain, prompting Bucky to let out a sigh. You watch the clenching of his jaw while he sits back further in his chair, brows furrowing together in dismay as he tries to piece together his next sentence carefully in his head.

“Rumlow do that?” He asks, though you don’t have to answer considering the look of shame and fear on your face seems to answer for you. You offer him a single nod, prompting a scoff of disbelief to leave him. “Fucking scum.”

“I’m used to it now,” you defend pathetically, head lowering in shame and eyes glassy with tears that threaten to fall. “It’s just how he is.”

“Doesn’t make it right,” he grumbles to your dismay. Sensing your discomfort, Bucky immediately softens his features and tone. “It’s not you I’m mad at, y/n. I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that a brute like him found a girl like you for a wife. You don’t seem like the mafia type- you’re too trusting, too sweet.”

“That’s because I’m not,” you admit with a humorless laugh, sniffing away your tears before finally willing yourself to meet his gaze. You don’t know why a man you’ve only known for a day is able to get you to open up so easily to him, but at this point you can’t find it in you to care. “I never wanted any of this.”

“How’d you get mixed up in all of this?” Bucky presses gently, not wanting to force you to talk in fear of making you uncomfortable.

“My father owed a debt to Brock, and he paid it back with me. I never had a choice, and I gave up fighting it once I realized it would only make things worse for me. Accepting that this is just the way things are now makes it easier to survive.”

A look of quiet astonishment settles on Bucky’s features as if he hadn’t expected that answer, and you quickly revert your eyes back to your plate of food to avoid his sympathetic gaze. You don’t like talking about your impending marriage or the fate your father had forced upon you, but Bucky has a way of making you talk without inhibition. You almost hate it, but you haven’t been able to have a real conversation with anyone in over a year, so you have to admit it feels nice to finally have someone who listens to you.

“What about you?” You ask to change the subject and remove some of the attention off of you. “You don’t seem like the mob type either. How’d a man like you end up in this business?”

A nostalgic smile spreads across his lips as he shifts in his seat and begins to reminisce on his younger years. “Steve and I grew up in the slums. Crime and violence were rampant in our neighborhood, but corrupt politicians decided to pocket the resources meant to help us fix our home. Once we realized no one was going to do their job, we decided to do it for them. I don’t particularly enjoy the more violent aspects of the mob, but it’s a necessary evil if I want to get anything done.”

It’s your turn now to be stunned by his response. Most men like Rumlow join the mafia for the money or the notoriety; they join gangs for power and personal gain. But not Bucky. The more you learn about this man the more alluring he becomes, and the facade of the cold blooded killer people paint him out to be quickly fades the more time you spend with him.

You want to ask more questions, to spend hours getting to know more about the infamous Bucky Barnes, but your breakfast is cut short by the arrival of Steve who politely apologizes to you for the disruption.

“Something’s come up,” he alerts Bucky with a knowing look, “we need to go.”

“Great,” Bucky mutters before rising from his seat and flashing you an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to cut breakfast short, doll. I’ll make sure the chefs cook us something nice for dinner, alright?”

“Actually, would it be okay if I made dinner?” You ask timidly, catching both men by surprise. “There isn’t much to do here, and I’d like to repay you for breakfast.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Bucky agrees with a fond grin, “whatever you want. I won’t be long.”

You watch the two men hastily exit the room, leaving you once more to your own devices in a dining room that suddenly feels much too big for you. You find yourself glancing down at the purple mark on your arm, gently running your fingers along its surface with a sigh before returning your gaze to the now empty chair in front of you.

