He'd cuffed her to the bed, not that she would be going anywhere with the damage to her knee. She took comfort in the fact that he wouldn't be using that arm to draw his bow again anytime in the next month.

Her knee might heal up sooner than that, if she was lucky.

She didn't like to rely on luck.

The blizzard would let up sooner. She needed to have an escape plan by then.

He left painkillers by the side of the bed, plus a small pile of dressings for her to tend her knee. It seemed uncharacteristically considerate, for an American.

He didn't try to talk to her at all for the first day, nor the one after. She returned the favour. She had nothing to say to American assassins who botched their missions.

He'd chosen not to kill her. He wasn't the first. She was young and beautiful, and men always thought she had been forced into this line of work, that they could "save" her.

She did not botch her own missions.

This, she did not yet consider a failure. She had not been assigned to kill the American assassin, although now that he had seen her face, she would be expected to take care of the job.

He was obviously in contact with somebody. She heard him talking in English, too quiet to make out the words. She suspected his employers were not happy with him.

On the third day, he asked if she wanted to play cards. The cabin they had co-opted had a set, grimy and soft around the edges. She immediately memorised the pattern of wear around the high value cards.

It quickly became clear that he had done the same thing. She won, but only thanks to luck of the draw. He won the second round.

They played until night fell, neither managing to pull ahead of the other for long. As the room grew dark, he returned to his nest of blankets in the corner of the room.

"My mission was to kill you," he said, breaking the erstwhile silence of the fourth day.

"I know."

"I chose not to. I never miss."

She raised her eyebrows at him impatiently. "I know."

"I'm not going to appeal to your vanity. You know you're the best. I'm pretty great myself. I want you to join us."

So he wasn't just turned by her pretty face. He wasn't the first to do that, either. Asking her to join his organisation was unusual - usually they wanted her to run away with them.

"I'm not interested in working for the Americans," she said out loud.

"Think about it," he said. "The next person they send won't hesitate." It was not a threat.

He didn't speak to her again the rest of the day.

"What if I say no?" she asked, just after the sun rose.

"Then my employers will have lost the chance at a valuable asset," he said. "And you'll be dead."

"Why should I become an assassin for the Americans? You are no better than Russia."

"Maybe you'll get the chance to be more than just an assassin," he said. "That's what they did for me."

She just looked at him.

"Not now, obviously. I'm still the best damn sniper they've ever had and they know it."

Only the best for the Black Widow.

"And maybe sometimes they let you make your own call during a mission."

It was not his threats that changed her mind. There was still enough light in his eyes that she doubted he could kill her in cold blood, vulnerable and bound as she was.

She did not fear death. But the prospect of boredom, the futility of mission after mission, blood building up layer by layer on her hands, with nothing new to show for it - that, she feared.

She didn't doubt his words. His employers would send another assassin for her. And if she spotted that one, there would be another. And not just the Americans, there would be more assassins from every country that had dealings with her. The Black Widow had a reputation now.

Until now, the reputation was useful. But it was rapidly becoming a liability, and her employers had no use for liabilities.

"I'll come."