LXIV. Emris

The first thing I register is the crackle of the fire.

It's soft, steady—wood splitting in the hearth across the room. Pale gray light bleeds through the threadbare curtains, brushing across the wooden walls, making the frost on the window glow like veins of ice. Cold air seeps under the blanket clinging to my shoulders, curling along my bare arms. My skin prickles instantly.

I inhale through my nose.

Smoke. Pine. And—

Bacon.

My stomach twists at the smell, sharp and sudden. Bacon and... something sweet. Syrup? Cinnamon?

I blink slowly, head heavy on the pillow. The ache in my body feels different today—duller, but heavier, like it's settled deeper into my bones. My vision is still a little blurry around the edges, but I scan the room anyway, instinct tugging at me.

The floor is empty.

The space beside the bed—where he was last night—is empty.

A chill much sharper than the air races down my spine.

"Bucky?" I croak, voice catching like gravel in my throat.

No answer.

My pulse spikes. Adrenaline kicks in before I can stop it. I push myself up on my elbows, gaze darting to the fire, to the door, to the shadows pooling in the corners of the cabin. I expect to hear shouting. Gunfire. A scream.

But then the scent hits me again. Bacon. Maple. Coffee, maybe.

He's cooking.

I exhale, long and shaky, and let my head fall back against the pillow. My fingers tighten on the blanket.

Goddamn him.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floor bites at my feet—ice cold, sharp as knives. I brace my hands on the mattress, gritting my teeth. My body still isn't right. I know it. The poisoned blade. The gunshot. Whatever Nataly hit me with is still crawling around inside me like fire.

But I don't care.

I plant my feet and push.

Pain slams up my legs, vicious and immediate. My knees buckle. My vision goes white. I don't even have time to curse before gravity rips me down.

My palms hit the floor first—hard enough to scrape skin. My hip follows, slamming into the floorboards with a bone-deep thud. The cold steals the breath from my lungs.

"Shit—!"

I grab the edge of the bed, dragging myself upright with shaking arms until I'm slumped against it, back pressed to the frame, knees bent awkwardly beneath me. My breath comes in broken gasps.

I can't stand.

I can't stand.

The thought is a knife to the gut. I press my forehead into my palms, fingers knotted in my hair.

Useless.

Weak.

Pathetic.

The words slip in without permission, coiled like old wires in the back of my skull. I want to scream, but my throat feels full of glass.

I clench my jaw until it aches.

You survived worse. You've fought through worse. This isn't the end.

But the fight in me fizzles fast. I'm tired. So fucking tired.

I slide one hand down to my thigh. The muscle jumps beneath my skin. It's trembling. My whole leg is. The other one's worse—still bandaged, still stitched, probably bleeding again from the fall.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I don't want to feel this.

Not the pain. Not the weakness. Not the heat rising in my throat like shame.

God, what if he walked in right now?

I'd rather die.

No one gets to see me like this—not Bucky, not anyone. I'm not the one who falls apart. I'm not the one who needs help.

But here I am.

On the goddamn floor.

Shaking.

Broken.

The fire snaps behind me. Somewhere in the kitchen, a pan sizzles. Something clatters—probably a spoon or a fork. He's still there. Still moving like the world hasn't cracked under my feet.

I press my knuckles to my mouth to keep the sob down. It doesn't escape, but it burns. My chest is tight, my shoulders shaking. I can't cry. I won't.

You're not that girl anymore.

But right now?

I don't feel like a Black Lotus assassin or a Hydra weapon or the Serpent or anything strong or cold or sharp.

I just feel... human.

And that might be worse.

"Emris—"

Bucky's voice rips through the air like a gunshot.

My body jerks. I don't even know why—I can't breathe, can't think. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it's going to crack a rib. My whole chest is tight. My hands are fists before I realize I've moved.

He runs to me. I see him only in blurs and sound. His footsteps. The low panic in his voice. The outline of his figure shaking at the edges like bad reception. My brain won't focus. Won't stay here.

