LVIII. Emris

The engine growls beneath me one last time before I cut it off, the vibration dying beneath my thighs. I swing my leg over the bike, boots thudding heavily onto the gravel, and stalk toward the safe house without a word. Bucky dismounts behind me, silent as ever, but I can feel him—every damn step he takes like a shadow pressed to my back. I'm not sure if it's tension or adrenaline or something more dangerous brewing between us, but whatever it is, I want it gone.

The front door creaks open under my hand. The house is cloaked in a hush so deep it hums in my ears. One faint lamp glows from the corner of the living room, casting long, sleepy shadows over the furniture. The place is still, settled—safe. My eyes scan the room like they always do. Sam's boots sit by the door, muddy but in their usual spot. Natasha's leather jacket is draped over the back of the couch, one sleeve slipping down like she dropped it without thinking. Steve's shield leans against the wall near the staircase, always within reach. Those familiar details root me, remind me I made it back.

Even if I feel like I left pieces of myself on the pavement behind me.

My body aches. A throb pulses behind my ribs with every breath, and I can feel dried blood cracking on my skin like crusted salt. The smell of it clings to me—metallic, ugly, intimate. I don't want to smell like this anymore. I don't want to feel like this anymore.

I don't even glance at Bucky. I can feel his eyes on me, sharp and relentless, boring into the back of my skull. He hasn't spoken since we left the bar. Good. Because if he says anything right now, I might actually kill him.

I march toward the bathroom, jaw clenched so tight I feel it in my temples. The floorboards creak beneath my steps, loud in the quiet. My fingers fumble with the doorknob, blood making them slick, but it opens. I step inside and shut it behind me, twisting the lock. A thin barrier between me and whatever the hell is happening outside of this room. Outside of me.

The clothes come off piece by piece, sticking to my skin like wet paper. The blood is everywhere—smeared across my arms, down my neck, a dark stain across my ribs where someone else's life spilled onto me. My hands shake as I shove my pants down, as I unclasp my bra. It's not fear. It's fury. Fury at whoever put me in that position. Fury at him. Fury at myself.

The mirror above the sink shows a version of me I don't recognize—wild-eyed, hair matted, blood painting the sharp curve of my collarbone like some kind of grotesque necklace. I don't let myself look too long. The faucet screeches when I twist it, and I crank the shower on full heat. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror and curling into my lungs.

I step into the spray, and the water hits like a slap.

Blood runs down my legs in thin red rivulets, spiraling into the drain. It's mesmerizing. Beautiful, almost. I brace my palms against the tile and bow my head, letting the water punish me. I tell myself it's just the day catching up to me. Just the weight of the mission.

But I know what's really burning beneath my skin.

It's him. And I hate him for it.

The water is scalding. It needles into my skin like tiny knives, slicing through the grime, the sweat, the blood. But no matter how hot I make it, I can't get clean.

My fingers dig into the loofah until my knuckles ache, until the rough weave bites into my palm. I scrub like I'm trying to erase myself. My arms first—dark smears of blood swirl down the drain in diluted red. Then my chest, my shoulders. I scrub harder. The skin goes pink, then red. I don't stop.

There's blood under my fingernails. Not mine. I claw at it with soap and nails and fury. It's under my skin, in my mouth, behind my eyes. I can still feel the spray of it across my cheek. Still feel the kick of adrenaline in my chest from when I pulled the trigger. Still hear the snap of a neck, the wet gurgle of a dying breath.

Don't think about it.

I tip my head under the stream. Water pours over my scalp, flattens my hair against my face, and I blink it away. The warmth should soothe me. It doesn't. It only softens me enough for something worse to creep in.

Bucky.

Goddamn Bucky Barnes.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't help. I still see him. That look he gave me earlier—like he couldn't decide whether to strangle me or throw me against a wall and devour me. The way his mouth had crashed into mine, like we were at war even then. The taste of him, copper and fury and need. The heat of his body crowding mine in the dark.

And the worst part? I kissed him back. Again. I wanted to. I still do.

I grind my teeth and scrub harder. My thighs burn from how rough I am, but I welcome the sting. Pain is easier to handle than the twisted knot of want and shame in my stomach. That last kiss—god, the third kiss—burns like a brand in my memory. His hand in my hair, the snap of his teeth against my lip, the groan that rumbled from his chest when I gasped into his mouth.

And then the bastard walked away. Without a word.

I want to punch that smirk off his face. I want to kiss him again until I hate him enough to stop.

I lean forward and brace myself against the tile. Steam coils around me like smoke, curling over the faded scars on my back, the fresh bruises on my ribs. I close my eyes and breathe, slow and deep, even though everything in me feels tight and coiled.

This isn't desire. This is damage. This is every sharp edge in me looking for something to grind against, and Bucky just happens to be sharp enough to cut back.

The water's turning cold now, but I don't move.

Not until the blood is gone. Not until I feel clean.

Even if I never actually do.

The hallway is silent when I step out of the bathroom, steam curling behind me like the ghost of everything I'm trying to forget. I clutch the towel tighter around my body, one hand gripping the edge like I'm holding a weapon. The other presses to my still-damp stomach, feeling the faint tremble under my skin. My bare feet are quiet on the wood floor, but every step feels thunderous in the stillness of the house.

