Three
She was scared and angry, at himself and at herself. She was not gentle rummaging through his mind, searching for something to use against him, something that would give her some clue as to how he had seen through her tangled web.
He hadn’t though, that was the strange thing. She was still broken to his strength, but whole to his heart, and it was that thought that almost made her strike. She was a Queen, and she did not have to submit any more. He admired her, yes, as any man would admire a woman. But he did not desire her, and it was that which protected him. Instead, he wanted to serve her with all that he was, leash himself to her, and obey.
She felt the icy coldness of the killing edge racing through him, freezing the edges of his Purple Dusk web. She felt the pull and allure of her psychic scent.
He felt her pain and her strength. He felt her desire to believe, and her desire to live.
They didn’t need to speak, distaff to spear. In that intimate mind-to-mind contact, they understood each other.
She slid out of his mind and back to her own, and he blinked at the sense of loss.
“Come with me,” Clint said sharply, and obediently, Natasha stood, wavering on her feet. His hand shot out to grab her arm with what looked like bruising force. To Natasha, it felt like what she imagined a butterfly landing on skin would feel like.
He would not hurt her, but this charade had to be played out. A Purple Dusk Warlord Prince would not be allowed to take a Red Queen from the service fair, but a broken witch was fair game, if you knew which palms to grease.
Natasha could feel the discontent underneath the coldness, the distaste at what he was having to do to take care of his Queen. But there was Protocol, and there was protocol, and until she could stand forth as an unbroken Queen, it was easy to keep up the pretence.
Finally though, the contract was signed and sealed, and they were free to leave.
The Web Coach was empty, and as soon as the door closed behind them, Clint released his grip on Natasha’s wrist, and knelt, resting his head on her knee, breathing deeply. Natasha cautiously sat, letting herself tap into the red strength, calming herself. Carefully, warily, she extended a hand, and wiggled her fingers into his dirty blond hair.
*My Queen, I am Clint Barton* he sent, spear to distaff, an official introduction to go with the psychic one.
*Natasha Romonov* she returned in the same fashion *What happens now?*
Clint chuckled softly. *Now, we return to my home village and you can watch me getting shouted at.*
Possessiveness and a desire to protect welled up in her, unexpectedly. *No*
*They will not disapprove of what I did, only the reckless manner I did it.*
*I like your recklessness* Natasha said thoughtfully.