Queen Cobra (Bruce Wayne x Reader)

Chapter Six

TW: SELF HARM/BLOOD

Please read with caution, love ya!

In the days that passed after my introduction to Silver, I was thankful that I was exceptional at slipping out of conversations unnoticed. I refused to be left with the girl unless Bruce was there to keep everything in check. I had a terrible hunch that she was just using Bruce, but for what, I didn't know.

Bruce didn't seem to notice how I wasn't around nearly as much as I had been before, how I always seemed to have to do something else when he asked me to join him and Silver. His obliviousness was a double edged sword.

On one hand, I was glad he didn't notice. Then I wouldn't have to explain my disdain for his new friend or the feeling that something wasn't right with her.

On the other, it hurt that he didn't even have the time to notice that I was gone. It seemed as if I had been replaced by a newer, prettier friend in a matter of days.

Regardless, the less time I spent with him, the more time I had to figure out what was going on with my body.

I remember when I was younger I would fall and bleed, but I would never heal like I had at the gala. It didn't make any sense.

What had changed since then?

I sat at the dark oak desk in my room staring down at where I had been cut, where the scar should have been forming. Instead, my hand was unmarred as if it hadn't been sliced open a week ago.

Resting on the desk was a butcher knife I had stolen from the kitchen when Bruce was out with Silver, its metallic blade glimmering in the dimming sunlight that trickled through the sheer curtains. Many thoughts had passed through my mind in the days following the attack, but this one had branded itself into my subconscious to the point where it was the only thing I could focus on.

I plucked the knife off of the desk with a shaky hand, holding it over my open palm. I hesitated for a moment, a sense of panic overwhelming me.

Then I thrust the blade into the supple skin of my hand, gripping it so tightly that blood began to drip onto the oak desk at an alarming rate. My eyes pricked with tears, but I kept my grip firm.

I had to know.

When I finally caved in to the searing pain in my hand, the blade clanked to the ground and I pulled my hand into my chest in the hopes that the pain would subside soon enough. Beads of sweat dripped down my face as I sat and waited.

I couldn't tell how long it had been by the time I could finally think straight. There were crimson stains where I had been gripping at my shirt and the drops of blood on my desk sat in silence as I muffled a cry with my sleeve. Whatever was happening to me, it definitely didn't ease the pain.

I waited a few more minutes before looking down at my hand.

It was hard to tell how bad the wound was with the sheer amount of blood that was covering my palm, so I rushed to the bathroom and scrubbed at my hands for what felt like hours. The water ran scarlet for a while, but to my horror, I found no trace of a slice in the flesh of my palm. Even after carefully feeling around, there was nothing.

What the fuck is going on?

Scrambling back into my room, I hurriedly wiped up the blood that had dripped onto my desk and stuffed the knife into an empty desk drawer. Mind racing, I grabbed an unused notebook from school and began scribbling notes on the first page:

February 17

— Large slice to left palm, took roughly five minutes to go away

— No blacking out

— Roughly the same size as the injury from the benefit; blood loss unknown at the moment

— No pain blockages, full range of motion in hand

Even in my haste to understand what was going on, I still wrote like my father had taught me. I analyzed every possibility of what he did to me, of what it really was, of what it could mean for me in the future. As much as I hated the thought, I was my father's daughter, and I would stop at nothing to fix what he had done.

It was strange, knowing that even though I held so much resentment towards the man, deep down I still cared.

Every night I would fall asleep wondering if he was still out there, see wondering if he was doing the same. Perhaps he had already started a new life across the sea, living in a cozy home on the beach. He had always told me how much he loved the beach.

He never had the chance to take me.

Slamming the notebook shut, I stood up from my desk and wandered downstairs to the study, assuming my position by the window until the sun sank down behind the trees. Neon pinks and oranges splattered across the dimming sky, setting a warm glow on the sprawling lawn. The deafening silence was eventually broken by a loud rumble coming from the other side of the room.

I scrambled to my feet, searching around for where the noise was coming from when my eyes landed on the fireplace that was slowly sinking back into the wall. Hushed voices echoed from just behind the hidden entrance and I rushed to one of the tall cabinets to keep myself from getting spotted. I had a bad feeling about who it could be, but I had no time to think as I shoved myself into the dusty void, swiftly shutting the doors as the figures entered the room.

My hand covered my mouth in a feeble attempt to keep quiet as I peeked through the sliver of space between the doors, only to be greeted with the sight of Alfred and a disgruntled Bruce cradling a pair of white boxing gloves.

"Well, Master Bruce, you certainly have a long way to go, but you need to get ready for your dinner with Miss Silver." Alfred gave Bruce a knowing look and the boy shrunk back in embarassment. "I have your change of clothes ready in the car. We must be quiet, Miss Y/N is still under the impression that you left earlier this afternoon."

Bruce's face morphed into something I couldn't quite place at the mention of my name. By the time I could get a good look at his face, he turned and left, Alfred trailing silently.

I stood in the cabinet for a while, still holding my breath in case they returned sooner than I thought. Twenty minutes rolled by and the manor was draped in an eery silence, which was promptly ruined with the cabinet doors being swung open so that I could figure out what the hell just happened.

I tugged at my hair as I stared at the fireplace, sure that's where they came from. There was no way they came through any of the doors, I had seen the fireplace move.

I ran my hands along the stone mantle in search of a switch or maybe a button, to no avail. I started pulling books from their shelves, hoping that maybe one of them would trigger the fireplace. Still, nothing.

In my haste to find a trigger my foot collided with the leg of the large oak desk and I toppled to the ground, a few books following in my stead.

I grumbled a curse as I stood up, but stopped at the sight of an open book, turned to reveal an old remote. It was cool to the touch and smelled faintly of Mr. Wayne's old cologne. Brows furrowed, I fiddled with the controls until a loud rumbling erupted from the fireplace.

"And they said I have weird hobbies."

A/N

Sorry it's short, went total crisis mode. Tell me what you think and hopefully I can get back to writing diligently soon :)