Velvet Restraints

The first thing I notice when I walk into our apartment is that the air smells like leather and Yelena's perfume, which is a combination that has never once meant anything good for my ability to form coherent sentences.

"Kate Bishop." Her voice drifts from the bedroom, and I can hear the smile in it, the one she gets when she's been planning something. "You're late."

I'm not late. I'm seven minutes early. I know this because I checked my phone three times on the walk up the stairs, partly to see the time, partly to avoid looking at the elderly neighbor who always wants to discuss her cat's dietary restrictions. But Yelena doesn't care about clocks. She cares about the fact that I stopped at the bodega for those sour gummy worms she likes, the ones that make her scrunch her nose when she eats them.

"I brought snacks," I say, dropping my bag by the door and toeing off my sneakers. One of them lands on the mat. The other bounces off the wall and ends up under the coat rack. I'll deal with that later.

"I don't want snacks."

"You literally ate an entire bag of those yesterday and told me they were the only thing keeping you alive."

"That was yesterday." The bedroom door opens, and Yelena steps out wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and a pair of black thigh-high socks, and I forget how words work. Her hair is down, which means she didn't have work today, which means she's been home alone for hours, which means she's had time to think. That's always dangerous.

"You're staring," she says.

"You're standing there looking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're trying to kill me."

She laughs, that low, warm sound that starts somewhere in her chest and ends somewhere in mine. "If I wanted to kill you, Kate Bishop, you would not see it coming. This is something else."

I hang my jacket on the hook by the door, mostly because I need something to do with my hands. My fingers are already tingling, that electric feeling I get whenever she looks at me like this. Like I'm a puzzle she's already solved and she's just deciding which piece to take out first.

"What's something else?" I ask.

"Come here."

I go. Of course I go. I've never been able to do anything else when she uses that voice, the one that's half invitation and half command. She's shorter than me by a few inches, which she hates and I love, and when I stop in front of her, she has to tilt her head up to meet my eyes. That tilt does something to me. It always has.

She reaches up and hooks her fingers through the collar of my shirt, pulling me down until our foreheads touch. Her breath is warm against my mouth. She smells like vanilla and something sharper underneath, like the gunpowder residue that never quite washes out of her skin.

"I've been thinking," she says.

"Dangerous."

"Shut up." But she's smiling. "I've been thinking about what you said last week. About wanting to try things."

My face goes hot. Last week, in the dark, after two glasses of wine and a lot of courage I'd borrowed from the bottle, I'd told her something I'd never told anyone. Something that had been sitting in my chest for years, heavy and secret and a little bit shameful. She'd listened. She hadn't laughed. She'd kissed my forehead and said we'd talk about it later.

Apparently, later is now.

"You're blushing," she says.

"I'm not."

"You are. Your whole face is red. It's adorable."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." She releases my collar and steps back, and the loss of her warmth is almost physical. "Go shower. When you come out, we're going to have a conversation."

"A conversation."

"Mhm."

"About the thing."

"About the thing." She turns and walks toward the kitchen, and I watch the way the hoodie rides up her thighs, the way those socks hug her calves. She knows I'm watching. She always knows. "You have fifteen minutes, Kate Bishop. Don't make me wait."

I take the fastest shower of my life. I don't even condition my hair properly. I just stand under the water and try to calm my heart rate, which is currently somewhere in the range of a hummingbird on methamphetamine. The thing. The thing I told her. I can't believe she remembered. I can't believe she wants to talk about it. I can't believe I'm standing here in my own shower, water streaming down my face, getting half-hard just thinking about what that conversation might entail.

When I come out, wrapped in a towel and dripping on the floor, she's sitting on the edge of our bed with her legs crossed and a small black box in her lap. The box is about the size of a paperback. It has a magnetic clasp that she's been fiddling with, opening and closing it with her thumb.

"Sit," she says, patting the mattress beside her.

I sit. The towel is not doing much for my modesty.

