Natasha Romanoff, a Red Room assassin, is hired to kill the glorious Captain America before he changes the world in all his star, spangled glory. However, as she gets closer and closer to her target, she begins to fall harder and harder for the man...
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Natasha Romanova never expected that she would come to like New York.
Well, she liked New York mornings, to be more specific.
She liked running through Central Park before the smell of pollution and the sounds of traffic filled the air. Her favorite spot to run was along the lake, to watch the sun glimmer on the water as it rose through the towering buildings to the city. The waters in New York were blue and if she looked close enough, she could see fish swimming by the shoreline. She liked the trees and the vivid colors of flowers she'd never seen before, the landscaping that contrasted significantly to Russia's grey, concrete gardens. She liked the soft breeze that blew across her face as she ran, the quietness of the park, and the wildlife that bustled about at dawn. It amazed her at how bold the squirrels and birds were, how she could jog right past them and they would hardly bat an eye at her. It amazed her at how trusting they were despite how terrible people could be...
How she could never be so trusting.
People were terrible and that was a fact.
The most terrible person of them all was Captain America, and she was supposed to be going on a 'date' with him that afternoon; that is if she didn't just throw her mission out the window and kill him as soon as she saw his stupid, handsome face. His face would look even better with his throat slit but that was for a later time. She would be lying if she said she didn't want to fuck him first. After all, didn't every girl want a taste of Steve Rogers? To see if his cock was a big as it was rumored to be?
Surely that super-serum left nothing untouched.
Even thinking of the vile man had her blood pumping, adrenaline coursing through her veins, and she glanced down at her watch as the seconds ticked by. If she kept up her pace, she would set a new personal best for her seven-mile. She forced herself faster, sweat dripping between the valley of her breasts and down her back, her legs aching and her stomach cramping. She thrived off the pain, the torment and the ache. She envisioned Madame B. in her head, screaming at her that it wasn't enough, that she would never be good enough if she was this slow, if she was this weak.
But she could be better, faster, and stronger.
She could be better for Madame B., for her handlers. For the Red Room. If she just pushed herself a little harder, she would be enough.
She wouldn't break.
However, she suddenly began to hope that she wouldn't break her face as the sidewalk began to come closer and closer. For a brief moment, she wondered what the hell she had tripped on, and then her hands scraped the sidewalk, rocks ground against her elbows, and she cussed as pain shot down her knees.
"What the hell is wrong with you man?" She heard a man shout, and then there were hands on her upper arms, and she bit her tongue to avoid punching whoever grabbed her. She quickly realized someone had tripped her and that someone was trying to help her up. She didn't need help, but she sure as hell needed to pick the gravel out of her knees.
