{Chapter: 98 - When Shadows Embrace}
The smell of blood hit his nose, sharp and coppery. He blinked in stunned silence, trying to process what was happening.
"Natasha—"
She ignored his words. Her arms snaked around his neck, and her breath came in gasps. Her nails dug slightly into his skin, as though confirming he was real—that she hadn't hallucinated her way out of hell only to wake up in another illusion.
"I'm not leaving," Aiden whispered to her as gently as he could, his voice calm and soothing. "You're here. You're not alone. Just breathe."
But Natasha shook her head violently, and her grip tightened.
"This is all real," she whispered hoarsely, almost like a mantra to herself. "You're real. I'm not in the chamber… I'm not in the dark…"
Then, like a switch flipping, her behavior turned erratic again. She licked his neck, her breathing ragged. Her body trembled not just from pure lust, but also from deeper—survival instincts, trauma-induced reactions. The Berserker's influence hadn't completely faded.
"Easy…" Aiden said, alarmed. "You're still under the staff's effects. This isn't you. You're not in control right now."
She shook her head, whispering again. "I have to be in control. They made me that way. Control… is survival…"
Aiden's heart ached hearing her. He knew this wasn't just seduction—it was conditioning. She had been trained to manipulate, to use affection and seduction as tools of espionage, to survive situations by turning herself into someone else. She wasn't just trying to comfort herself—she was also trying to be someone else. Someone not afraid. Someone in control.
"No," Aiden said firmly, cupping her face with his hands. "You don't have to be that weapon anymore. You're safe. No Red Room. No orders. Just you. Just Natasha."
Her breathing slowed.
Tears welled in her eyes—but didn't fall. Natasha Romanoff didn't cry. Not openly. Not even when the world was falling apart.
Slowly, she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against his.
"…You're not afraid of me?" she asked softly, her voice raw.
Aiden answered immediately, "No. I'm afraid for you."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room was silent except for their breathing. The madness of the moment passed like a storm, and Natasha's grip slowly loosened.
"I'm… sorry," she whispered, finally.
"You don't need to be," Aiden replied. "Not to me."
---
The room had fallen eerily silent, the only sounds being the distant rumble of traffic and the soft hum of a flickering neon sign outside. The glow cast a dim red hue across the worn wallpaper, bathing the room in a strangely intimate gloom. The air was thick, not just with tension, but with unspoken words and emotion clawing beneath the surface.
Natasha sat on the edge of the bed, her knees tucked loosely to her chest, back against the creaky headboard. Her red hair—disheveled, tangled—spilled over her bare shoulders, and a bruise was beginning to bloom along her collarbone, likely a remnant from her earlier madness under the Berserker Staff's influence. Her eyes, those striking green irises, had returned to their usual alert sharpness, but beneath them flickered something unsteady.
Aiden sat across from her on the lone chair, elbows on knees, hands steepled beneath his chin. He could feel it—something shifting between them, pulling, unraveling restraint one thread at a time. He didn't want to lie to himself anymore. Something inside him was fraying.
Natasha had recovered from her shock, but she hadn't truly calmed. There was a storm still brewing behind her eyes—rage, fear, guilt… and something more primal.
"Your eyes keep flicking to me," she said without looking at him. "Like you're worried I'll snap again."
"I'm not worried," Aiden said calmly. "Just... watching."
"Same thing," she muttered.
He leaned back. "You know what I saw when you were thrashing under that staff's influence?" he asked. "Not weakness. Not insanity. Just... someone who's been running from her past so long that it finally caught up."
Natasha let out a bitter laugh. "You say that like you know what it's like."
"I do," he said quietly. "More than you think."
She finally looked at him, her expression hard but curious. "You ever had your memories stripped from you, rewritten, weaponized? Ever been forced to look into a mirror and see a mask staring back instead of a face?"
Aiden didn't answer. He didn't have to. The silence was telling enough.
Natasha's voice dropped an octave, as if she was confessing to someone who didn't deserve the truth but needed to hear it anyway.
"They trained me to kill before I could even spell the word," she said slowly. "The Red Room broke me down to rebuild me into something... efficient. Beautiful. Dangerous. They taught me to fake love, seduce targets, use sex as a weapon. Not because it was passion—but because it was control. So every time I feel something real, it feels like a threat."
She looked down at her hands.
"That's why I snapped. The staff didn't just show me fear. It dragged me back to the girl who had no name, no country, no choices. And you were there. That terrified me more than the memories."
Aiden remained quiet for a moment. The depth of her words echoed in his chest.
"You think I pity you?" he asked. "Because I don't. I respect you. But you're not the only one who's got demons scratching under the surface."
Natasha tilted her head slightly, intrigued.
"I've walked into worlds without flinching," he continued. "I've had gods scream in my face. And yet, here in this damn motel room... I can feel something crawling under my skin. I think it's you. Or maybe it's me reacting to you. Either way—"
"—we're both ticking bombs," Natasha finished for him.
A long silence followed, charged with something dangerous and intimate. She rose from the bed slowly and walked toward him. Her steps were light, deliberate. Like a predator testing its prey's resolve.
"You think I'm broken?" she asked him, stopping just inches away.
"No," Aiden said, looking up at her. "I think you're... surviving. There's a difference."
She smiled, but it wasn't warm. It was weary.
"Survival's messy. It doesn't look heroic. It looks like blood on your hands and shadows in your soul." She leaned closer. "You want honesty? I'm terrified right now. Not because I'm afraid of hurting you—but because you're the first person who saw me when I wasn't trying to be anything."
Aiden slowly rose from the chair, standing face to face with her now. The air between them felt heavy, electric.
"You're not a weapon to me, Natasha. Not a mission. Not a ghost from a file. You're... raw. Flawed. Real."
Her breath caught.
Aiden's next words came out before he could stop himself.
"And I think I'm losing control."
A whisper of a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Good. Then we're even."
It was unclear who moved first—her or him—but suddenly the space between them collapsed.
Their lips met in a collision of suppressed desire, grief, and fury. There was nothing gentle about the kiss—it was fierce, unrelenting. Clothes were tugged, buttons ripped, fabric discarded without care. Logic drowned beneath the current of emotion. Neither of them was thinking clearly, and neither wanted to.
It was passion, yes, but it wasn't just that.
It was release.
For her, it was reclaiming control over a body that had long been used as a tool. For him, it was tearing down the walls she'd built to keep herself safe.
The bed groaned beneath them as they tumbled down, tangled in one another's limbs. The faint scent of blood still clung to her lips, but Aiden didn't pull away. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair from her face and whispered, "You're not alone."
Her eyes shimmered, just for a moment. And then her lips met his again, more gently this time. She didn't say thank you. She didn't need to.
Because for once in her life, Natasha Romanoff wasn't just surviving—
She was choosing.
*****
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