Artemis : The Seventh Avenger ➳ Steve Rogers [1]

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☆ ☆ ☆

"Why do you keep doing this to me?" I asked in frustration, wincing as Strucker tightened the bounds around my wrist.

"I shouldn't have to," He starts, fixing me with a sly grin, "But you keep trying to escape."

"Well, I'm not overly fond of being kept prisoner." I retort.

"You're not a prisoner, dear girl." He says running his hand along my face, "No, you're much more important than that."

"Oh, really? Doesn't really feel like it." I say.

"You've still got a smart mouth, don't you?" He laughs.

I scoff, "Go to hell."

I swung my head forward to hit him in the nose, making him reel back in pain.

"You little bitch." He wipes the blood from his nose and chuckles, "You never fail to impress me, Artemis. Most people never even make it this far, let alone still have the will to fight."

To my confusion, he pulls up a chair to sit in front of me. No tests? I feel the panic rise in me at the sudden change, but I keep my face as stoic as possible.

"Let's try something different today, Artemis." He says, leaning back in his chair, "I want to know where S.H.I.E.L.D keeps their weapons."

"You know, I can't seem to remember." I shrug, "Must be the tests affecting my memory."

He hums thoughtfully at that,"Remember, my dear. I didn't want to have to do this."

Strucker gets up from his seat, moving over to a tray set in the corner and picks up a thin blade.

"But you leave me no choice." He mutters, before going to work.

I bite back a scream as he digs the blade under my nail. Taking deep breaths I try to distract myself but failed as he twists the blade deeper.

***

"Camille!"

I feel someone shake me awake. I sat up in my bed, gasping for air, only to see Steve staring at me with worried eyes.

"Are you okay?" He asks, taking a seat at the edge of the bed.

I run a hand over my face to calm myself down before nodding.

"Just a bad dream, that's all." I answer.

Steve furrows his brows at me, "They're not just dreams, are they?"

I stay silent, not knowing what to say. He was right, they weren't. They were memories that I've been re-living.

I stare at my nails, where a deep scar is hidden right under each of them.

"He can't hurt you anymore." Steve says, placing a hand on my shoulder, "Strucker's dead."

"Then why do I not feel like I'm in any less danger than I was before?" I muttered, mostly to myself.