Chapter 12 - Misha #2
"It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen," she says, and her eyes glow in the candlelight. "This muscle that works every second of every day, keeping us alive without any conscious effort. That compensates and adapts and fights to survive even when we abuse it."
"You talk about hearts the way other people talk about art. Or music."
"Hearts are better than art. Art just hangs on walls. Hearts keep us alive."
"What made you choose cardiology?" I ask.
She's quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in her glass.
"I'm not sure there was one moment. The heart just..
. fascinated me. How it works, how it fails, how it can be fixed.
" She pauses. "My professor in first year said I had an instinct for it.
That some people understand the heart intuitively, and I was one of them. "
"And now?"
The question lands heavily. Her expression shifts—something closing off behind her eyes.
"Now I don't know if I'll ever finish my degree." Her voice is flat. "I'm supposed to be studying for clinical rotations. Instead I'm trapped in a gothic mansion, hiding from a man who thinks he owns me."
The words sting, even though they shouldn't. Even though they're true.
"You're not trapped," I say. "I told you—when this is over—"
"When this is over." She sets down her glass with more force than necessary. "And when will that be? When Sergei is dead? When every enemy you have is neutralized? In this world, is it ever really over?"
I don't answer. We both know the truth.
"I had a life," she says, and now there's heat in her voice. "A future. I was going to be a cardiac surgeon. I was going to save lives, Misha. And now I'm gardening in a dead woman's greenhouse because it's the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind."
"Bianca—"
"I'm not ungrateful." She cuts me off, her jaw tight. "I know what would have happened if you hadn't been at that auction. I know what Sergei would have done to me. But understanding that doesn't make this easier. It doesn't make me want this life."
The words hang between us. She's not wrong. She didn't choose any of this—not her father's betrayal, not the auction, not me. She's here because she has no other options, and pretending otherwise is a lie we've both been telling.
"I'm working on a way to get you back to school," I say quietly. "Security would be complicated, but it's not impossible. When Sergei is dealt with—"
"If."
"When." I hold her gaze. "I don't make promises I can't keep. When he's dealt with, you'll have options. Real ones. Not just the ones I've given you."
She stares at me for a long moment. Something flickers in her eyes—doubt, maybe. Or hope. I can't tell which.
"Why do you care?" she asks. "What I want. What happens to me after."
It's a dangerous question. The honest answer is more than I'm ready to give.
"Because you deserve better than this," I say. "Better than being sold, being trapped, being forced into a life you never wanted."
***
After dinner, I walk her toward the stairs.
It's not something I planned—it just happens, the two of us rising from the table at the same time, moving in the same direction, our footsteps falling into sync on the marble floor.
The hallway is dim, lit only by wall sconces that cast pools of amber light. The shadows between them feel thick, secretive. The kind of darkness that invites confession.
We stop at the bottom of the staircase—that threshold between public space and private. She has one hand on the banister, her face tilted up toward mine.
"Thank you," she says. "For today. For helping in the greenhouse. For dinner." She pauses. "Even if none of this is what I wanted."
"I know it isn't."
"Do you?" She searches my face. "Sometimes I can't tell if you see me as a person or a problem to be solved."
"You were never a problem."
"Then what am I?"
The question hangs in the air. I should step back. Should let her go upstairs alone, maintain the distance that keeps us both safe.
Instead, I reach out and touch her face. Just my fingertips, tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin is soft, warm, and she doesn't pull away.
But she doesn't lean in either. Her body is tense, her breath shallow. Conflicted.
"Misha," she whispers, and my name in her mouth sounds like a warning.
"I know." I drop my hand. "I'm sorry."
She doesn't say it's okay. We both know it isn't.
"I don't want to feel this," she says quietly. "Whatever this is. You bought me. You lied to me for four months, then disappeared for two years, and now I'm supposed to—what? Fall into your arms because you're the only option I have?"
"No." The word comes out rough. "That's not what I want."
"Then what do you want?"
I can't answer that. The truth is too much—too raw, too dangerous. Wanting her is one thing. Deserving her is another entirely.
"Go to bed, Bianca," I say instead. "Get some sleep."
She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she turns and climbs the stairs without looking back.
I watch her go—the rigid set of her shoulders, the way her hand grips the banister, the deliberate steadiness of her steps. She's angry. Confused. Fighting something she doesn't want to feel.
That makes two of us.
I stand alone in the hallway, the ghost of her skin still burning on my fingertips, and force myself to breathe.
I'm in trouble. Real trouble. The kind that doesn't come from enemies or threats, but from wanting something I'm not sure I can ever have.
She doesn't want this. Doesn't want me. She's here because she has no choice, and any connection between us is built on a foundation of coercion and lies.
I need to remember that. Need to keep my distance, protect her from Sergei, and then let her go back to the life she actually wants.
Even if letting her go might be the hardest thing I've ever done.
I turn away from the stairs and head back toward my office. There's work to be done—an extraction to plan, an enemy to destroy, a war to prepare for.
I've survived bullets and blades and seventeen years of blood. I've built an empire on violence and control and the absolute certainty that feeling nothing is the only way to stay alive.
But watching her walk away from me just now—that hurt more than any wound I've ever taken.
And I don't know what to do with that.