"So," she says. "You told me you wanted me to tie you up."

I swallow. "Yeah."

"You told me you wanted me to be in charge."

"Yeah."

"You told me you wanted me to..." She pauses, tilting her head. "What was the phrase you used? Make you feel small?"

The words hit me somewhere low in my stomach. I'd been drunk when I said it. I'd been half-asleep, my face pressed into her shoulder, and the words had just fallen out of me like they'd been waiting for the right moment. I'd hoped she'd forget. I'd hoped she'd pretend I hadn't said anything.

But Yelena doesn't forget anything. And she never pretends.

"I remember," I say.

"Good." She opens the box. Inside, nestled in black foam, are four lengths of rope. They're dark purple, almost black in the low light, and they look soft. Expensive. The kind of rope that doesn't leave marks unless you want it to. "I bought these yesterday. After you left for work."

"You bought rope."

"I bought rope." She runs her fingers over one of the coils, and I watch her hands, those hands that can field-strip a rifle in under thirty seconds, moving gentle and slow over the braided cord. "I also did some research. There's a lot of information online. Some of it is terrible. Some of it is useful."

"You researched how to tie me up."

"I researched how to do it safely." She looks at me then, really looks at me, and her eyes are serious in a way they rarely are. Yelena is all jokes and sharp edges most of the time, but underneath that, she's the most careful person I've ever met. She notices everything. She remembers everything. She would never hurt me. Not really. "Because if we're going to do this, Kate Bishop, we're going to do it right."

My throat is tight. "Okay."

"Okay." She sets the box aside and turns to face me fully, tucking one leg under her. "But before we do anything, I need you to tell me what you want. Not what you think you should want. Not what you think I want to hear. What you actually want."

I stare at her. The towel is slipping. I don't care.

"I want you to take control," I say. "I want to not have to think. I want to just... be. For a while. I want to feel like I'm yours."

"You're already mine."

"I know. But I want to feel it. Physically. I want to look at myself and see marks and know they came from you. I want to be so deep in it that I forget where I end and you begin." The words are coming faster now, tumbling out of me like water through a broken dam. "I want you to tell me what to do and I want to do it. I want to be good for you. I want to be so good for you that you can't stand it."

Yelena is quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches out and cups my face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over my cheekbones.

"You're already good for me," she says. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I've had a very strange life, so that's saying something."

"Yelena."

"I'm serious." She leans in and kisses me, soft and slow, and I melt into it, my hands coming up to grip her wrists. She pulls back just enough to speak against my mouth. "But I want to give you what you need. I want to take you apart. I want to make you feel so good you forget your own name."

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Please do it. Please. I want it."

She smiles, and it's not her usual smirk. It's something softer. Something that makes my chest ache.

"Lie down," she says. "On your stomach. Hands above your head."

I obey without thinking. The towel comes loose as I move, and I don't bother to fix it. I just stretch out on the bed, my arms extended, my face turned to the side so I can watch her. She stands up and walks around to the head of the bed, and I hear the soft whisper of rope being uncoiled.

"I'm going to tie your wrists first," she says. "Not too tight. If anything feels wrong, you tell me. If you need to stop, you say 'red.' Do you understand?"

"Red. Got it."

"Good girl."

The words go through me like a current. I feel my hips twitch against the mattress, and I hear her soft laugh.

"You liked that."

"Yeah."

"I'll remember that." She takes my left wrist and loops the rope around it, her movements careful and deliberate. The cord is soft against my skin, and she checks the tension with two fingers, making sure it's not too tight. Then she does the right wrist, and I feel the slack being taken up, my arms pulled gently toward the headboard. She ties the ends off somewhere I can't see, and when she's done, I test the give. There's almost none.

"How does that feel?" she asks.

"Good. Really good."

"Not too tight?"

"No. It's perfect."

She comes back around to the side of the bed and sits beside me, her hand resting on my lower back. I can feel the heat of her palm through the thin cotton of the towel, and I shiver.