Why couldn’t your father have promised you to a man like Bucky instead?

~~~

You’re in the middle of chopping vegetables when you hear a commotion coming from the front door. The sounds of yelling and muffled cursing fills your ears, prompting you to carefully set down your knife and slowly make your way towards the living room.

A trail of blood stains the marble tile floors as Natasha drags Bucky into the home while Steve barks orders to the other men. Despite the chaos, Bucky looks oddly calm and only mildly annoyed at the disruption. His eyes meet your worried ones when he catches sight of you lingering in the doorway, and he signals for Natasha to pause her steps.

“Y/n, honey, just stay put, okay? I’ll be down for dinner in a minute,” he instructs cooly despite the blood that slowly oozes out of his torso.

“I can help,” you insist gently, earning a distrusting look from Natasha. When neither of them respond to your proposition, you continue, “I know how to clean up a wound like that. I do it all the time for Brock, and I can do it for you if you’ll let me.”

After a moment of hesitation, Bucky finally gives you a nod. “The first aid kit is in the bottom cabinet of the bathroom down the hall.”

You quickly scurry off in search of the kit, following Bucky’s directions and grabbing the case full of medical supplies. After double checking it holds everything you need, you promptly make your way back to Bucky. The once tumultuous living room is now silent save for the man’s heavy breathing, and you find him waiting for you on the couch. Your stomach suddenly finds itself full of nerves as you approach him, but you do your best to remain calm as you seat yourself beside him.

“What kind of wound is it?” You ask while slipping on the medical gloves from the kit.

“Stab wound,” he grits through clenched teeth while shrugging off his suit jacket. “Didn’t see the bastard coming.”

You hum softly while sterilizing your tools and preparing the disinfectant, your movements immediately faltering when you look up to find his shirt completely unbuttoned. You can’t help the quiet gasp that escapes you at the sight of his perfectly sculpted muscles and the sheen of sweat that coats them, your stomach fluttering nervously as you carefully begin to wipe away the blood and disinfect the wound.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” you state aloud in an effort to distract yourself. “I’ve seen much worse.”

“How’d you learn to do all this?”

“Another mob wife taught me,” you explain with a faint smile that fails to reach your eyes. “She was the only person to show me kindness when I became a part of Brock’s world. Taught me everything I’d need to know to survive.”

A pensive silence fills the room, the air filled only with the steady breaths that fall from Bucky’s lips as you delicately stitch the wound closed. Your brows scrunch with concentration, tongue darting out from the corner of your lips without you realizing, and the sight tugs at Bucky’s heartstrings. It’s no shock to anyone that you’re beautiful, the most gorgeous woman he’s ever laid eyes on even, but you’re also gentle, kind, and too sweet to ever be mixed up with someone like Rumlow. Bucky knew better than to get attached to people, especially when it came to business, but he couldn’t help it when it came to you. You hadn’t been here for long, but already he’d grown fond of you and your soft nature that heavily contrasted the brutality of his life.

“I’ll have to change the bandages before you go to bed,” you murmur absently after finishing your work. “Did you still want dinner? I can heat it up for you.”

“You don’t have to do all this, you know,” Bucky reminds you with a careful smile. “You’re a guest here, I should be taking care of you.”

“I don’t mind,” you insist with a shrug, “anything to help the man that’s treated me with nothing but respect since I got here.”

Bucky says nothing, but the careful brush of his metal fingers against your jaw is enough to signal his gratitude. Your lashes flutter shut in content almost immediately, all inhibitions thrown out the window as you enjoy the intimacy of being here with him alone.

“I’m going to get changed then come back down for dinner. Sound good, doll?”

“Yes, Bucky,” you chime softly, casting him a fond smile while he pulls himself up off the couch and makes his way up the stairs towards his bedroom. In the meantime, you clean up the mess and do your best to get the blood stains out of the couch before washing your hands of the remaining grime.

While Bucky changes, you reheat the dinner you’d prepared in his absence and set the table. It’s oddly domestic, and though this is a routine you’ve completed hundreds of times before for Rumlow, this is the first time you’ve ever felt at peace doing so. You remind yourself not to get too used to being here, that Bucky isn’t your fiancé, but it only serves to fill you with dread at the thought of having to return to reality.

He returns ten minutes later in a Henley and pair of sweats, and you try not to take notice of the way his biceps nearly bulge through the seams. You say nothing as you set his plate down at the table before seating yourself beside him in favor of your normal place across the table. If he takes notice he says nothing, only moving to take a bite of his dinner after a grueling day of work.

“You’re an angel,” he express gratefully, and though you try to wave him off with a bashful shake of your head he insists, “I mean it. You’ve brought a light to this place I never thought was possible. It’s been nice having you here, though I wish the circumstances were different.”

“Me too,” you profess quietly despite keeping your eyes glued to your plate of dinner. Bucky looks upon your features for a moment, taking in the details of your face while silently working up the nerve to make a confession.

“I have a meeting tomorrow,” he utters abruptly, catching your attention and prompting you to look up from your plate. “It’s with Rumlow.”

Bucky’s statement has you feeling overcome with an immediate sense of dread. Your heart begins to beat rapidly in your chest, and you try to control the shakiness of your hand as you stab your fork into your vegetables.

“You do?” You murmur quietly, an obvious edge to your tone.

“He’s asked to meet so we can discuss the conditions of your return. He wants you home.”

Your ears begin to ring. Your body feels unbearably hot with panic and your eyes immediately begin to pool with tears. You don’t want to go back to him, and you don’t want to leave Bucky. Maybe he had technically kidnapped you, but you never once felt like a prisoner here with him. In fact, you felt the freest you’d ever been in his mansion than back at home with your own fiancé. You knew what was waiting for you with Rumlow, and you didn’t think you could bear it.

“I suppose it was a matter of time,” you state calmly despite the trembling of your bottom lip. Bucky nods silently in agreement, though his brows furrow in contemplation as he leans back in his chair and grasps his chin with his finger.

“The thing is,” Bucky begins with a defeated sigh, “I don’t think I will be returning you.”

You nearly drop your fork in response to his words, your eyes widening in shock as you look to him in search of any signs of humor or sarcasm. Instead, you are met with a face full of sincerity. Not once has Bucky ever teased you or lied to you during your stay with him, and this time is no different.

“You… you mean it?” You ask with a hopeful glint in your eye.

“What kind of monster would I be to send you back with him? I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did that. I won’t stand for you to marry someone who knocks you around and treats you with disrespect. I don’t have all the details worked out just yet, but I want you to trust that I’m going to help you get your freedom back. Can you trust me, y/n?”

“Yes, oh, thank you, Bucky!” you exclaim gratefully, unable to help the tears that begin to fall down your face. You’re overcome with emotion at the mere notion of finally being free from your impending marriage, and you have no words to express how thankful you are for him.

“Don’t cry, pretty girl,” he coos while gently cupping your face in his hands and wiping away your tears with the pads of his thumbs. “Everything’s going to be okay. I swear to you I’ll make it all better.”

You sniffle, letting out a watery laugh when he leans forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. You’re the happiest you’ve been in ages, full of hope and light you thought had long since been extinguished.

And it’s all thanks to Bucky.

~~~

You’re restless.

You can’t help yourself from pacing around Bucky’s office as the minutes slowly drag by. He’s been gone for two hours now and you’re starting to worry.

“You’re going to tire yourself out like that,” Sam comments after looking up from his book to watch you frantically move around the room. Bucky has entrusted the man to look after you in his absence in case Rumlow has any ideas about snatching you while he’s away. So far the mansion has been quiet, but it only serves to unsettle you further.

“Shouldn’t he be back by now? What if something’s happened?” You press urgently only for Sam to shut his book with a sigh and gesture for you to take a seat. You do so reluctantly, but your body is relieved to have ceased its constant movement.

“Bucky knows what he’s doing,” he reassures you as best as he can. “Plus, he’s a man of his word. He promised you your freedom from Rumlow so that’s what he’s going to do.”

