LX. Emris

Something's wrong.

I jolt upright—or try to. My spine protests, a bolt of soreness tearing through my lower back and up between my shoulders. A hiss slips out between clenched teeth. The sheets are too soft, too warm, like they've been cocooned around me for hours. Like I've been resting.

That's my first clue I'm not where I should be. The second is the smell.

Faint leather. Soap. Cinnamon. Him.

I freeze. Every muscle in my body goes taut.

This isn't my bed.

Well, it is now—I recognize the creaky mattress, the busted headboard, the ceiling fan that ticks unevenly above me like a countdown. But I didn't fall asleep here. I remember that clearly. I fell asleep in his bed. Wrapped in heat, in arms that shouldn't have felt as safe as they did. In a body I've sworn to hate.

Bucky.

My mouth goes dry.

The sheet slides off as I shift, and the air hits my bare skin—except... I'm not bare.

I glance down.

A dark gray t-shirt hangs off me, the hem brushing the tops of my thighs. I don't need to bring it to my nose to know it smells like him. Like midnight and metal and sweat and stupid decisions. But I do anyway, without thinking. The scent knocks into me like a punch.

God. What the hell did I do?

Memories slam into me out of sequence—flashes of movement and noise and raw skin against skin. His hands in my hair. My nails raking down his back. My legs around his waist. The way the bedside table hit the floor when he threw it across the room.

Shit.

I sit all the way up and immediately regret it. My thighs ache. There's a pull in my hips, a soreness between them that has no business existing unless you've just been thoroughly, repeatedly—

"Fuck." I swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant my feet on the floor. Cold wood. Grounding.

I breathe. In. Out.

And then I slap my forehead, because what the actual hell is wrong with me?

First time since the '40s? You'd never know...

I can't stop the thought. It slips in smug and shameless, and I want to strangle myself for it. My face is already hot. I press my palms into my eyes like I can rub the memory away. I can't.

The worst part? It wasn't supposed to happen. Not like that. Not after weeks—months—of snarling and snapping and pretending he meant nothing to me.

I'm not some teenage recruit with a crush on the first man who calls me pretty. I'm not someone who slips into bed with the enemy because she's bored or lonely or curious. I'm trained. I know better. I am better.

A beat of silence falls heavy around me, broken only by the ticking fan.

Did anyone hear us?

My stomach turns. That table definitely broke. Loudly. Somewhere in the middle of—God, the second round? The third? Sam has ears like a damn hawk. Natasha's a spy—she hears everything. Steve probably heard us from the jet.

Another groan bubbles in my throat. I clamp it down with my teeth and drag myself to my feet.

Bad idea. Gravity is a bitch. Pain blooms low in my abdomen, in my legs. I wobble, catching myself on the dresser. I'm a mess—bruises, scratches, a low throb in my ribs from where his arm locked tight around me. Like he didn't want to let go.

Don't think about that.

I stumble toward the dresser, catch my reflection in the mirror on it. Hair wild. Lips swollen. A faint fingerprint-shaped shadow high on my thigh. And this shirt—

I rip it off like it's on fire.

The moment it hits the floor, I feel like I can breathe again. Sort of.

I grab the nearest clean tank top, yank it over my head. Pull on shorts that cover the bruises high on my thigh. Try not to notice how my hands tremble. I've faced down Hydra kill squads with calmer nerves than this.

I pace.

Back and forth across the room, bare feet thudding softly. Every step makes me feel it again. Him. The way he groaned into my skin. The way he gripped my hips like I'd vanish if he didn't hold on.

I shouldn't have let it happen.

I knew better. I know better.

But I can't stop remembering how it felt when he kissed me like I was the only damn thing keeping him alive.

This is a problem. A massive, red-alert, sirens-blaring problem. Not just because it complicates things. But because it felt like the opposite of a mistake.

And I have no idea what that means.

I catch myself staring at the crumpled shirt on the floor.