"You're so responsive," she says. "I've always loved that about you. The way you react to everything. The way your skin flushes when I touch you."

"I can't help it."

"I know. That's what makes it beautiful." Her hand slides down, over the curve of my ass, and I feel her fingers hook under the edge of the towel. "I'm going to take this off now. Is that okay?"

"Yes."

She pulls the towel away and tosses it somewhere on the floor. I'm naked now, completely exposed, my arms stretched above me and my legs free. I could close my legs. I could hide. But I don't want to. I want her to see everything.

"You're gorgeous," she says. "Do you know that? You're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen."

"Yelena."

"I'm serious. Every time I look at you, I forget how to breathe." She runs her hand down my spine, light as a feather, and I arch into the touch. "I'm going to touch you now. Everywhere. And you're going to lie there and take it."

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, Yelena."

"Good girl."

There it is again. That phrase. It lights me up from the inside, and I feel my thighs press together, seeking friction. She notices.

"None of that," she says, and her hand comes down on my ass in a sharp slap. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make me gasp. "You don't get to chase your own pleasure tonight. You get what I give you. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Yelena."

"Better." She rubs the spot she slapped, soothing the sting, and I feel my eyes flutter closed. "Keep them open. I want you to watch me."

I force my eyes open and turn my head so I can see her. She's still wearing the hoodie and the socks, and there's something about that, about her being fully clothed while I'm naked and bound, that makes me feel vulnerable in the best possible way. She's in control. She's always in control, but now it's official. Now it's real.

She starts at my shoulders, kneading the tension out of the muscles there with strong, sure fingers. I didn't realize how tense I was until she starts working it loose. Her thumbs press into the knots along my spine, and I make a sound that's somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

"You carry so much tension," she says. "Always running around, always trying to prove something. You don't have to prove anything to me, Kate Bishop. You never did."

"I know."

"Do you? Because sometimes I think you forget." She works her way down my back, her hands firm and warm, and I feel myself sinking into the mattress, my body going loose and heavy. "You're always trying to be enough. For your mom, for your friends, for me. But you don't have to try. You just are."

"Yelena..."

"Shh. Let me take care of you."

She spends a long time on my back, working out knots I didn't know I had, and by the time she's done, I'm practically liquid. I've stopped trying to watch her, my eyes closed, my face pressed into the pillow, my arms slack in their bonds. I feel safe. I feel held. I feel like nothing bad could ever happen to me as long as she's here.

"Turn over," she says.

I blink, confused. "I can't. My hands."

"I'll help you."

She unties my wrists, and I immediately miss the rope, but she's already guiding me onto my back, arranging my arms above my head again. She reties them in seconds, faster this time, like she's been practicing. Maybe she has. The thought makes me warm.

"There," she says. "Now I can see your face."

I look up at her, and she's smiling down at me, and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Not sad tears. Just... overwhelmed. She's so beautiful. She's so good to me. I don't deserve her, but I'm going to keep her anyway.

"Hey," she says, her thumb brushing away a tear that escaped. "You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just... happy."

"Good." She leans down and kisses me, deep and slow, her tongue sliding against mine. I moan into her mouth, and she swallows the sound, her hand coming up to cup my jaw. When she pulls back, I'm breathless. "I'm going to make you feel even better. Okay?"

"Okay."

She starts at my neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there, and I tilt my head back to give her better access. She takes advantage, her lips trailing down to my collarbone, her teeth grazing just enough to make me shudder. She knows exactly where I'm sensitive. She's mapped my body like a cartographer, and she knows every inch of the terrain.

"You have the most beautiful neck," she murmurs against my skin. "I could spend hours here."

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Please don't stop."

She doesn't. She works her way down, kissing across my chest, pausing to flick her tongue over one nipple and then the other. I arch into her mouth, and she pins my hips to the bed with one hand, holding me still.

"Stay," she says.