Sam’s words are enough to quell your anxious state for now, but it doesn’t stop your mind from spinning with all the different possible outcomes that could result from this meeting. You want to be free of your engagement more than anything, but you’d hate for that to come at the cost of Bucky’s life.

After what feels like ages a knock finally sounds at the door. You nearly jump out of your chair from the startle it gives you, and Sam is quick to rise from his seat and draw his gun. The room becomes deathly silent as you both watch the door slowly creak open, but standing in the doorway is only a disheveled Bucky. His right cheek sports a fresh bruise, and blood that is not his own stains his clothes. He looks to Sam and gives him a single nod, prompting the man to make his exit so that only the two of you remain in the office.

You watch with bated breath as the man slowly walks towards you, his hulking frame towering over your own as he gently takes your hands in his. He looks exhausted, but he still manages to offer you a gentle smile as he raises your knuckles to his lips and presses a gentle kiss upon them.

“I took care of him,” he finally says, immediately alleviating you of all tension and worry. “You’re free.”

Your bottom lip quivers despite the smile you wear while you fight to hold back tears of joy, and without a second thought you throw your arms around Bucky in a bone crushing hug that he’s quick to return. His metal hand finds its place on the small of your back while the other delicately cradles the back of your head. You don’t care about the blood that stains his clothes or the metallic scent that he emits: you’re forever indebted to your savior, and you want him to know just how much you appreciate what he’s done for you.

“You can stay with me for now until things calm down and we find you a place-“ Bucky begins to say, but his words fall upon deaf ears as you crash your lips onto his own in a passionate kiss. You can’t think of any other way to express how happy you are, and judging by the way he immediately pulls you flush against him to return the kiss, he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

His lips move tenderly against your own while his arms wrap around your frame in the most impassioned kiss you’ve ever received. All inhibitions have been thrown out the window, but neither can find it in you to care. From the moment you met him you knew Bucky was a different man from the rest- a smart, respectful man who fully cared about your wellbeing despite hardly knowing you. In return, you’d given him unwavering kindness and tender care he once thought would never be attainable. Your story wasn’t conventional by any means, but neither were the two of you, and together you were perfect.