He reaches for my arm.

"Don't touch me!"

I snap, shove him back with more force than I knew I had. My voice isn't a voice. It's a scream wrapped in a whisper.

He halts, shocked. Hands raised like I'm holding a weapon. I can see the confusion in his eyes—but I can't stop shaking.

"Don't—don't touch me," I say again. It spills out, broken. Shaky. I keep saying it.

"Don't touch me."

"Don't."

"Don't touch—"

The words fall apart in my mouth. My throat is dry. Everything blurs.

The room spins sideways.

And then I'm not there anymore.

White.

So white it hurts my eyes. The overhead light hums, buzzing like a mosquito that never lands. I'm not sure how long I've been here. Hours. Days. Time doesn't work right in this place.

My body is lead. Cold lead. My fingers twitch like they belong to someone else. I can feel the drugs crawling under my skin like insects—sticky, numbing, wrong.

They dosed me heavy this time.

Failed the mission.

Let a witness live.

They don't tolerate mistakes.

The cell reeks of bleach and old blood. The mattress is cardboard. Stiff. My mouth tastes like copper and blood. My temple is crusted with something dark. Blood. It's always blood.

I try to sit up.

Nothing moves.

My legs feel like meat. Raw. Unresponsive.

I try again. Push.

And I slip.

Fall off the bed in a heap of limbs and dead weight. My jaw hits the floor first. Then my shoulder. A crack—pain rings down my neck.

No scream.

Don't scream.

Never give them your scream.

I lie there. Staring at the wall. Listening to the distant clink of metal on metal in the hallway.

Then—footsteps.

Laughter.

No. No, not again.

The door bursts open. Slammed so hard the hinges rattle.

Two of them. Agents in gray. Masks on. The black lotus emblem stitched across their chest like a brand. I know them. I know what they do.

"Well, shit," the taller one laughs. "Look at her. Like a dead fish."

The other crouches beside me, grabs a fistful of my shirt. "Sloppy assassin."

Then he lifts me—just enough to drop me.

My body hits the floor with a hollow thud.

A groan escapes me. I didn't mean to make it.

They laugh harder.

"She's not even screaming this time. Think she's learned?"

"No," the tall one says. "They don't learn until something breaks."

His boot slams into my ribs.

White-hot pain lances up my side. I gasp. Choke on blood.

Another kick.

Then a third.

I try to curl up. Protect my head. My arms won't respond. My legs stay limp. I'm nothing but a target now. A slab of meat.

The other grabs my hair—yanks me upright.

I see his eyes through the mask. Cold. Delighted.

"You're just a puppet without strings," he snarls.

Then he throws me.

My back hits the wall hard. My skull snaps back against concrete.

I slide down, breathless. Dazed.

Before I can blink, the kicks come again. Rapid-fire.

My spine.

My stomach.

My thighs.

Over and over until my body is on fire and I'm screaming inside my head but the sound won't come out.

Bones crack. Maybe ribs. Maybe more.

One of them kneels. Grabs my face.

"Where's that mouth now, huh? Where's your sass?"

He spits on me. I flinch.

My teeth are red. One might be loose. I can't tell.

"I think she's trying not to cry," the tall one says.

I stare at the floor. Try not to give them the satisfaction.

But my vision is blurring again. Colors swim.

Blood pools under my cheek.

A boot presses down on my hand. Slowly. Crushing.

I bite down a scream so hard my jaw trembles.

"Not so tough now, are you, Serpent?"

Pain.

Pain is all there is.

The smell of rubber gloves. The slap of skin on skin. The sting of something sharp splitting my lip. A punch? A slap? I don't know. I can't keep track.

My ears ring. My body's gone cold.

I can't breathe.

Everything hurts but nothing moves.

Blood. Boots. Screaming.

Not mine.

Maybe it is.

I think—God, I think I start to cry.

Just a few tears.

Weak.

Useless.

