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Natasha looked at him incredulously. Anger swelled up from within like bile, and although she stayed quiet, the softness of her whiplash voice was more discomfiting than if she had chosen to yell.
“Дурак. Do you really think I had a choice? That if I had declined Barton’s offer, he would have just let me go on my merry way of killing all who interfered with the Red Room’s agenda? Or if I had somehow killed Clint or evaded death that my country would just allowed me to remember what had occurred? No, Loki—” Natasha bit off his name.
"I never had a choice. Not in the beginning and certainly not now. Death is not an option for me. It never has been." Her rage had not subsided completely—it never would, never could—but the Widow was composed. She was granted the satisfaction of seeing Loki swallow hard and unconsciously rub his wrist. If Natasha had been a different person, she would have laughed. For all of his talk of ruling the world and putting her in her place, the god’s bark was far worse than his bite.
“You know nothing of true tragedy. Nothing of loss, of ruin.” She circled around him—they had done a full reversal. She was now predator; he was now prey. Of course, the Widow had been the predator the whole time. Wolves and girls both had sharp teeth, and none knew that better than the spy. She knew from the moment Loki set eyes on her that he wouldn’t see her as a threat, but merely an admittedly beautiful woman making play she, too, belonged in the big leagues with the men. Natasha lived for twisting men’s assumptions of her and weaponizing them. Their ignorance proved to be their undoing. The same was true for Loki—he wasn’t a human, but he was still a man. A man she could use and hurt, the same way he’d tried to hurt her.
"Did you really believe that I wouldn’t guess that you would force Clint to tell you everything he knows about us? It’s only common sense." She sat in the chair opposite of him, giving him a wolfish smile. "I would do the same. In fact," she said; syrupy sweet, turning to gaze at Thor and looking back at Loki. "Who says I haven’t?"
Loki snarled and gripped the arms of his chair, his white knuckles a stark relief to the black pleather. “My brother would never—”
"Maybe he wouldn’t have before you tried to kill him with the…what was it he called it? The Destroyer." Loki said nothing, but that didn't matter. Natasha had already gotten under his skin. She gave him an exaggerated bow, spreading her arms out wide as if to show her subservience.
"Thank you for your cooperation." The poor fool. He'd never stood a chance.