Embraced in the passionate arms of your protector, you think you’ve finally found the place where you belong.

~~~

You wake to the feeling of his lips gently trailing along your bare shoulder. You let out a quiet hum and stretch yourself awake before meeting the eyes of your lover. His face sports a sleepy smile as he continues to trail kisses along your arm and up to your neck.

“Good morning,” you utter pleasantly, entangling your bare limbs with his own from beneath the sheets.

“Sorry for waking you,” Bucky utters apologetically while pressing his lips against your temple. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

“I don’t mind,” you assure him with a careful smile, tucking your head beneath his chin to enjoy his warmth and bask in his natural scent. His arms come to tenderly wrap around your figure and pull you in closer, and you wonder if you’ll be able to find it in yourself to get out of bed today.

It’s been three months since Rumlow’s death and the disbandment of the Cross Bones mafia. Bucky now fully controls the territories in New York, and you think it’s better this way. Crime has been at an all time low, the streets are cleaner, and life is peaceful.

Though you can come and go as you please and have all the freedom in the world now, you still call Bucky’s mansion home. It was clear the two of you had formed an instantaneous connection that couldn’t be broken, and neither of you could bear to be separated. You were given your own room and had all of your belonging moved in, and though you wanted to take it slow, it wasn’t long before you migrated into Bucky’s bedroom.

You immediately solidified your place in his life as his shining light and motivation to get out of bed in the morning. Everything he did was for you now, for your future and the life you planned to build together. This was it, and Bucky was happy to have a new sense of purpose once more.

“Why don’t we go into town today?” He suggests, voice still hoarse with sleep. “We can visit that antique store you’ve been eyeing.”

“You mean it?” You gasp, looking up to find any hint of insincerity in his features. Instead, he merely smiles and presses a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Anything for my girl,” he avows earnestly before pulling you closer for a kiss.

The Daily Prophet had turned her disappearance into an obsession — splashed across every front page, whispered in tea shops, discussed in hushed excitement across wizarding Britain.

Two months had passed since Y/N Riddle, the elusive and beloved Lady of the Dark Lord, had vanished from public sight.

And the whispers only grew louder, stranger, more fevered.

“Lady Riddle spotted in Turkey!” “Divorce rumours shake the Riddle household!” “Dark Lady missing — marital trouble confirmed?”

Each headline spun a new tale exotic travels, secret lovers, a dramatic separation. But the truth was far simpler… and infinitely more dangerous.

She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t in Turkey. She wasn’t seeking a divorce.

She was walking beside Harry Potter through a quiet forest she didn’t remember.

The forest was still, wrapped in the hush of late autumn.

The air was crisp, tinged with smoke from distant chimneys and the earthy scent of damp leaves.

Thin sunlight filtered through branches overhead, painting shifting patterns on the ground.

Y/N — or Delphini, as the world now knew her walked slowly with her hands tucked deep in her coat pockets.

She kept her gaze ahead, always searching, always waiting for a flicker of memory.

Beside her, Harry walked one measured step behind, his posture alert but gentle.

He watched her silently, as if afraid even his breathing could shatter her fragile calm.

“You’re getting stronger,” he murmured, his voice warm in the cold air.

She offered him a small smile without turning her head. “I still feel like a stranger in my own skin.”

Harry’s steps slowed, concern flickering in his eyes, but he didn’t push. He never pushed.

They walked on until the path curved and she stopped abruptly.

Her breath hitched.

A moss-covered tree stood before her, thick roots curling out like ancient fingers.

Something about it tugged at her chest.

She lifted a trembling hand, brushing the bark.

And the world shattered.

Screams. A flash of green light. Branches tearing at her clothes as she ran.

Her heart pounding so hard she couldn’t breathe.

A forest just like this and behind her, a voice calling her name with chilling familiarity.

He was coming for her.

Her legs wobbled, nearly giving way.

“Delphini?” Harry’s voice cut through the storm in her mind. He was suddenly there, steadying her shoulders. “Hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”

“I…” She swallowed hard, eyes wide and darting around the trees. “I’ve been here before.”

Harry’s expression shifted not shock, but a guarded seriousness. “You remember?”

She nodded shakily. “You found me here. You… carried me out.”

The memory was blurry but alive the feeling of arms lifting her, the smell of smoke on his clothes, her own body freezing in terror.

Harry hesitated before speaking again. His voice softened, threaded with something like fear. “You were running from something. Do you remember what?”

Her brow tightened.

She tried to grasp the memory, but it slipped through her fingers like smoke.

“Someone,” she whispered. “I just… I can’t remember who.”

Harry’s gaze softened with relief and dread all at once.

“Then don’t force it,” he said gently, brushing a fallen leaf from her coat. “Memories have sharp edges. If you grab too fast, they cut.”

She exhaled shakily, nodding.

But even as she stepped away from the tree, the faint echo of a voice chased her through the leaves low, smooth, dangerously familiar:

Come home.

The grand estate was no longer quiet.

Riddle Manor once a fortress of order, fear, and flawless routine — had begun to fracture at the edges.

Servants tiptoed through the halls with their heads bowed, whispering behind closed doors, their murmurs slipping through keyholes like smoke.

Rumours clung to every corridor, feeding on the growing tension.

Two Death Eaters were missing.

Barty Crouch Jr. loyal, obsessive, unhinged in his devotion.

Evan Rosier, deadly, unpredictable, and far too close to the truth of Y/N’s disappearance.

Their absence shook the lower ranks, but no one dared say aloud what they feared:

Something is wrong.

In his private study, Tom Riddle sat behind his massive carved desk, the room illuminated only by the restless orange glow of the fire.

Newspapers lay scattered across the desk their bold headlines screaming at him in black ink.

“Lady Riddle Missing: Turkey Sightings Confirmed.” “Has the Dark Marriage Crumbled?” “Lord Riddle’s Wife Rumoured to Have Filed for Divorce.”

Tom’s expression was unreadable, carved in cold marble.

Across the room, Enzo hovered near the doorway, stiff and uneasy. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the floorboards.

“Brother… the papers—” Enzo began timidly.

Tom lifted a hand — a silent command.

The room fell still.

He wasn’t looking at Enzo anymore.

His gaze had locked onto the stack of parchment in front of him.

Divorce papers.

And on the bottom… her signature.

Y/N Riddle.

His wife.

The only person whose signature he knew down to the last flourish.

He reached out, tracing the letters with a fingertip, slow and deliberate like a man touching the cold surface of a gravestone.

But the longer he stared, the deeper the frown carved into his mouth.

The lines were clean. Too clean. Too careful.