I don't look back. I know he's still out there.

My door clicks softly shut behind me, and I exhale like I've been holding my breath since we got off the bike. The air in here is cool—too cool against my overheated skin. I walk straight to the dresser, yanking it open with more force than necessary. The drawer groans in protest.

Tank top. Leggings. Simple, soft cotton. Easy to move in. Easy to breathe in.

I let the towel drop, and for a second, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

There I am. Bare. Bruised. A body made of scars and rage and bad decisions. I drag the tank over my head, tug the leggings up my legs, and pretend the burn in my eyes is from the heat. Not from the way he looked at me earlier—like he could see straight through the armor and liked what he saw anyway.

I flop back onto the bed. The mattress groans under me. My hair's still damp and clings to my shoulders, and the ceiling above me is dull, cracked paint and faint water stains. I stare at it like it's supposed to give me answers.

My foot bounces. Restless. My fingers twist in the hem of my shirt. My body's still vibrating with adrenaline, but there's no enemy left to fight. Just Bucky. Just the memory of his mouth on mine, of his hand on my hip, of his breath against my throat when he—

Damn it.

I sit up sharply. My heart's racing like I'm mid-mission. I drag both hands through my hair and try to will the thoughts away. But it's useless. They're embedded now. In the way my body remembers him. In the heat still coiling in my stomach.

Those kisses outside the bar—they weren't supposed to mean anything. They were supposed to be tension. A mistake. Something we could ignore, like the first one. But it was different. It was desperate. Hungry. Like we were trying to consume each other before the world could swallow us whole.

And I wanted it. God help me, I still do.

He's Hydra. He's Red Room. He's every ghost I've ever fought to bury. And still, when he touches me, I feel like I'm alive for the first time in years. It makes me furious.

I hate him.

I hate that he saw the worst version of me and didn't flinch.

I hate that he looks at me like I'm dangerous and still wants to be close.

I hate that when he walked away after kissing me, he didn't look back.

I want to scream. Instead, I kick off the blanket, pace three times across the room, then sit again, knees bouncing.

Something's coming. I can feel it in my bones. Like the air before a storm—still, heavy, humming with charge.

And I don't know if I'm going to survive it.

Especially if it's him.

The knock is so soft I almost miss it. Just a faint tap, like the echo of a thought I don't want to entertain.

I freeze. Stare at the door like it's about to bite me. My heart thuds once—hard—against my ribs.

Another tap. Controlled. Precise.

I stand, fists clenched before I realize it, and cross the room. My fingers pause on the doorknob, hesitate. I already know who it is. No one else in this house knocks like they're trying not to wake a ghost.

I crack it open casually. Or try to.

And immediately regret it.

He's standing there, hair damp and curling at the ends, grey Henley clinging to a chest I'm determined not to look at. His expression is unreadable—but his eyes... God, his eyes are impossible to ignore. They track over me, slow and deliberate, pausing at my bare shoulders, dipping briefly to my collarbone before locking on my face again.

My breath falters.

"What?" I snap. I inject enough venom into the word to coat a dagger.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. Just looks. And I hate how hard I have to work not to take a step back. How the weight of his stare makes my skin itch and burn at the same time.

His jaw ticks. Just slightly. His eyes flick—again—to my mouth. Twice.

My hand tightens on the door.

I should slam it in his face.

But I don't.

"What, Barnes?" I repeat, voice low and dangerous now. "Lose your voice or just your brain?"

Still nothing. Just a slow, measured inhale. And then—he steps inside.

I don't move. I don't let myself move.

The door drifts closed behind him on its own, soft click like a match striking.

He's close now. Not touching. Not speaking. Just standing in the room like a storm that hasn't decided if it wants to break.

My heart beats louder than it should. My body hums like it's waiting for something—violence or something worse.

I hate him.

I hate this.

I hate how badly I don't want him to leave.

My breath catches.

I take a step back without meaning to. He takes one forward, silent as a shadow. Eyes locked on mine like he's hunting something—and I hate how every nerve in my body lights up like it wants to be caught.

Another step back. Another step forward.

The heat between us sharpens, coils tighter. I try to hold his gaze, try not to flinch at the way it scorches straight through me. My back bumps the wall with a dull thud.

Nowhere else to go.

His body doesn't touch mine—not yet—but the wall behind me feels like it's closing in. My chest rises and falls too fast, lungs greedy for air that doesn't help.

He stops inches from me. Just breath between us.

And then his hand comes up. Slow. Intentional.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip.

My spine stiffens. "Don't."

I mean to say it sharp, firm.

It comes out breathless.

His thumb lingers.

I should bite it.

Instead—God, instead—my lips part without permission. The pad of his thumb slips past them, just barely, and something primal takes over.

I suck.

Just once. Light. Thoughtless.

His breath stutters, and his eyes darken like a fuse finally finds fire.

"Fuck," he mutters, and rips his hand back like I burned him.

I don't know which one of us moves first.

Maybe it's both.