I want to die. I want to disappear into the floor. Become nothing. Fade into dust and never come back.

One of them leans close, his breath rancid.

"You're not a person," he says. "You're just a weapon."

He stands.

And kicks me again.

Everything goes black.

Something grabs me.

Hands.

Strong. Steady. Familiar, but I can't place them. All I know is that they're touching me—and that can't happen. That can't happen.

I thrash wildly, screaming now, I think—I don't even hear the sound. Just the panic, raw and animal, tearing through my chest like a bomb going off in slow motion.

"Get off me!" I shout, but my voice is cracked and hoarse and barely makes it past my lips.

My fists swing—one connects with something solid. A shoulder. Warm. Human.

A grunt.

And then a voice.

"It's me. Emris—hey. It's me."

That voice slices through the fog like a flare.

Bucky.

But my mind can't register it—not yet.

I swing again, aiming for anything, everything, and nothing. My arms are trembling but vicious. A punch misses, another skims his jaw. He doesn't hit back. Doesn't shove me. Just moves with me, blocking every blow with arms that flex and shift like he's done this a thousand times before.

"You're not there," he says softly. His voice is steady but strained. "You're safe."

Safe.

That word tastes like ash in my mouth.

I'm not safe. I'll never be safe.

I scream again, this time more like a sob. My body jerks forward, shaking from adrenaline, from terror, from the poison still crawling through my veins.

And then—I'm restrained.

My wrists.

He catches them mid-swing. Holds them tight, but not painfully.

"Stop," Bucky breathes. "Emris. Look at me."

I can't. I won't. My arms try to pull away, but my muscles are jelly. My legs are still useless. I can't fight. Not really. But I keep trying, because if I stop moving, I'll fall apart.

He doesn't let go. His hands are warm. Calloused. One's shaking.

And I realize—I'm sobbing.

Silent, broken sobs that rattle out of me like a child. My forehead drops forward until it nearly hits his chest, but I force myself to stay upright. Barely. My head hangs low. My breathing's uneven. My skin is clammy. I feel like I'm going to throw up.

I can't look at him.

I can't let him see me like this.

I'm half-conscious, and more exposed than I've ever been. Not because of the wounds or the blood or the sweat sticking my shirt to my spine—but because he's seeing me. The part I keep buried under sarcasm and venom and walls so thick no one's gotten close in twenty years.

And Bucky's just... holding me.

Saying nothing.

I feel his gaze on me like a physical thing—unmoving, unwavering.

Seconds pass. Maybe longer.

I'm not flailing anymore, but I can't stop shaking. My chin trembles.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

He moves.

Slowly.

One of his hands leaves my wrist.

I brace for a blow. Even now, even knowing it's him, I brace—

But instead, he touches my face.

Gently.

His fingers slide under my chin. Lift.

I resist. Weakly.

"Don't," I whisper.

His grip doesn't tighten. Just stays. Patient.

My head tips up.

Our eyes meet.

His are soft. Blue like winter sky. Stormy around the edges, but calm at the center.

I feel it—he's been here.

He knows what this is.

He knows what it's like to be yanked out of your own mind, to live in a body that doesn't feel like yours, to be torn open and left with nothing but obedience and shame.

He sees me.

And for the first time in a long time—I let him.

Just for a second.

His lips part.

"I understand," Bucky says.

That's it.

Just two words.

But they hit harder than any blow I've ever taken.

I scoff, but it's empty. Defensive. My pride's already in pieces on the floor.

I try to pull away. My chin stays in his hand.

"Bucky..." I say. It's barely a sound. More breath than voice.

He hums in response, low and steady. Grounding.

I glance down. His lips are so close. Inches. He's breathing hard. So am I.

My eyes dart back to his.

There's a beat.

Neither of us moves

His grip on my wrist doesn't ease. Not yet.

My chest is still heaving, lungs burning like I forgot how to breathe. I can feel the tremble in my arms, the flush of my skin.