Y/N’s handwriting was elegant but alive — her letters leaned slightly, her curves softened, her strokes carried emotion.

This was… mechanical.

A forgery.

His voice dropped to a whisper, low and dangerous. “Interesting…”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Enzo flinched.

And then impossibly Tom’s expression shifted.

The tension melted into something else entirely.

He smiled.

A small, sharp, terrifying smile.

“She’s alive,” he breathed, his eyes glowing with a feverish certainty. “She must be.”

Enzo swallowed hard, the truth clawing up his throat.

Because Tom was right.

Because the signature he forged under Bellatrix’s command was nowhere near perfect.

Because his mother’s instructions were rushed, furious, sloppy.

And because in that fleeting smile on Tom’s face, Enzo saw something he had never seen before:

Hope.

Cold. Obsessive. Relentless.

But hope nonetheless.

The kind that meant only one thing.

Tom Riddle would tear the world apart, stone by stone, until he found her.

His wife was alive.

And he would not rest until she was home.

A memory flickered through Enzo’s mind, sharp as broken glass.

Bellatrix’s voice cold, clipped, and venom-sweet whispered through the echo of that moment:

“Do it, son. Sign it for her. He’ll never know.”

Her hand had gripped his shoulder too tightly, nails digging in like claws.

Her eyes had burned with a feverish gleam not maternal, not affectionate, but commanding. Demanding.

Enzo had swallowed hard then. He swallowed again now.

Because the truth pressed against his ribs like a blade:

Tom had noticed.

And if Tom ever learned the signature was forged…

Enzo’s stomach twisted painfully.

Before he could gather the courage to speak, a shrill, metallic scream ripped through the manor.

The alarm.

Red lights pulsed along the corridor, illuminating the stone walls in blood-bright flashes.

A servant skidded into view, pale and shaking. “Sir — the basement! Someone went in!”

Enzo dragged a hand down his face. “Again? That’s the third maid this month.”

He turned toward the stairs, grumbling under his breath as he snatched his coat from the railing.

“At this rate, no one in Britain will want to work here,” he muttered. “We’ll have to start hiring from Romania. Or the moon.”

From above, the sound of heels clicked sharply.

Bellatrix descended the staircase like a dark omen, her robes trailing behind her, her expression carved from disdain and impatience.

Her lips curled into a wicked smirk. “Oh, do stop whining, Enzo.”

She lifted her chin toward the hallway where the alarm still blared.

“If they can’t follow orders, they deserve what happens to them.”

The words dripped with delight not cruelty born of necessity, but cruelty for pleasure.

Enzo stiffened, his jaw tightening. He didn’t argue; no one argued with Bellatrix Lestrange.

But as he trudged toward the basement toward the terrified maid who had likely opened the wrong door looking for linens he couldn’t help thinking:

This house doesn’t need a maid. It needs a miracle.

And somewhere miles away, under a false name and a new face, the only person capable of providing one was walking unknowingly back into the same storm she had fled.

In a cramped, dimly lit office tucked between a flour shop and a dingy apothecary, the hiring manager for Riddle Manor dragged a tired hand down his face.

Stacks of parchment towered around him like unstable pillars. Every page looked the same: Application denied. Application incomplete. Application disqualified.

Riddle Manor had become infamous for its impossible standards, strict rules, and… incidents with previous staff.

Half the wizarding world refused to work there.

The other half was too afraid to try.

He sighed and lifted the final application in the pile.

The handwriting was neat, elegant, precise.

Name: Delphini Y/L/N

The manager squinted. “No photograph?” he muttered. “Again?”

He checked the form. No attached image. Not even a sketch.

Normally, that meant an automatic rejection.

But Riddle Manor had burned through three maids this month alone, and if he sent Bellatrix Lestrange another pile of No Suitable Applicants Found, he’d likely be hexed into a chair.

He exhaled sharply.

“Well… she looks qualified enough.” He reached for his quill. “No photo probably means she’s shy. Or disfigured. Or—Merlin help her—pretty.”

He stamped it with a heavy thud.

APPROVED.

Back in Harry’s clinic, Y/N burst through the doorway with a lightness Harry hadn’t seen in weeks.

She practically glowed.

Her cheeks were flushed from the cold outside, hair windswept, eyes sparkling like she’d been holding in the news the entire walk back.

It wasn’t just happiness. It was hope the kind she rarely allowed herself.

“Harry!” she called, breathless.

She clutched a folded parchment to her chest as though it were something sacred. “I—I got a job.”

Harry froze mid-scribble. The quill hovered above an open medical chart, ink pooling on the corner of the parchment.

“A job?”

Her smile blossomed fully now warm, bright, almost radiant. “Something steady. Something real. A chance to… finally start over.”

Her voice trembled at the end, just slightly.

His breath hitched before he could stop it. “Start over?”

She nodded, a shy excitement flickering across her features. “I think… I think it’s time I move out.”

The quill slipped from his hand and clattered loudly onto the desk.

Move out.

He stared at her, trying and failing to mask the sudden rush of panic, the sting of loss.

“Move…” His voice cracked, and he hastily forced it back under control. “…move out?”

She shifted her weight, wringing the parchment between her fingers. Almost apologetic.

“Harry, you’ve done so much for me,” she murmured. “More than anyone ever has. I can’t stay here forever. I can’t keep imposing on you.”

Imposing. If only she knew.

Something heavy twisted deep in his chest, so sudden and sharp he had to swallow against it.

He shouldn’t feel that. He had no right to feel that. But he did.

Still, he managed a soft, warm smile one that hurt his jaw to hold.

“That’s… great, Delphini. Really.”

Her joy should’ve soothed him. It didn’t.

She stepped closer, standing barely a foot away. He could feel her warmth. Her breath. Her hope.

He didn’t move away.

Her grin widened, cheeks glowing with an innocence and trust he didn’t deserve.

And Harry felt his resolve crumble entirely.

He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

It lingered longer than it should’ve. Longer than he should’ve let it.

“Then we’ll celebrate,” he murmured, voice low, intimate in a way he couldn’t take back.

She giggled a light, airy sound that brightened the entire room. “Celebrate? For a job?”

“And for a successful surgery,” he said, forcing a smile that felt half real and half aching.

Her laughter light, bright, beautifully alive filled the small clinic like sunlight piercing through fog, warming everything it touched.

For a single, fragile moment, Harry let himself bask in it.

Let himself believe she wasn’t running from someone who wanted her back.

Let himself forget she belonged to another life a life she couldn’t remember.

Let himself forget that another man, far more dangerous than he could ever be, still called her wife.

Let himself forget that Tom Riddle would burn the entire world to ash to get her back.

Let himself pretend he wasn’t falling for her.

Her joy, her warmth, her presence…

They made him forget everything wrong in the world.

Even if only for a moment.

The restaurant glittered with candlelight, each small flame mirrored in crystal glasses and polished silverware.

Soft music drifted from an enchanted violin in the corner, blending seamlessly with the quiet hum of conversation.