His mouth crashes onto mine, and my body arches into him before I can think. It's not gentle. Not careful. His lips are bruising, desperate, and perfect. My hands grab at his shirt, then his neck, then his hair—tugging hard enough to make him growl.

His knee slots between my thighs, presses just enough to make my stomach twist and my knees weaken. I moan into his mouth. Can't stop it.

He bites my lip.

I gasp.

His human hand finds my waist, firm and grounding, fingers digging in like he's trying to memorize the shape of me. His vibranium arm stays at his side—never touches me. Maybe it's restraint. Maybe it's shame.

I don't know, and I don't care. Not right now.

My back is flush to the wall, the cold biting through my thin tank top, but he radiates heat and I press into it like I need it to stay alive.

Everything feels like too much. Too loud. His breath. His scent—clean soap, cinnamon, something metallic under it. Leather. Gunpowder.

It should be wrong.

It's so wrong.

But the way he kisses me makes it feel like gravity finally remembered where I belong.

His tongue swipes across my lip, and I open for him without thinking. He groans like it undoes him—and God, it undoes me.

I hate him.

I want him.

And I can't tell the difference anymore.

His lips trail down from my mouth to my jaw, leaving heat in his wake. Every scrape of stubble, every exhale, feels like it's melting through me.

Then he reaches my neck.

God.

He kisses just below my ear, slow and open-mouthed, and my knees buckle. I make a sound I don't recognize—half moan, half plea—and I hate how natural his name feels when it leaves my lips.

"Bucky..."

His breath hitches. I feel his jaw tighten where it brushes my collarbone. Then he speaks—low, rough, like it hurts to say.

"One time."

He presses a kiss to my throat.

"I get you for one night."

Another kiss, higher now, just under my jaw.

"Then we go back to normal."

Normal.

Whatever the hell that is between us.

I should shove him off. I should laugh in his face, slam the brakes before we crash.

Instead, I nod—helpless.

He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. "I need verbal agreement, princess."

I swallow hard.

"One night," I whisper. "That's it."

His eyes flicker—something wild and aching—and then he kisses me like he's been waiting years.

This kiss is different. Harder. Hungrier. Like permission cracked something open in him, and there's no putting it back. His hands are rough on my waist, mouth bruising against mine. I try to take control—tug his hair, grind against his thigh—but he doesn't let me.

He pins me with his body, caging me in.

"No," he growls against my lips. "I'm in charge, princess."

And God help me, that should make me fight.

It doesn't.

It makes me burn.

I don't know if one night will be enough.

I don't know if I'll regret this tomorrow.

I don't know if I'll survive it.

But right now, with his mouth on mine and his hands on my skin and that damn voice making promises I'm pretending not to hear—

I don't care.

His mouth devours mine, and I meet him head-on, fingers digging into his shoulders, dragging him closer like I'm trying to anchor myself to something that's already slipping.

His thigh slides between mine again, and I feel it—heat blooming low in my gut, spiraling outward. I grind down without thinking, chasing friction, breath catching when I feel how hard he already is.

A groan tears from his throat. "You're gonna kill me."

I smirk against his mouth. "Wouldn't be the worst way to go."

He chuckles darkly, and it vibrates through both of us. "Shut up."

Then his hands are under my thighs, lifting me like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist, and the move knocks the air from my lungs. I feel the wall against my back again, hard and grounding. His hips pin me there, and suddenly, it's not enough. Nothing is enough.

"Bed," I gasp between kisses.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. "Not yet."

He kisses me again—slower this time, like he's savoring it now that he knows he has me. His tongue licks into my mouth and my body arches instinctively, trying to get closer, like I could crawl inside him and still not be close enough.

His hands roam, trailing over my waist, my back, cupping the underside of my thighs. One slips under the hem of my tank top and grazes skin. My breath stutters.

Everywhere he touches, it burns.

Everywhere he doesn't touch, aches.

But it's his eyes that undo me—the way he looks at me like I'm something he's fighting himself to deserve. Like I'm beautiful and dangerous and his, even if just for tonight.

"You still sure?" he murmurs, voice ragged.

"I should say no."

"But?"

I bite my lip. "I'm not that strong."

That does something to him. His eyes darken, his jaw flexes—and then he's moving, carrying me across the room like a man possessed.

He drops me onto the bed. My back hits the mattress, hair spilling wild around me, and I barely have a second to catch my breath before he's crawling over me, bracing himself on his elbows, caging me in again.

"You drive me insane," he mutters.

"Right back at you, Barnes."

His mouth descends to my neck again, and I tilt my head without thinking, giving him space, letting him ruin me.

His human hand grips my hip hard, anchoring me. His other—cold and vibranium—stays hovering, like he doesn't trust himself with it. Or maybe he doesn't think I trust it.

I do.

So I grab it.

His eyes fly to mine as I guide his vibranium fingers to the side of my neck, pressing them gently against my skin.

"I'm not afraid of you."

He looks like I've punched him in the chest.

And then he kisses me like that matters. Like I matter.

I kiss him back like I can forget tomorrow.

Like tonight is the only thing that's real.

And for once, it is.