The tail end of the flashback is still clinging to me like smoke—every nerve frayed, every instinct on high alert. But I'm not fighting anymore. Not against him. Not against this.

He doesn't speak. Neither do I.

I can't look at him, but I can feel him. The heat of him. The weight of his stare. My pulse pounds hard at my throat, hot and dizzying. I want to disappear. I want to hit something. I want to—

I whisper it. "Let me go."

He doesn't.

His face is inches from mine, and he doesn't move. I can hear every breath he takes—ragged and uneven. Just like mine. Like we've both been dropped into something too deep, too fast, and we don't know which way is up.

His hand lifts slowly, deliberately. An offering, a warning, a question. I have every chance to flinch.

I don't.

Fingertips skim my cheek. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and it's such a small, delicate thing—but it unravels me. The gentleness. The hesitation. The fact that he's touching me like I'm breakable instead of broken. His fingers linger too long. And I let them.

The moment stretches, thick and trembling. A breath held between us. Something tectonic shifts.

And then I lean in.

Just barely. Just enough that our noses brush. That I can feel the shape of his breath ghosting over my mouth.

He freezes.

Then he moves too.

The kiss hits fast. Violent in its urgency. There's nothing soft about it—not at first. Our mouths crash together, clashing teeth and parted lips and too much need shoved into too little space. It's wild. Reckless. My fingers fist in his shirt like I'm drowning and this is the only thing tethering me to the surface. He grips my waist hard, dragging me forward into him, until I'm straddling his lap and we're nothing but heat and pressure and friction.

We don't move in sync. Not right away. It's messy and raw, all instinct and collision. His mouth slants against mine like he's starving, like he doesn't care how ugly this is, and maybe I don't either. Because I kiss him back just as hard. I bite his lip. He groans into my mouth. I feel it everywhere.

His hands are on my back now, roaming up beneath my shirt. His skin against mine makes me jolt. It's too much. It's not enough. Every point of contact sends a spark up my spine. One hand slides into my hair, gripping tight, and the tension makes me moan into his mouth before I can stop it.

That's all it takes.

He pulls me tighter. Kisses me deeper. I melt into him. His tongue brushes mine—confident, slow, dragging. And everything tilts.

The kiss shifts.

It softens. Not in intent, but in texture. His lips mold to mine with aching deliberation, like he's memorizing the shape of my mouth, like he's relearning how to breathe through me. My hands thread through his hair, fingertips digging into his scalp, and I don't let go. I don't even think about it. I'm anchored there.

He shifts, pulling me onto his lap like it's instinct. And I go, without thinking, without hesitation. My legs drape over his thighs. Our bodies align like puzzle pieces that shouldn't fit but do.

His arms wrap around my waist. His mouth is on mine again before I can catch my breath, deeper now, slower, addictive. I moan softly into the kiss—hating myself and craving more at the same time.

That noise changes him. He tightens his grip. His hand fists in my hair, his other skims under the edge of my shirt, fingers branding fire against my spine.

I gasp and he swallows it.

Our breaths sync. My heart pounds so loud it drowns out everything else. I can taste him—bitter coffee, something minty, a trace of syrup—and it shouldn't be intimate, but it is. It's terrifying how much I feel. How much I want.

His hands don't stop moving. They trace my spine, the dip of my waist, the curve of my lower back. Every touch feels like it's branding me, dragging me deeper into something I don't know how to navigate. I press into him instinctively, hips shifting, thighs squeezing around his. I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't want this.

But I do.

Fuck.

The kiss grows again. Builds. His mouth opens wider against mine, demanding more. I give it. I match it. We fall into each other like we've been waiting for this too long and can't stand the wait any longer. Our movements get faster. Hotter. My body rocks with his, friction sparking, a low burn spreading from the base of my spine to my throat.

His teeth catch my lip again, dragging this time. Not rough—just enough to make my breath stutter. My head tilts, giving him more room. I don't think. I don't plan. I just move. Respond. React.