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Y/N looked almost ethereal beneath the warm lights hair softly curled, cheeks flushed from the cold outside, eyes bright with something he couldn’t quite name.

Every time she laughed, something inside him stuttered.

The way her hands moved when she talked, animated and gentle it was all becoming far too easy to love.

She lifted her wine glass, then paused mid-motion.

“I remembered something,” she said suddenly.

Harry set down his own glass, instantly attentive. “What is it?”

“My perfume.” A small, proud spark lit her eyes. “I used to make it myself—with potions.”

He blinked. “You didn’t buy one?”

“I didn’t have to.” She pulled a tiny vial from her pocket and dabbed a drop on her wrist.

The scent rose between them, warm and floral with a whisper of spice.

She held her wrist out to him. “Here, smell.”

Harry leaned in.

It was intoxicating… strangely familiar in a way he couldn’t place. “It’s beautiful.”

“I thought so too.” She smiled, almost shyly.

Then she stood, gathering both their coats in her arms. “I’ll take these to the stand.”

Her dress swept behind her like a whisper as she crossed the room.

Across the Room

The restaurant doors swung open with a rush of cold night air. Flashbulbs exploded like fireworks.

“Lord Riddle!” someone shouted.

Tom Riddle stepped inside impossibly elegant in a dark tailored coat, his posture rigid with aristocratic precision.

He moved like a shadow given shape, every step slow and deliberate.

Reporters swarmed instantly, microphones thrust forward like daggers.

“Lord Riddle, is it true your wife filed for divorce?”

He paused mid-step. Every camera lifted.

Tom turned his head slightly, gaze sharp enough to silence a crowd.

“My wife,” he said clearly, voice smooth but cold, “has been mine for over six years. And she will be until death do us part.”

The room fell into a reverent hush. Flashbulbs erupted again.

And then his eyes snagged on movement.

Harry Potter had risen from a nearby table, straightening his jacket.

Tom’s expression barely shifted, but his tone cooled into something almost polite.

“Potter,” he said, extending a hand. “Good to see you.”

Harry shook it cautiously. “Likewise.”

The cameras clicked frantically.

The Dark Lord and the Chosen One standing together as if the world made sense.

But while the reporters buzzed, Tom’s attention drifted.

Something brushed past him soft, almost ghostly.

A scent.

Sweet. Floral. Spiced.

Her perfume.

His body went still.

He inhaled again slow, controlled, but his heart jolted against his ribs.

He turned his head.

Across the room, a woman stood at the coat stand, her back to him. Her hair spilled over her shoulders just so, catching the golden candlelight.

The fall of her coat, the delicate slope of her neck…

Her perfume.

His wife’s perfume.

His pulse kicked unwelcome, unstoppable.

She shifted slightly, just enough to see the curve of her cheek, not enough to reveal her face.

But it was enough to set his blood alight.

She didn’t see him.

Instead she walked back toward her table, brushing a stray curl behind her ear in that familiar way her way and slid gracefully into her seat beside Harry Potter.

Harry leaned toward her, smiling softly.

Her smile trembled just barely as if she felt something. Watching her. Following her.

Her hand pressed gently to her chest.

A flicker of unease crossed her features.

Tom didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But he watched. Every step she took. Every tilt of her head. Every breath.

He watched her until the moment the crowd swallowed him again and he was forced to leave.

On the walk out, his face betrayed nothing.

But inside?

Inside, something dangerous stirred.

He no longer felt grief. Or doubt.

Only certainty.

Y/N was alive.

And whether she remembered him or not…

He was going to find her.

You hated how much you cared for him. You still cared for him even after all the stunts he pulled to pull you away from the Maximoff heir. Always had.

Ever since you were kids, you remembered having that love-sick look in your eyes. You grew up with inner-circle families and were friends with Rebecca, Sarah, and their brothers. And Bucky? Well, shit, he was always there with his dark hair and curious eyes. It was hard not to fall for him.

Even as you grew up, numbing yourself to the reality of the business and the choices that came with it, you couldn't ignore him forever. You knew that Bucky was raised to be powerful, honorable, and frightening. You knew the stories – of all the beautiful women who couldn't tie him down longer than a night or two. You knew how he flaunted some new girl at every event. It was hard not to overhear them whispering among the men.

'What about her?' and the laugh on his hips saying, 'She's just a family friend. Don't worry about her; I'd never be with her like that.'

You knew he would break your heart, and still. You loved him.

Again, mortified.

He was your first kiss on some lonely night when you couldn't help but ask him. But that had been ages ago. He was grown now, the head of the family and the king of his empire.

But there was something different about tonight, something predestined that started long before you stepped outside your door. It started out as Sam's idea weeks before, in the same bar where you ended up every weekend.

He wanted to try and get you to mingle among the local 'rabble-rousers' as if he pretended not to be one of them. Your laugh at his suggestion pulled Steve and Bucky's attention from across the bar.

"You want me to do what, exactly?" You teased. "Throw myself in the way of wealthy investors and scout out the competition? That's much more up Nat's alley; there's a reason why they call her the Black Widow, you know –"

"No, nothing like that," he shook his head, that charming grin on his lips. Once Sam got an idea, it took a lot of work to dissuade him. "Look, there's more to this life than watching shipments and making small talk with the hens in town." He paused, knowing all the time you spent logging backorders and saving face with the mercs' wives. "I want you to be happy. We all do."

You leaned against the bar, pressing your palms against the hardwood.

"So you think it's time for me to settle down?" You challenged with a smirk. "Get married to some silver-spoon jerk upstate?" Sam's smile turned close-lipped as he noticed the other's approach.

"We could help you find a good one." At least he sounded hopeful.

"In this town?" Steve overheard, tapping his beer on the hardtop. "You're gonna need all the help you can get."

Your sneaking suspicion grew as they hounded like vultures. You looked from Sam to Steve with weary eyes. The only one with less enthusiasm was Bucky. Bucky, who usually was primmed with pressed shirts, was tired. His hair fell into his face, his shirt wrinkled, and his tie long discarded at one of the tables.

"You want to help me find a man?"

Bucky looked to his friends with a hooded expression, letting his hand reach out before him. With the click of his tongue, he softly smirked.

"We'll help you find a man. Have we got a deal, doll?"

It was a business handshake, one full of promise. And as soon as you grasped Bucky's hand, one you'd come to regret.

You didn't expect their advice to work so well…or so quickly.  

At the gala, Bucky strolled over with that sly walk and pressed navy suit, conveniently carrying your favorite drink in hand after Pietro ordered you both dirty martinis. You never cared for the drink, but you weren't about to tell him that. But trouble started when Bucky slid between you with that close-lipped smirk.

