Dancing in Her Webs | Yelena Belova [1]

Chapter 18

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  After Irina confronted her father in the Columbia University Medical Centre —after the Leipzig-Halle battle and being informed about Rhodey's injuries and, at the time, his current state— she never in a million years imagined the outcome of fleeing America with Nat would be this: standing in the infamous Red Room, lip-locked with Natasha's sister in the Red Room.

  Irina found it rather embarrassing that at 20-years-old she's sharing her first kiss. But it's not with some random person or fling, it's with someone she wholeheartedly trusted, despite her and Yelena's short time in knowing one another —it felt right. Her arms around Lane's neck, tangling her fingers in her ponytails, and Lane's hands on her lower and mid-back, holding her gently.

Their bodies moulded perfectly and their lips fit like the remaining pieces of a puzzle that create something beautiful.

It took every ounce of restraint and control she had to stop their lip-locking. Irene didn't want to, but she had to —they're not safe. Not while Dreykov still breathed and controlled all Widows in the facility.

  She already longed for the taste of Yelena's lips again as she pulled back, deep brown eyes still closed as she smiled. "I knew it." Irina snapped her gaze to Yelena, saying a sharp and shocked "what". "I knew you would break."

  "You knew, and you've been teasing me this whole time?!" Irina exclaimed.

  "Yes. I could have kissed you a long time ago," Yelena shrugged nonchalant.

  "Now that's just plain mean. Like, straight up," Irina inched back and Yelena matched it, going forward, "in bold, capital letters, mean." She took another step back —this one bigger— and Yelena covered it again, still holding her, both hands slipping to the small of Irina's back.

Yelena only smirked as she left Irina's side. She knelt in front of the vials enclosed in glass doors and opened it, retrieving them. She put her hand up to her ear, reactivating the earpiece, and informed, "Melina, we found the location of the vials." She met Irene's gaze, "Come on."

And Irene nodded, immediately following after the Widow, the two women sprinting out of Cold Storage and through the corridors. "What did she say? Has she activated the landing protocol yet?"

Rounding the upcoming corner, Yelena said, "She didn't say," then stopped in her tracks, frozen.

Irina bumped into her, hissing as the blonde-woman's padded elbow came into her small scalpel stab wound. "Ouch, hey! Why are we—" the question died. At the end of the corridor, two guards —in the same armour and gripping the same rifle as the one Yelena knocked out— stood, alerted by Irina's outburst. Her face fell. "Oh . . ."

"You had to talk."

"I didn't know," Irina whispered back. The large, armoured Russian guards aimed their rifles.

"Stoy (stop)!"

"Ne dvigaysya (don't move)!"

Irina followed Yelena's movements, lifting her hands up in surrender. She side-eyed Lane, heart pumping faster the closer the guards came, but Lane kept her impenetrable and threatening gaze on them. "Yelena Belova," one called, removing his left-hand from his rifle, and held it out, palm up, "pereday flakony (hand over the vials)."