I should leave it. Burn it. Pretend none of it happened.

Instead, I walk over and pick it up.

It's soft. Still warm from my body. Still smells like him.

I stare at it for a second too long.

Then I throw it in the corner of the room, near the dresser.

Time to face the rest of the day.

Assuming it doesn't try to kill me first.

The kitchen's too bright.

Sunlight pours in through the cracked blinds, slashing the room with gold. The hum of the fridge, the slow drip of the coffee machine, the distant chirp of birds outside—it's all too normal. Like the world didn't shift sideways eight hours ago.

Sam's already at the table, hoodie half-zipped, nursing a pink chipped mug. His eyes are still puffy from sleep. He looks peaceful. Innocent.

Jealousy claws up my throat like acid.

"Morning," I say, trying to sound casual as I make a beeline for the coffee pot.

Sam raises the mug in a lazy salute. "You sleep in? That's new."

My laugh is half-hearted. I pour the coffee slow, watching the black swirl rise in the cup. I need the heat, the bitterness. I need something to hold so I don't wring my own hands.

He keeps talking. "Nat's already out back training. Steve's probably still recovering."

"Recovering?" I echo, stirring too hard. The spoon clinks against ceramic.

Sam's grin spreads, wicked and amused. "You didn't hear them last night?"

I go still.

"What?" I blink at him, forcing confusion. My pulse just leapt into my ears.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Come on. The walls in this place are paper-thin. Pretty sure Steve knocked something off the dresser. Or maybe that was Nat throwing him onto it." He winks. "Sounded like someone had a good time."

I choke. Literally.

A ragged cough bursts out of me as the coffee goes down the wrong way. I spin around, one hand on the counter, the other gripping the mug like a lifeline.

Sam laughs. "Damn, Em. You good?"

"Fine," I rasp. "Just hot. Went down wrong."

So did I, I think bitterly. Last night flashes behind my eyes—skin and heat and breathless moans muffled by someone else's pillow.

I cough again to cover the blush creeping up my neck.

Sam watches me for a beat too long, then shrugs and goes back to sipping his drink. I turn my back to him, breathing slow and deep through my nose. I can still feel it—my own heartbeat pulsing in places it shouldn't. My skin's too tight. My stomach's a knot of guilt and heat and humiliation.

And then the door opens.

I know it's him before I even look.

Bucky steps in like he didn't ruin me last night. Hair damp, hoodie half-zipped, gray sweatpants riding low on his hips. He looks calm. Clean. Unbothered. But I see the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his jaw when his eyes flick to me and immediately flick away.

One second. That's all it takes. One glance.

My skin lights on fire.

He walks toward the fridge without a word, grabs the orange juice like it wronged him personally. I keep my gaze locked on the coffee cup, trying to pretend the air didn't just turn thick enough to choke on.

Sam's oblivious.

"You hear Nat and Steve last night?" he asks Bucky cheerfully.

Bucky's grip on the juice bottle tightens. "Nope."

He doesn't even look at him. Just pours the juice into a glass and stares out the window like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.

But his shoulders tense. I see it. Feel it.

And then—briefly—his eyes flick back to me.

Heat rushes into my chest, flooding up into my cheeks. I force a sip of coffee just to keep my hands busy, but my fingers are trembling slightly. I hope he doesn't notice.

Why does it matter if he does?

Because this morning I woke up in his shirt.

Because last night I let go of every rule I've ever lived by.

Because I still want him.

I clench my jaw. Don't read him. Don't cheat. Don't slip past the walls of his mind just to make yourself feel better.

But the temptation is right there, like a button I'm dying to press. I want to know if he regrets it. If he's pretending it never happened. If he's trying to convince himself I meant nothing.

Because that would make it easier.

Wouldn't it?

"Damn," Sam says, dragging his chair in with a screech. "Guess I was the only one blessed—and cursed—with enhanced hearing last night. Whole thing sounded like a training montage from a Rated R movie. Proud of them, honestly."