"They must have made a mistake at the bar," He explained with a shrug. "I remember you liked these. Here, doll." Bucky said, swapping out the drink in your hand before sliding away. No one could fault you for your eyes lingering on him as he walked back to Sam and Steve.

Later in the night, when you were dancing along and finally falling into a rhythm with Pietro, Bucky interrupted again. It was the turn of the tides, the slow pace of the music building, until it felt like one of the underground clubs.

All the weeks spent flirting and learning more about the Maximoff family were crumbling before you. You were a fool to think it would last.

The music built to the familiar strum of old songs you used to listen to, and before you knew it, Sam, Natasha, and half the crew surrounded you on the dancefloor, pulling you away from your date. And it was all orchestrated by Bucky, leading them like a pack of wolves. You knew that look, the suave pull of his hand through slicked-back hair. And then, before you knew it, you were dragged away from the dancefloor.

"Hey," Pietro called over the music, pulling you to the side. "I like you. I do, but this isn't working."

"Wait –" You tried, reaching for his arm. But he was quick to deflect, and embarrassment warmed your cheeks.

"Whatever you're looking for," his eyes moved from Bucky and dropped when you noticed. He looked down with a sad smile. "Whoever you're looking for, I hope you find it."

It felt like a knife twisting in your chest.

"Please don't go."

But it was too late. Your plea was lost as he pushed himself away. Everyone saw it. All your friends' efforts and your attempts to find the one were wasted. Your feet carried you away too fast to notice the somber look Steve gave Bucky.

"You're running out of time, punk."

The city lights passed in a blur as a taxi drove you farther from the gala. The searing ache in your chest left you confused.

For years, you dreamed of Bucky Barnes, hope a dangerous feeling companion of yours. But you knew how he felt. You were nothing more than a friend; he had made that abundantly clear. But you couldn't cut the tether, even while someone else caught your interest. Pietro Maximoff was handsome and kind and loved his sister more than the world. But with Bucky's interruptions, it was no wonder why he didn't want to get involved.

But it still hurt.

A sob was swallowed back, but you couldn't stop the tears from rising. You were pitiful. It was the last time you'd ever ask the guys for help.

But the thought was gone with the sudden screeching of brakes. It made you hold on to the headrest in front of you. Trying to peer around at the commotion, you didn't expect to be cut off by two black SUVs. A moment later, a ringed hand banged on the taxi's hood.

"Get out of the car."

You knew that voice. And as you looked through the windshield, you could see Bucky Barnes peering back.

He was as poised as he was at the party, and the sharp look had you bracing the seat. The bitter spark of rejection caught the light, burning into brutal frustration. You didn't want to talk to him. You didn't want to see him. Not now.

"No."

He tilted his head to the side at the challenge.

"Get out of the fucking car." Bucky gritted. "I need to talk to you."

His voice was teetering dangerously into territory you had only heard about. It was his back rooms, no nonsense voice that snapped you back into the moment. Like hell it would work on you. So it was to be a standoff, one that that you weren't ready to back down from.

Once Bucky realized your position, he took a new approach. You could hear his intentional steps against the pavement as he reached the driver. He didn't say anything but dug into his pants pocket, his fingers flicking through his wallet smoothly.

"Unlock the car," Bucky ordered, pressing cash bills against the window.

The immediate click of the locks didn't help your bellyache, nor did the split second of peace you had before Bucky forced the door open and pulled you out of the cab.

"Are you crazy?" You barked, forcing him to release you as the cab sped off in the other direction.

But you were left in the middle of the road in Barnes territory, the sweep of their dark SUVs cutting off any chance to get out of this conversation.

"What's gotten into you?"

"I didn't want you to leave the party." He explained, his words softer now. "Not like that."

You couldn't believe him. You followed their advice to try and bag a good guy, but to what end?

"What?" You dared to challenge. "I don't know what you want from me. I'm not in the mood, James."

The curl of his name lingered, making your intentions clear. You never called him by his first name. And Bucky didn't like it one bit.

"Let me take you home."

As if you had a choice.

You choked on a frustrated snarl, wanting to hide and cry away your worries and wanting to claw at him like a villain. You hated it. You hated the pressure of his eyes, blue and dark against the night, to get in the car.

So you lifted your head high, took a steeling breath, and walked ahead of him. You were separated from the rest of the world in the backseat of his company car. The divider was a saving grace. You didn't want one of the drivers to see you like this.

But Bucky followed behind so quickly, getting in and closing the door before you could protest for space. You chose to stare out the window instead of looking back at him. The car lurched forward, and you took a moment to find balance.

"You're unhappy."

"No shit."

"Please," He started, turning his shoulders in toward you. Even out of the corner of your eye, you knew he wouldn't let this go. "Please talk to me. Don't close me out. I hated seeing you leave like that. Whatever Maximoff did, I'll fix it."

"You can't fix it!" You finally said, turning to him and gripping his shoulder in frustration. "You say you want me to be happy, to find someone, and then manage to scare off anyone that has the potential to do it." As your voice raised, heat radiated from your cheeks down your neck. His eyes were wide, listening to your grief. "He left because of you. It's not like you have feelings for me. What's the matter with you?"

You couldn't stand to look at him, not when he was so close. His cologne burned your nose, and you desperately needed him to get out of your system.

"Doll," Bucky breathed. He inched his way closer, not letting the anger of your words settle over him. "What if I did have feelings for you?" You would almost call his stare desperate. And then you confirmed it as his shoulders dropped, turning toward you. "It's all that I've wanted to tell you. And I can't see you with him." He admitted.

He moved with purpose all night, not intending to ruin your time with Pietro but to show you that he was the one who needed you. He should have been the one to hold you between dances and order you fine drinks. He should have picked you up so that you would never dare to get in a yellow cab.

But you weren't some wilting flower. You knew the risks of your following words.

"We're friends, Buck."

You held yourself together. You were strong and brave and gripping your heartstrings.

"Yes," He agreed. "But we…"

And for once, he was at a loss of words. The years wasted pining after him would finally be out in the open. You could finally be free of his torment. His eye contact was overwhelming; if he looked away, you would disappear.

"Look, We've been friends for a long time." And with an ounce more of bravery, you sighed. "But I'd like to be more than friends." You admitted. "I want to be so much more than that."

