Her Prisoner

Chapter 11

The room is warm, almost stuffy. Twenty minutes later, the owner of the tavern knocks at the door. She walks in with a tray with sandwiches, small bowls of soup and poppy-seeds ring buns, as well as drinks with glass carafe willed with still water. Her eyes swiftly sweep over the room and the untouched double bed in the middle of the room.

She leaves the tray on the table in the corner and Natasha thanks her. The woman barely nods, takes another look in search of some suspicious items before slowly walking out of the room. She closes the door and Steve is about to speak but Natasha presses a finger over lips, urging him to wait.

After a short while, she puts her finger down.

"She is quite wary," he comments.

"Welcome to Russia," Natasha answers with a smirk. "Wariness is the best security one can get around here. I'd be more worried if she were all smiles."

She heads over to the table, sits down and grabs a sandwich. He comes over and does the same.

The soup is tasty but hardly tepid. Then he hungrily bites into the brown bread of the chicken sandwich.

They eat in silence, mostly because they cannot be sure the woman is not snooping behind the door.

Natasha has nearly finished. She reaches for the small shot of vodka included in the meal and drinks up. She shuts her eyes as she gulps it down — it brings red to her cheeks.

"I needed that," she breathes out after putting the glass down. She then gets up and heads over to the bathroom. "I won't take long," she says as she grabs one of the towels on the bed.

He remains seated on the chair without a word in the middle of the quiet room with nothing but the sound of the pattering shower behind the door.

He would like to walk over to the window in the room and look out but he prioritizes safety over the rest.

After some time, Natasha comes out of the bathroom, dressed in a thick cotton robe, her damp hair loosely tied up and a flushed face. He has never seen her like this before, in such an intimate state that makes her looks vulnerable. Normal. As if water washed away Black Widow and her past, and only left the young woman Natasha. And indeed, with her hair up and her neck bare, he can see how young she is.

She quietly enters the room and steps aside to let him use the bathroom next.

It is rudimentary but large enough to move around.

He takes off his clothes and steps in the shower. The water is hot and soothing, like a balm on his numb body. He could stay there forever.

After eventually stepping out, he wipes his wet towel over the foggy mirror to have a look at his reflection.

For lack of anything else to wear, he reaches for the second cotton robe hanging on the door and puts it on.

He nervously takes a deep breath in before turning the handle and walking out.

The bedroom is just as stifling. The window is blocked but it seems Natasha has managed to hold it slightly open by slipping a spoon in.

He turns and finds her sitting on the bed, hunched over her bent knee, the backpack lying with an open mouth by her side. Her first aid kit is open and she is applying antiseptic cream on her reddish scars.

He winces slightly at the sight of them; it brings back distasteful memories. She glances at him and her eyes trail over his figure. He remains standing by the doorway as his manners deem it inappropriate to enter her private space.

"We'll leave at dawn and head West. It should take half the day to reach a little town nearby," she says while resuming tending her leg. "Then it will take just as long to get to St-Petersburg. It'll be safe for you to go on to Europe from there."