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

I try harder. I lie still while she tortures me with her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. She's relentless, switching between soft and rough, never letting me get used to anything. By the time she reaches my stomach, I'm trembling, my hands clenched into fists above my head.

"Please," I say again. "Yelena, please."

"Please what? Tell me what you want."

"I want you to touch me. Please. I need it."

"Where?"

"You know where."

"Say it."

I swallow hard. "I want you to touch my pussy. Please. I want your fingers inside me."

She smiles, slow and wicked. "Good girl."

Her hand slides down, between my legs, and I gasp at the first touch. She's gentle at first, just her fingertips, tracing the outline of me without pressing in. I'm so wet already. I've been wet since she said "good girl" the first time. She could probably slide two fingers in without any resistance at all.

"You're soaked," she says. "Is this all for me?"

"All for you. Always for you."

"I know." She circles my clit with her thumb, light pressure, and I buck against her hand. "You're so easy for me, Kate Bishop. I barely have to touch you and you're falling apart."

"I can't help it. You do this to me."

"I know I do." She slides one finger inside me, just to the first knuckle, and I whimper. "You're so tight. When was the last time I fucked you?"

"Three days ago."

"Three days. That's too long." She pushes in deeper, and I moan, my hips lifting off the bed. "I should fuck you every day. Keep you satisfied. Keep you mine."

"Please."

She adds a second finger, curling them inside me, finding that spot that makes my vision go white. I cry out, and she claps her other hand over my mouth.

"Shh," she says. "The neighbors."

I don't care about the neighbors. I don't care about anything except her fingers inside me and her thumb on my clit and the way she's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world. She moves her hand from my mouth to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of who's in charge.

"You like that," she says. "You like being held down."

"Yes."

"You like being told what to do."

"Yes."

"You like being my good girl."

"Yes. God, yes."

She fucks me harder, her fingers pumping in and out, her thumb pressing down on my clit. I'm close already, embarrassingly close, but I don't want it to end. I want to stay here forever, suspended in this moment, her hands on my body and her voice in my ear.

"Don't come yet," she says.

I whimper. "Yelena, please."

"Not yet. I'm not done with you."

She pulls her fingers out, and I actually sob, the loss is so acute. She laughs, soft and cruel, and brings her fingers to my mouth.

"Taste yourself," she says.

I open my mouth and she slides her fingers in, and I suck them clean, tasting my own salt and something else, something that's just her. She watches me with dark eyes, and when I'm done, she leans down and kisses me, tasting herself on my tongue.

"You're so good," she says. "You're so good for me."

"I want to be good. I want to be perfect."

"You are perfect. You're perfect and you're mine and I'm never letting you go."

She shifts down the bed, settling between my legs, and I know what's coming. I've been waiting for it. She hooks her arms under my thighs and pulls me closer, and then her mouth is on me, hot and wet and perfect.

I scream. I can't help it. She's always been good at this, but tonight she's relentless, her tongue lapping at me like she's been starving for it. She fucks me with her tongue, her nose pressing against my clit, and I grind against her face, all thoughts of staying still forgotten.

"Yelena," I gasp. "Yelena, please, I'm going to come."

She doesn't stop. She doesn't even slow down. She just keeps going, her tongue working me over, and I shatter, my whole body convulsing, my vision going white, my mouth open in a silent scream. She works me through it, gentler now, until I'm boneless and shaking and tears are streaming down my face.

When she finally pulls back, her chin is slick and she's grinning like she's won something.

"How was that?" she asks.

"I can't feel my legs."

"Good."

She crawls up my body and unties my wrists, and I immediately wrap my arms around her, pulling her close. She's still wearing the hoodie, and I bury my face in it, breathing her in.

"I love you," I say.

"I love you too." She strokes my hair, her fingers gentle in the tangles. "Was that okay? Was it what you wanted?"

"It was better than what I wanted. It was perfect."