You were waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Bucky leaned closer in earnest, over the seat and bringing his face close. There was no teasing, no torment in his expression.

And with the tip of his chin, you were lost, pulled tight into a kiss and letting it blossom as cold metal snaked around your waist. You dreamed of his touch, and it burned down your throat like honey whiskey.

When you opened your eyes, Bucky had moved. He was no longer in the seat, now chest to chest with you. He was kneeling in the cramped space, the divider shielding you from the driver and the outside world.

"Do you know why Sam offered to help in the first place?" His words were slow as he pulled away, loud enough to hear. "Do you know why Steve jumped on board and corralled us to join? It's because he is tired of me dragging my fucking feet."  

"Bucky-"

But he closed the space for another set of slow kisses, deep and intentional.

"I've been an idiot." He admitted. "The guys know how I feel about you. I think they've always known." Another kiss as you pulled back, gripping the shoulders of his jacket. Expensive fabric under your fingertips, hot breath against yours. You were dizzy.

"And you agreed to help with this idea." You noted.

It wasn't a question, no challenge in your words. He agreed to help find you a man. Bucky took a hefty exhale.

"You know the business. It's not safe –" but you raised your hand with a groan, not buying his excuse.

Your fingers brushed over the curve of his chin, the sharp line of his beard a welcome sensation. God, you only ever dreamed of this. You savored the feel of him, your hand moving up his ear and combing your fingers through his air. Buck's eyes were darker than you've ever seen, his open mouth curving up in awe.

"'s not safe." He whispered. "I'm not gonna put you through that."

It was a weak defense. You knew the coterie of mercs, the warehouses, the shipments. You knew all of it and were aware of the danger. But it wasn't like you could cut ties and leave your life behind. You weren't sure you even wanted to.

"You wanted me to find someone else?" You dared to ask. The whisper died as he shook his head.

"All this deal did was make me jealous." He affirmed. "And tonight," His eyes raked down your frame. He never did finish his thought as lust washed over him. A breath passed between you two. "I never meant for you to hurt over it."

The limited space lets you mimic his actions, noting his heaving chest, blue eyes, and the pout of his kissed lips. How he kneeled down in front of you, crowding your space, made you dizzy. While your mouth curved up into a wanton grin, you couldn't help but chase another kiss.

Each touch melted the last of your anguish. The night was long forgotten as soon as he pressed forward, flattening you against the back of the seat. While you pulled up for air, his other hand moved to cup your chin. And then, with your eyes locked on his, he tilted your chin, eyes staring into the roof of the sedan as you felt lips against your jaw.

Hot, languid kisses burned against your pulse. The scrape of his teeth and burn of his beard drove you wild. And as he pulled back, his hand released your chin, following a mesmerized pattern down your skin.

The palm of his hand cupped your neck, down your shoulder, pulling down the thin strap of your dress. Your soft skin was on display, and Bucky's expression was wonderous. But his hand continued mapping, cupping the curve of your breast. A tactful squeeze left your head falling against the seat, a soft gasp on your lips, and your hand blindly reaching up to cover his. With a sharp breath, you found his eyes again. His pink lips were parted, eyes pleading with you.

You knew Bucky was a man of action, but this was uncharted territory. Your nod and an affectionate squeeze of his hand pulled him from his reverie.

He needed more, craving your skin. And as his hand fell from your chest to a solid grip on your ankle, you craved his exploration.

Shallow breaths were traded for deep, hungry kisses. Years of longing, of yearning for his touch and affection, finally were coming to a head. The brush of his tongue left your mind reeling, and regardless of the heat, a trail of goosebumps followed the path of his hand. Under your dress, he lingered over the smooth skin of your calf, over your knee, up your thigh, and to the meat of your hip. Rough, dexterous fingers carved prints into your skin hot enough to burn.

You refuse to miss a moment, eyes fixed on Bucky's as his palm covers the top of your thigh, the intention sitting heavy in your stomach. A live wire of nerves, you can feel him from the heat of your cheeks buzzing down to your toes.

And then, palming where you needed him most, your mouth dropped open with the softest of moans.

Bucky's eyes are wide, but it doesn't last as he finally lets himself get lost. As his eyes close, you admire the curve of his nose and his soft, dark eyelashes. But Buck is greedy, and as he peels his way under the cloth of your panties, you, too, close your eyes. Fingers are nimble, caressing your dripping seam under the dress.

You're a vision.

Convulsing under his touch, rogue pulls off his fingers drip honey down your thighs. Your breath is heaving, and your chest is dangerously close to falling out of the dress. Bucky finds refuge by rubbing slow, devastating circles against your clit. Every hitch of your breath and moan spur him on until you are staring at him with such reverence he thinks he'll collapse.

There's a magnetism, the long-lasting chemistry drawing you nearer to him. He swallows your moan as he slides a finger inside. You're in a desperate frenzy, pulling him close and arching into his body. He spurs on a need you've never had, demanding his smoldering kiss as you shake in his arms.

He's all you've ever wanted. You're crazy to think it could have ever been anyone else.

And then the car jerked to a stop.

There's a breathless laugh as he pulls away, Bucky's forehead resting on yours. You kept a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing his chin. Maybe, if you just ignored it, the outside world would go away.

That is, until you see a porch light turn on from your periphery. You try not to let embarrassment flood your system as you realize your situation, with one of your closest friends knuckle deep in the back seat.

Bucky doesn't share your distress.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, finally pulling his head back. Bucky smiled. His fingers lingered longer before pulling away, leaving you empty and wanting.

You must have looked as desperate as him, finally looking down at the brutal strain in his pants. But you had no time to overthink as his fingers carefully plucked at your dress strap. He was putting you back together, smoothing out the burn of his touch as he sat up.

If you begged, you were sure that he'd ravage you right there in the seat. But you tilted your head to look outside. You needed a distraction, anything to regain your good sense.

As you focused on the brownstone, you knew where he took you. You were in front of his house – the Barnes family house. He said he was taking you home.

"This isn't my place."

His smirk reached his eyes, and as he pulled open the door and jumped out, his gaze was fixed on you.

"For fucks sake, doll," Bucky's eyes were soft, still blown out. He held a hand out. "We've known each other our whole lives. I'm crazy about you. Are you gonna come up with me or not?"

And with an ardent stare, as if he hung the stars himself, you reached for his hand.