Chapter 8: Flashback it begin here
The apartment smelled of lemongrass and chili oil, a sharp, clean contrast to the café’s sugary haze. Containers from the Thai place lay open on the low coffee table between them. The television played some inane cooking competition, a flickering blue light that no one watched.
Yelena pushed rice around her cardboard container with a plastic fork. The food was excellent, but it tasted like ash. Every molecule of her attention was tuned to the sofa opposite, where Wanda sat curled into Natasha’s side. Natasha’s arm was draped over Wanda’s shoulders, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the sleeve of Wanda’s sweater. A casual, proprietary touch. A claiming.
“The spring rolls are better than last time,” Wanda remarked, her voice a contented murmur. She nudged a container toward Yelena with her foot. “Try one.”
“I’m good,” Yelena said, too quickly. She didn’t look up.
“Suit yourself.” Natasha’s tone was light, but her eyes were watchful. She picked up a roll with her own fingers and brought it to Wanda’s lips. “Here, моя любимая.”
Wanda took a delicate bite, her lips brushing Natasha’s fingertips. A small, intimate act. Yelena felt it like a spark against dry tinder. She looked away, her jaw tight.
“So, Prague,” Natasha said after a moment, her gaze shifting to Yelena. “Who’s the mark?”
Yelena shrugged, forcing herself to meet her sister’s eyes. “Weapons dealer. Boutique stuff. Plasma casters. Thought it might be connected to that mess in Madripoor.”
“Hmm.” Natasha’s scrutiny was forensic. “Intel source?”
“C.I. in Berlin. You don’t know them.”
“I know everyone in Berlin.”
“Not this one.” The lie was brittle. There was no lead in Prague. There was only this apartment, this suffocating, electric atmosphere, and the need to run from it or toward it, she couldn’t decide which.
Wanda watched the exchange silently, her green eyes missing nothing. She saw the defensive hunch of Yelena’s shoulders, the way Natasha pushed, seeking a flaw in the story, seeking control. She felt the warm, solid weight of Natasha against her, the possessiveness in every touch. And she felt the dark, sweet curl of her own power responding to the tension, to the unspoken want hanging in the air like incense.
She reached over and plucked the forgotten spring roll from Yelena’s container. She took a slow bite, then held the remainder out to Yelena, her eyes holding the younger woman’s captive. “You should eat, зайка. You need your strength.”
The endearment again. The world narrowed to the offering in Wanda’s hand, to her serene, commanding expression. Yelena’s throat worked. After a suspended second, she leaned forward and took the roll from Wanda’s fingers, her lips grazing the pads. The taste was explosive. She couldn’t tell if it was the food or the contact.
Natasha went very still beside Wanda. Her fingers stopped their tracing. The air in the room grew thick, charged.
The moment broke. Yelena chewed, swallowed, and looked at the television without seeing it. “Thanks,” she muttered.
They finished the meal in a silence that was no longer comfortable. The unspoken thing was in the room with them, a fourth presence breathing the lemongrass air.
Later, in the hallway outside the guest bedroom, Yelena paused. Natasha was at the sink, washing her face. Wanda stood behind her, brushing out her long chestnut hair. They were a portrait of domesticity, reflected in the mirror. Wanda caught Yelena’s eye in the glass and gave a small, soft smile.
“Sleep well, Lena,” Wanda said.
Natasha turned, water glistening on her sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were unreadable. “Don’t sneak out,” she said, half-joking, all warning.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Yelena replied, the sarcasm automatic, hollow. She retreated into the spare room and closed the door, leaning against it as if barricading herself from a storm.
She lay in the dark for what felt like hours, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the apartment settling. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant sigh of traffic. The silence from the master bedroom down the hall was absolute, and somehow that was worse. It felt like waiting.
Then, a sound.
A low, muffled moan. Unmistakable.
Yelena’s eyes flew open in the dark. Her body went rigid. It was Natasha. The sound was broken, pleasure-pained, followed by a whispering hush that could only be Wanda’s voice.
Silence again, pounding in Yelena’s ears.
Another moan, louder this time, raw and unfiltered. “Please…”
The word was a gut-punch. It was Natasha, but a Natasha Yelena had never heard. Stripped bare. Needy.
Yelena was moving before she could think, her bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor. The hallway was dark, a slice of dim amber light seeping from under the master bedroom door. The sounds were clearer now—the soft, wet sounds of kissing, the rhythmic rustle of sheets, and Natasha’s broken, escalating whimpers.
Her hand hovered over the doorknob. This was a line, a fucking canyon, that she should not cross. Every instinct screamed to turn back. But the magnet pull was stronger. She turned the knob. It was unlocked.
The door opened a crack, then wider.
The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single bedside lamp. The scene was not hidden, not discreet. It was a display.
Wanda was seated upright against the headboard, gloriously naked, her skin gilded in the lamplight. Her hair was a dark cascade over her shoulders, her full breasts swaying with the gentle motion of her body. Natasha was on her back between Wanda’s spread thighs, her head thrown back, her own naked body arching off the bed. Wanda’s hand was buried between Natasha’s legs, working her with a ruthless, intimate precision.
“That’s it, my love,” Wanda murmured, her voice a dark honey. “Let me hear you. Let me feel you come on my fingers.”
“Wanda… fuck… Mommy…” Natasha gasped, the title ragged and desperate. Her hips jerked off the mattress, trying to force more of Wanda’s touch. “Right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
“I have you, Natalia. I always have you.” Wanda’s focus was absolute, her eyes fixed on Natasha’s face, watching every twitch, every flush of ecstasy. Her fingers moved with a known, devastating rhythm—curling, stroking, penetrating. The wet, slick sounds filled the room. “You’re so good for me. So perfect. Coming apart just how I like.”
Yelena stood frozen in the doorway, her breath trapped in her lungs. She was a ghost, a voyeur, but she couldn’t move. The sight was obscene and beautiful. Natasha, the most controlled person she knew, was utterly unraveling. Her muscles coiled, her back bowed, a sheen of sweat making her skin glow. And Wanda… Wanda was a goddess conducting a symphony of pleasure, her expression one of fierce, adoring concentration.
“I’m gonna… I can’t…” Natasha sobbed, her hands scrabbling at the sheets.
“Come.” The command was gentle and absolute. “Now.”
Natasha’s cry was choked, guttural, as her body shattered. She convulsed, her legs clamping around Wanda’s arm, her heels digging into the mattress. Wanda kept her hand moving, fucking her through the climax, drawing it out, murmuring praises. “Yes… beautiful… again, give me another one, come on… let go…”
And Natasha did, with a shattered whimper, a second, smaller wave racking her trembling body.
Only then did Wanda slow, her movements gentling to soft, soothing strokes. She leaned down, kissing Natasha’s sweaty brow, her eyelids, her panting mouth. “My good girl,” she whispered, the words vibrating with power and affection.
It was then, as Wanda lifted her head from where she’d been kissing Natasha’s. to look at Nat eye
Yelena knew she should walk away she was frozen the red room never make it look like that