Bucky doesn't laugh. He doesn't even twitch.

I can't take this.

I grab my coffee and push away from the counter.

"Where you going?" Sam asks.

"My room," I lie smoothly. "Need to do laundry."

I don't wait for a response. I stride out the kitchen door like it's a mission objective, my spine straight, jaw locked, heart hammering hard enough to bruise.

Behind me, I don't look back.

If I do, I might catch his eyes again.

And if I catch his eyes again, I don't trust what I'll do.

Back in my room, I shut the door with more force than necessary.

The click of the latch is final, like locking the world—and Bucky Barnes—out. I let out a slow breath through my nose and press my back to the wood for a second. My coffee's still warm in my hand, but the caffeine's done nothing to settle the storm brewing in my chest.

"Get it together," I mutter.

I cross the room, set the mug down on the desk, and start cleaning up. Not because it needs it—Natasha keeps the safehouses militarily sterile—but because I need something to do. Something stupid and repetitive. Something that doesn't involve his mouth on mine, or the way his voice dipped when he said my name.

I start with the sheets—ripping them off the bed and tossing them into the laundry bin like they insulted me. Then the floor. My boots, my jacket, the hoodie I'd kicked off in the middle of the night a few days ago. A sock I don't even remember wearing.

And then... his shirt.

It's crumpled near the dresser. Black. Soft. Still faintly smells like him—leather, cinnamon, and that warm scent that clings to his skin like heat.

I crouch and pick it up with two fingers. Hold it in the air like it's radioactive.

It's the one I woke up in.

The one he put me in when he carried me back here.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

You're not some stupid girl with a crush. You knew better.

But that doesn't stop the memories from rising. The way his hands moved over my skin, reverent and rough. The sound he made when I bit his shoulder.

My chest tightens painfully.

I toss the shirt into the laundry bin like it burns.

"Done," I tell myself. "It happened. It's over. You survived worse."

But the room feels too quiet now. Too still. There's a flicker of something in the back of my mind—like my powers brushing against static. A pressure in the air I can't name. The hairs on my arms lift. My breath slows.

Something's off.

I turn in place, scanning the room. Nothing's changed. No movement. No sounds but the faint creak of floorboards down the hall, maybe Sam or Nat or—don't think about him again.

Then the burner phone buzzes.

Not my StarkTech one. The other phone. The one hidden under my pillow like a dirty secret.

I freeze.

It's an old flip model, the kind no one uses anymore. The number's been silent for months.

I snatch it up and answer without thinking.

"Hello?"

A breath. Then his voice.

"Run."

My stomach drops.

"Luke?"

Static crackles faintly in the background. His voice is low, clipped, urgent.

"You have ten minutes. Get out of there."

"What? Wait, what the fuck are you talking about?"

My pulse surges, blood rushing in my ears. I stand there, paralyzed, heart kicking into overdrive.

"I said run," he growls. "Don't argue, Emris. Move. Now."

"Luke, is this a trap? A test? Are you screwing with me again—?"

But he's gone.

Click.

Dead air.

I stare at the phone like it might explain itself. My fingers tighten around the plastic until it creaks.

Ten minutes.

Get out of there.

The static feeling is back. Worse. Spiking behind my eyes. My powers are reacting to something, something wrong, like the air is shifting just outside the range of sound or light. My skin crawls. The instinct that's kept me alive through ambushes, assassinations, and years in the Black Lotus suddenly roars to life.

Danger is here.

Not later. Not theoretical. Now.

I toss the burner onto the bed and move.

Drawers open. My go-bag's already half-packed—standard Black Lotus habit. I yank it out, grab the knife tucked under my mattress, the extra clips of ammo from the closet. My fingers are fast now. Muscle memory. No thought. Just action.

But my heart's still screaming.

Was Luke trying to protect me—or sell me out?

