Her lips twitch a little at his expression, but it's brief. She's put him off his temper at least, and briefly she almost feels like herself. She's talented. She's good at putting people more powerful than herself off balance, avoiding their temper. The feeling is fleeting though; there were too many things about herself that she doesn't like for the reminder not to turn sour quickly.

She does follow his words though, even the foul language. She learned it what must have been the second most common way—whispering with her older classmates, sneaking some of the more risqué reading material from the library when their teachers weren't looking.

"Stubborn, too," she murmurs. Then Natasha sighs. She knows that she can't keep putting him off. Even if she managed to sidestep his anger once, he's not letting her escape giving him a meaningful answer. There's a moment of hesitation as she considers how much to say.

At least if they're overheard, the chances of eavesdroppers speaking Latin is fairly low. She says slowly, feeling out the words as she goes, "Before I was turned, I was KGB; before that, a war orphan. At some point I realized I didn't even recognize who I was when I didn't have blood on my hands, and I didn't much like who I was. This is a way to try to find out. Get a little control of my life."