"Good." She kisses the top of my head. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

I lift my head to look at her. "What?"

"I said I'm not done." She's smiling, that wicked smile, and I feel my stomach flip. "I tied you up. I made you come. But I haven't given you what you really need."

"What do you mean?"

She reaches over to the black box and pulls out something I didn't notice before. A strap-on. Black, sleek, with a harness that looks complicated and intimidating and incredibly hot.

"I mean," she says, "that I'm going to fuck you now. Really fuck you. Until you can't remember your own name. Until the only thing you know is me."

I stare at her. My mouth is dry. My heart is pounding.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, Yelena. Please fuck me."

She smiles. "Good girl."

And she does.

She does for hours. She fucks me in every position she can think of, her hands on my hips and her voice in my ear, telling me how good I am, how beautiful, how perfect. She fucks me until I'm hoarse from screaming, until my legs won't hold me up, until I've come so many times I've lost count. She fucks me until I'm nothing but sensation, nothing but her.

And when it's over, when we're both exhausted and sweaty and tangled together in the sheets, she holds me. She holds me and strokes my hair and tells me she loves me, and I believe her. I believe her more than I've ever believed anything.

"I want to do that again," I say, my voice muffled against her chest.

"We will." She kisses my forehead. "We have all the time in the world."

I smile. I'm sore and tired and happier than I've ever been. And I know, with absolute certainty, that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

In her arms.

Mine.

The next morning, I wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Yelena cursing in Russian.

I stretch, wincing at the ache in my thighs, and roll over to find her standing at the foot of the bed, holding a mug and glaring at her phone.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

"You're cursing in Russian. That's never nothing."

She looks at me, and her expression softens. She sets the mug on the nightstand and climbs back into bed, curling up against my side.

"I got a text from work," she says. "They need me to come in today."

"On a Saturday?"

"Apparently there's an emergency." She makes a face. "I told them I couldn't. I told them I had plans."

"You don't have plans."

"I have plans with you." She pokes my ribs. "That counts."

I laugh and pull her closer. "It's okay. Go. I'll be here when you get back."

"You better be." She kisses me, slow and sweet, and I melt into it. When she pulls back, her eyes are serious. "Last night was... a lot. Are you okay? Do you need to talk about anything?"

"I'm more than okay." I brush a strand of hair out of her face. "I feel... good. Really good. Like something clicked into place."

"Good." She nods, satisfied. "Because I meant what I said. I'm not letting you go."

"I don't want you to."

She smiles, and it's the real smile, the one she only gives me. "I'll be back by dinner. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"No promises."

She kisses me again, then gets up and starts getting dressed. I watch her, lazy and content, and I think about how lucky I am. How lucky I've always been, even when I didn't know it.

She's halfway out the door when she turns back.

"Oh, and Kate Bishop?"

"Yeah?"

"I left something for you in the box. Under the rope."

She's gone before I can ask what she means.

I get up, ignoring the ache in my muscles, and walk over to the black box on the dresser. I lift out the coils of rope, and underneath, nestled in the foam, is a small velvet pouch. I open it and pour the contents into my palm.

A collar. Black leather, soft and supple, with a small silver ring at the front. It's beautiful. It's perfect. It's exactly what I didn't know I wanted.

There's a note tucked into the pouch, written in Yelena's messy handwriting.

For when you're ready. No pressure. Just know that I want this. I want you. All of you. Always.

I stand there for a long time, holding the collar in my hand, feeling the weight of it. It's not heavy. It's not a burden. It's a promise. A promise that she'll take care of me. A promise that I belong to her.

I put it back in the pouch and tuck it into my nightstand drawer, next to the book I've been reading and the spare charger I never use. It's not time yet. But it will be. Soon.

I can feel it.

That night, when Yelena comes home, I'm waiting for her. I've made dinner (pasta, because it's the only thing I can't mess up) and I've set the table and I've put on the dress she likes, the one that makes her eyes go dark.