Was I the target?

Or did he mean all of us?

I pause at the door, hand hovering over the handle. My feet are bare. I need shoes. My jacket.

Don't freeze, Emris. Move.

Adrenaline hits like fire in my veins.

I yank the door open and run.

"We have to go!"

The words rip out of me like gunfire as I barrel into the living room. The others jerk up, startled—Steve halfway through pouring coffee, Sam stretched across the couch, Nat leaned against the window, arms folded. All three of them freeze.

I skid to a stop, breath ragged, adrenaline spiking like a syringe in my neck.

"What?" Steve's voice is calm, confused.

"Gear. Now. Someone's coming," I bark, scanning the room like I'm counting exits.

Sam raises a brow. "Who's coming?"

"I don't know! Luke called—he said to run."

They all blink at me, caught between disbelief and threat assessment. My pulse hammers so loud I can hear it in my teeth.

"Jesus, you look like you saw a ghost," Nat mutters.

"Worse." I draw in a breath, fighting to stay steady. "We've got ten minutes—maybe less."

There's a beat of heavy silence.

Then Steve tosses the coffee aside and nods. "You heard her."

Sam's already vaulting over the back of the couch, sprinting for the stairs. Nat grabs a go-bag from under the window and disappears up after them.

Bucky lingers behind, eyes locked on me. His mouth is a flat line. "What did he say, exactly?"

"Just one word. Run." I glance at him, voice low and tight. "And he meant it."

That's enough. He doesn't argue. Doesn't question. Just turns and bolts down the hallway beside me.

We move like twin bullets—fast, sharp, aimed with purpose. My bare feet slap the hardwood. Every breath is like glass in my throat.

We reach the training room and crash inside. I yank open the weapons cabinets. Duffel bag on the floor. Start shoving gear into it with no care for sorting—mags, handguns, knives. Bucky drops beside me, grabs two flashbangs, an EMP disc, clips them to his belt.

My fingers tremble, not from fear but velocity. This is the pace of survival.

I trained for this—trained for raids, for clean sweeps under pressure. Thirty seconds or die.

I swipe everything inside into the bag—files, tech, burner phones, a vial of antivenom I forgot we even had. Bucky grabs extra ammo and throws it to me without looking. We're a blur. A machine with two heads.

"Done," I mutter, zipping the bag. "Move."

We tear through the hallway, the exit in sight. Somewhere above us I can hear Steve shouting orders—boots stomping, doors slamming. The sound of controlled chaos. The sound of people trying to outrun death.

We burst outside. Cold air slams into me like a slap.

Clouds choke the sky, low and angry. The wind howls through the pine trees. My eyes snap to the barn in the distance—the quinjet is powered up, turbines spinning.

Then I feel it. A shift. A flicker at the edge of my senses.

My spine stiffens.

"Down!" I scream, grabbing Bucky by the arm and dragging him behind the stone barrier as—

BOOM.

A concussive shock shakes the ground. Earth sprays into the air. My ears ring.

I peek up—and my blood freezes.

Nataly is descending from above like some nightmare angel. Her flight belt hums, dark cloak billowing behind her. Her face is calm, cold, unreadable. Below her, a motorcycle skids across the gravel—Warner.

His face is hidden beneath a black visor, rifle slung across his chest.

"We've got company!" I shout toward the trees, hoping Steve hears me.

"Can't take them head-on!" Bucky says, dragging me further behind cover. "We need to flank—"

"There's no time!" I hiss. "Jet's almost off the ground!"

We bolt.

My legs burn as we race across the field. The turbines scream louder. The quinjet's ramp is down—Steve and Sam are halfway aboard, Nat right behind them.

They see us.

Steve's eyes lock on mine. "Who is it?!"

"Black Lotus!" I yell. "Go—we'll meet you!"

Steve doesn't move. Sam grabs his arm, yelling something. Nat spins, raises her arm.

