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However Maria expected to spend her weekend, it wasn’t like this—tied to a chair in a Bellagio suite too rich for her blood. Her suit jacket and weapons lay discarded across the queen bed in the middle of the room, leaving her with nothing but a halfway torn, rumpled white dress shirt over black slacks.
She didn't have plans, per se, but her expectations of Vegas are spoiling by the minute. All things considered, the company could be better.
More feminine, in any case.
A low growl expels rancid breath inches from her face. “Who sent you?”
Her shoulders strain as she shifts, attempting to situate herself better, which proves nearly impossible with hands bound behind her back.
The room service was supposed to be here by now.
“What are you—FBI? CIA? American, that's for sure.”
Anderson must've fucked up. That's what she gets for leaving him to his own devices, for trusting him to do his job for once. Of all the incompetent, immature, self-obsessed—
A fist makes contact with her jaw, whipping her head to the side and tipping the chair precariously on edge. The tight grip on her shirt forces her back upright.
"Answer the question."
She tastes iron on her tongue as it runs along her teeth, testing. Nothing loose. "Which one?" Maria snarks, spitting a glob of blood at his face. "You'll have to be more specific."
The next punch goes for her stomach, making her curl inward, gasping.
A shuffling of footsteps approaches from down the hall, causing the group of men to whip around.
"Don't worry, darling," says a soft voice trickling in. A drunken giggle, as the door swings open. "I'm just getting—oh! This isn't my room."
That voice...
"Pardon me, gentlemen." A woman hovers in the entrance, cheeks flushed and a ruby red dress fluttering down to her ankles. She stumbles, clutching tight to the door frame. "I must have the wrong floor."
The men glance around to each other, paralyzed in an air of confusion.
Another breathy chuckle. The woman tucks a piece of scarlet hair behind her ear. "Unless this party has room for one more?"
That smile. The same red-painted lips from that night in Versailles, curled into a grin as sharp as a knife. Even without the mask this time, the effect is the same—and it lengthens, nearly imperceptibly, as familiar emerald eyes catch Maria's own.
In the width of a second, the disguise drops. Innocence sheds from her skin faster than water on down feathers, revealing the form of a predator circling blood-infested waters.
In the center, her prey.
The men, a bunch of no-named hired thugs, quickly learn what it means to be truly fearful of the unfathomable. The monster that goes bump in the night. Simply put, they don't stand a chance.
The last one drops from a vicious kick to the temple, crumbling to a heap on the floor.
And finally, they're alone for the first time.
"Agent Hill," the woman says. The way her five-inch heels barely skim the carpet as she glides forward, silent, with violence dripping in her wake, reminds Maria of a wolf on the prowl. "A pleasure to see you again."
"What are you doing here?"
"I was in the area. Thought I'd say hello."
Despite Maria's outward composure, she's embarrassed to admit her heart is in her throat, heat flushing through her at the realization of her current state. She tests the ropes at her wrists again, to no avail.
"Ah." The woman clicks her tongue. She closes the distance, near enough for Maria to pick up her expensive perfume. A hint of something earthy and dark. Primal. "In a bit of a bind, are we?"
"What do you want?"
There's no answer for a long moment, though her eyes darken, taking in the sight before her. Her focus rests on the curve of Maria's jawline, still throbbing from before, and suddenly her hand is there. Caressing. Gentle.
Fingers trail over the damage like liquid flame, each brush along heated skin stoking the need growing within. The urge to lean in. To follow her lead, like that night at the gala.
Something close to anger sparks in the woman's eyes, except this is decisive, sharper, and more violent. For a second, it nearly spells the end of the men lying unconscious on the floor, before she murmurs, "We didn't get to finish our dance."
Maria's breath hitches. She should be more worried, perhaps, that the touch at her jaw could grow sinister, wrapping around her throat in a vice-like grip, where her pulse races faster than it did that fateful night.
All she manages is, "I got chewed out by my boss because of you."
The woman chuckles, low and amused. “I fail to see how that’s my fault.”
“You’re good, I’ll give you that.” Maria takes a deep breath. “Natalia."
The touch freezes.
"Natalia Romanova. That's your name, right?"
An impressed hum. "You've done your research."
Of course she had. Never before had Maria been so humiliated in a professional capacity, that she didn’t hesitate to pull out all the stops.
The Black Widow isn’t the only one on the hunt.
Wandering fingers drift lower, playing with the buttons at the front of Maria’s shirt. They dance dangerously close to the top of her bra, just barely visible through the gap. “What else have you learned?”
"Human traffickers taken down in Prague. Kiev. Just to name a few," she states. "Victims saved. Families reunited."
This time, almost like prophecy, her hand wanders back up until it reaches the base of Maria's throat, resting there above her racing pulse with constant pressure. A reminder. “A lot of people are dead because of me.”
Maria swallows, and the fingers tighten. “A lot more are alive.”
Something shifts in Natalia's eyes. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”
It's that sudden eclipse, a melancholy lurking just beneath the surface, that forces out words Maria never thought she'd say. "Come back with me," she offers. "SHIELD can protect you. You don't have to run anymore."
“No.” Maria’s heart sinks at the answer, worsened by the sad smile it comes with that looks out of place on someone so skilled at blending in. “But thank you for trying.”
Maria opens her mouth to argue—before a finger halts the words at her lips.
“Besides.” Natalia leans down to whisper. A shiver rolls down Maria's spine as hot breath brushes the shell of her ear. “Isn’t this more fun?”
A whirl of movement, and she's gone.
Behind, there’s a rapid fluttering of curtains in the wind from the now-opened window, which throws Maria for a loop since they're on the fifty-third floor.
Down the hallway, a squeaky cart approaches. A knock sounds at the door, and Anderson’s voice calls out, “Room service.”
“Get me out of this chair, dumbass.”