She walks in, tired and rumpled, and stops dead when she sees me.

"What's this?" she asks.

"I wanted to do something nice for you. For once."

She smiles, and it's the real smile again. "You don't have to do anything nice for me. You're already the nicest thing in my life."

"That's cheesy."

"I know. I'm tired. I'm allowed to be cheesy."

I walk over and wrap my arms around her, and she sinks into me, her face pressed against my neck. She smells like gunpowder and sweat and something else, something metallic. Blood, maybe. I don't ask. I never ask.

"I missed you," I say.

"I missed you too." She pulls back and looks at me, her eyes searching. "Did you think about it? The collar?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And I'm not ready yet. But I will be. Soon."

She nods, like she expected that. "Good. That's good. I don't want to rush you."

"You're not rushing me. I just... I want it to be right. When it happens."

"It will be." She kisses me, soft and sweet. "It'll be perfect. Because you're perfect."

"I'm not."

"You are to me."

I take her hand and lead her to the table, and we eat dinner and talk about nothing and everything. She tells me about her day (classified, mostly, but I gather there was a chase and a lot of running) and I tell her about mine (uneventful, mostly, but I did finally finish that book). We laugh. We argue about whether pineapple belongs on pizza (it does, and she's wrong). We fall into bed together, too tired for anything but holding each other, and I fall asleep with her heartbeat against my ear.

And I dream.

I dream about the collar, about what it will mean when I finally put it on. I dream about belonging to her completely, about giving her everything I have and trusting her to keep it safe. I dream about the look on her face when I kneel in front of her and offer her my wrists, my throat, my whole self.

I wake up hard and aching and wanting.

She's still asleep beside me, her face relaxed in a way it never is when she's awake. I watch her for a while, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her eyelashes, the way her lips part slightly as she breathes. She's so beautiful. She's so strong. She's everything I never knew I needed.

I slip out of bed and go to the nightstand, pulling out the pouch. The collar is cool in my hand. I hold it for a moment, feeling the weight of it, then put it back. Not yet. But soon.

I crawl back into bed and curl up against her, and she mumbles something in her sleep and wraps an arm around me. I close my eyes and let myself drift, safe in the knowledge that when I wake up, she'll still be here.

She'll always be here.

Because she's mine.

And I'm hers.

The next few weeks are a blur of work and sex and quiet moments in between. Yelena gets called away for a mission (she doesn't tell me where, and I don't ask) and I spend three days missing her so badly it hurts. When she comes back, bruised and exhausted, I hold her for an hour without saying anything. Sometimes that's all she needs. Sometimes that's all either of us needs.

We talk about the collar, a little. Not directly, but around it. She asks me what I'm afraid of, and I tell her I'm afraid of losing myself. She asks me what I'm excited about, and I tell her I'm excited about belonging to her. She kisses me and tells me that's the right answer.

"You won't lose yourself," she says. "You'll just... find a different version of yourself. The version that's been waiting to come out."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've seen it. In the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. In the way you melt when I tell you what to do. You've been waiting for this your whole life, Kate Bishop. You just didn't know it."

She's right. She's always right.

And then, one night, when we're lying in bed and the city lights are painting shadows on the ceiling, I tell her I'm ready.

She doesn't say anything at first. She just turns to look at me, her eyes searching my face for something. Whatever she finds, it makes her smile.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

"I'm sure."

"Because once we do this, it's real. It's not a game. It's not just for fun. It's a commitment."

"I know."

"And you're okay with that?"

"I'm more than okay." I reach out and take her hand. "I want this. I want you. I want to be yours. Completely."

She squeezes my hand, hard. "Then tomorrow. We'll do it tomorrow."

"Why not tonight?"

"Because I want to do it right. I want to make it special. I want to give you something you'll remember forever."

I laugh. "You already give me something I'll remember forever. Every day."

"I know. But this is different." She leans in and kisses me, slow and deep. "This is forever."