BOOM.

The explosion goes off right in front of us.

The blast picks me up and slams me through the air like I weigh nothing. For a blink, I'm flying.

Then I hit something solid.

Arms catch me. I crash into a warm chest, my body pressed hard against muscle and heat.

Bucky.

We hit the ground together, a tangled mess. My hands are on his chest. His arm is around my back. My thigh straddles his hip. I can feel the tremor in his breath. His face is so close—lips parted, hair tousled.

Time slows. My pulse spikes, breath shallow. I freeze.

And then I launch off of him like I've been shocked.

He scrambles upright, dragging me with him. "You good?"

"Fine," I mutter, heart hammering. "Ears are ringing. That's it."

He steadies me as I wobble. Smoke billows around us. Through the haze, I see Sam and Steve at the top of the ramp. Sam's waving, yelling. Steve's looking back at us.

"Go!" I scream again, pointing at the sky. "We'll catch up!"

Steve hesitates, jaw clenched. He doesn't want to leave us.

Nat appears at his side. She grabs his arm and nods once. Trust me, she's saying.

He vanishes into the jet.

The ramp lifts. The turbines roar. I push past the fog in my head and reach.

Mentally.

First, Sam. His panic is thick—I brush against it, nudge it into something sharp and focused. Then Steve. Harder. Stubborn. But I shove past his walls and plant the idea like a seed:

You have to go. Trust us.

The quinjet lifts, wheels off the ground. Dust swirls in the air as it vanishes into the sky—gone.

We're alone.

Bucky exhales next to me, jaw tight.

I turn toward the tree line—Nataly's landing now, her boots skimming the earth. Warner revs his bike nearby, circling like a shark.

Everything in me coils like a spring.

"Well," I mutter, cracking my neck. "Now we find out who dies first."

Bucky's mouth twitches. "Stay close."

The dust settles in slow motion.

It spirals around us—soft, choking, surreal. The air tastes like ash and engine oil. My ears are still ringing from the blast, the sound a high, distant scream that won't fade. Somewhere far above, the quinjet shrinks into the gray sky, a fading shadow swallowed by clouds.

But all I can see is her.

Nataly descends through the smoke like a wraith, silent and elegant, as if gravity itself hesitates to touch her. Her dark cloak trails behind her like wings, fluttering with every calculated movement of her flight. Wind curls around her like it belongs to her. Her boots touch the ground without a sound.

Serene. Untouchable.

The angel of death.

She straightens slowly, face unreadable. Not even a smirk. No pleasure. No cruelty. Just that terrifying calm, like she's already written our deaths down in some hidden ledger.

Beside her, Warner pulls up on his matte-black motorcycle. The tires skid slightly in the gravel, kicking up a spray of stone, and he kills the engine with one smooth twist of his wrist. He steps off, flips up his visor, and looks at us with that maddening stillness.

His arms cross over his chest.

Not a threat. Not a warning. A statement.

They're not here to talk.

Bucky steps up to my right, his shoulders squared, expression unreadable but tightly drawn. Natasha closes in on my left, silent, tense, a coiled knife in human form. We form a jagged line, our shadows cast long in the low light.

I try to steady my breath, but it doesn't cooperate.

My fists are clenched so tight my nails dig crescents into my palms. A bead of sweat slips down my spine beneath my shirt. Every nerve in my body feels stretched to a breaking point. Like one wrong move will tear me apart from the inside.

Nataly's eyes meet mine.

A flicker of recognition. Of something colder. Personal.

She knows exactly what she's here to do.

And I know exactly what it's going to cost.

My gaze flicks to Bucky—his jaw is tight, eyes locked on Warner like he's already calculating which of them is dying first. Then to Nat—calm on the outside, but I know that grip on her weapon means she's already counting escape routes we don't have.

There's no version of this where we walk away clean.

My pulse pounds. My throat is dry.

This isn't going to go well.