Every cell in my body screams.

I grip his hair tighter. He groans, low and guttural, and kisses me like he wants to consume me. Like he hates me. Like he needs me. Like all of those things exist in the same breath.

And maybe they do.

I'm not sure who pulls away first.

It's not voluntary. It's survival.

We break, barely. Still breathing each other's air. Foreheads nearly touching. My lips are swollen, wet, parted. My chest rises and falls so fast it aches. His hands are still on my hips. My fingers are still locked in his hair. Neither of us moves.

We just stare.

And everything is too loud.

I don't say a word.

Neither does he.

I stay frozen, caught somewhere between wanting to run and wanting to collapse into him. Heat pools low in my belly, but my limbs feel icy cold. My skin tingles all over—electric and raw—like I'm both burning up and freezing at the same time. My heart pounds so loud it's a thrum behind my ears. My breath comes in short gasps, but my body refuses to move.

Bucky's face is unreadable. His eyes dark and stormy, but calm. He shifts slightly, the faintest crease in his brow, but says nothing. No words. No explanations. Just that quiet presence, heavy and solid.

Then without a word—without asking—he lifts me with ease, arms sliding around my waist like he's done it a thousand times before. It feels like a betrayal and a balm all at once—his hands warm and steady, holding me close in a way I never thought I'd let myself feel safe.

I hate how natural it feels. Hate how much I want to lean into him, to stop resisting. Hate that I can't even get up and walk away.

He carries me to the couch like I weigh nothing, sets me down gently, and pulls a blanket over my legs. I stare at the blank wall in front of me. The silence is loud.

He leaves the room without another word.

I hear pans clink, the faint hiss of bacon sizzling in a pan. The kitchen noises fill the quiet, small and domestic, and it's like a cruel reminder that everything should be normal here—that breakfast should be breakfast and not a charged battlefield of unspoken feelings and memories.

I swallow hard. My mind spins in spirals of confusion and guilt. It's a mistake. A weakness. And if he touches me like that again—I'll do it again. Maybe even worse.

The door creaks open. He returns carrying a plate: golden french toast, crisp bacon, and eggs cooked just the way I like them—soft, yolky, perfect. My stomach growls, but I don't say thanks. I don't want to owe him anything right now.

He sets the plate beside me carefully. Our fingers brush—barely, just a flicker of contact—and neither of us flinches or pulls away. The electricity hums between us, quiet and steady.

Still silent, he stands and walks toward the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him, and moments later, the low roar of the shower starting fills the room. The water's steady fall echoes in the bathroom and somehow makes the silence in here even more unbearable.

I exhale, a long breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The tension seeps out of my shoulders—just a little—but the ache inside my chest tightens.

I pick up a piece of bacon, the salty crispness grounding me. It's perfect. Of course it is. Nothing about this is ever easy or messy when it comes to him.

I chew slowly, savoring the warmth of the food, the heat spreading through my chest. Outside, snow falls in thick, soft layers, blanketing the town in cold silence. I glance out the small gap in the curtain and watch the flakes drift down like slow-motion ghosts.

Everything is too quiet. Too still. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something to break.

My thoughts sharpen, stabbing into the quiet like knives.

This can't happen. Not again. We're not built for this.

I watch the fire flicker in the hearth, the flames casting shifting shadows on the wall. The warmth should comfort me, but instead it makes my skin crawl. I'm furious. Furious I let my guard down. Furious I want to do it again. Even though I know I shouldn't.

I want to scream at myself to get a grip. To remember what this is—what he is. But my mind spins in circles.

Does his silence mean he regrets it too? Or that he's already decided it was a mistake?

I hate how much I want to find out.

I hate how much I want him.

Russia's a ghost I can't outrun, crawling in the edges of every thought. The cold, the pain, the memories—they're all wrapped tight around me, pulling me under.

And Bucky... he's starting to feel like the one thing I don't want to run from anymore.