WARNINGS: Graphic descriptions of violence. Normal Red Room Trauma. Dreykov.
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Tell me, am I broken? I can never leave Biting on my tongue and checking if it bleeds
. . .
"Ah...," He whispers, "You're in trouble."
"How are you controlling me?" She struggles.
"I'm not controlling you, Natasha," he admits, "Well, not yet. But there is a pheromonal lock." Dreykov smirks, licking his lips. "Smelling my pheromones prevents you from committing violence against me."
Natasha swallows, lowering her head in defeat. All the painful emotions are raging through her veins, and she uses every ounce of her training to push them down. It is not the time to lose control of herself. She can't allow that big of a risk to slip.
"I'm very upset with Melina," Dreykov complains, "It's a shame I have to kill her." The old man shakes his head tauntingly, "So, this was the big plan, huh? Melina was going to land the Red Room and you are going to hand me over to the authorities?"
No.
Well... yes and no. Melina was planning on landing the Red Room. And based on the alarm going off above them, she's succeeding in her goal. But she isn't going to be the one handing him over to the authorities, it will be Tony.
"So, what now," Natasha asks, forcing the subject in a different direction. "You're gonna fold me into your little pathetic puppeteer act?"
"Pathetic?" Dreykov sneers.
"Yeah," Natasha confirms, a devil's smirk gracing her angelic face. "What would you call it?"
Dreykov shakes his head, "I would call it—."
Natasha interrupts, ignoring the anger growing behind his dark black irises, "When was the last time you had a conversation with somebody that wasn't forced to talk to you?"
"You ran away to fight in the wrong war," Dreykov spits venomously, as the familiar sense of betrayal rages up throughout his soul. "The real war was fought here, in the shadows."
"You didn't fight in the shadows," the assassin insists, growing bold as she continues to disagree. "You hid in the dark."