I don't sleep much that night. I'm too nervous, too excited, too everything. Yelena sleeps like a rock, her arm thrown over my waist, and I lie there in the dark and think about what tomorrow will bring.

Tomorrow, I'll kneel in front of her.

Tomorrow, I'll offer her my wrists.

Tomorrow, she'll put the collar around my neck.

And I'll be hers.

Forever.

The next evening, she comes home with a box. Not the black box, a different one. Smaller. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Something for you." She hands it to me. "Open it."

I untie the string and peel back the paper. Inside is a dress. Black velvet, sleeveless, with a low back and a hem that hits just above the knee. It's beautiful. It's exactly my style.

"Do you like it?" she asks.

"I love it. But what's it for?"

"For tonight." She smiles. "I want you to wear it. And nothing else."

I shower and shave and put on the dress, and when I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. I look... different. Older, maybe. More sure of myself. Like I've grown into my own skin.

Yelena is waiting for me in the living room. She's wearing a suit, which is something she almost never does, and she looks so good it makes my chest hurt. Black jacket, black pants, white shirt with the top button undone. Her hair is down. Her eyes are dark.

"You look beautiful," she says.

"So do you."

"I know." She smirks, and I laugh, and the tension breaks just a little. She crosses the room and takes my hand. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready."

She leads me to the bedroom. The lights are low, and there are candles on the nightstand, which is so cheesy and so sweet that I almost cry. The black box is on the bed, open, the collar resting on top of the rope.

"Sit," she says, and I sit on the edge of the bed.

She stands in front of me, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. Then she reaches out and cups my face in her hands.

"I want you to know," she says, "that this doesn't change anything. You're still you. You're still strong and brave and stubborn and beautiful. This is just... a reminder. A reminder of who you belong to."

"I know."

"Good." She picks up the collar and holds it in front of me. "Last chance to back out."

"I'm not backing out."

"Okay." She takes a breath. "Then kneel."

I slide off the bed and onto my knees. The carpet is soft beneath me, and I rest my hands on my thighs, my back straight, my head bowed. I can feel her looking at me, and I shiver.

"Look at me," she says.

I lift my head. She's holding the collar, and her hands are steady. She's not nervous. She's not uncertain. She's sure.

"I'm going to put this on you now," she says. "And when I do, you're going to be mine. Completely. Forever. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good girl."

She steps forward and wraps the collar around my throat. It's soft and warm from her hands, and it fits perfectly. She fastens the buckle, and I hear the click of the latch, and something inside me clicks too. Something that's been waiting for this moment my whole life.

"How does it feel?" she asks.

"Perfect." My voice is hoarse. "It feels perfect."

She tilts my chin up and kisses me, soft and sweet, and I melt into it. When she pulls back, she's smiling.

"Welcome home," she says.

And I am. I'm home. I'm hers. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Forever.

That night, she makes love to me. Not fucks. Makes love. Slow and gentle and tender, her hands on my body like I'm something precious. She kisses every inch of me, the collar a constant reminder of who I belong to, and when I finally come, it's with her name on my lips.

Afterward, we lie in bed, tangled together, and she traces patterns on my skin.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

"I feel... whole. Like I've been waiting for this my whole life and I didn't even know it."

"Good." She kisses my shoulder. "That's how I feel too."

We lie there in silence for a while, and I think about the future. About all the nights we'll spend like this, all the mornings we'll wake up together, all the moments we'll share. It's not always going to be easy. She's still an assassin, and I'm still a vigilante, and the world is still a mess. But we have each other. We have this.

And that's enough.

That's everything.

"Yelena?" I say.

"Mmm?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Kate Bishop." She yawns. "Now go to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?"

"Whatever we want." She wraps her arm around me and pulls me close. "Whatever we want."

I close my eyes and let myself drift, the collar warm against my throat, her heartbeat steady against my back.

And I smile.

Because I'm hers.

And she's mine.

And nothing has ever felt more right.