Chapter 16 - Misha
The rain stopped hours ago, replaced by a silence so deep I can hear her breathing. Soft, steady, the rhythm of someone who feels safe enough to let go completely. She's curled against my side, her head on my chest, one hand splayed over my heart like she's measuring its beats.
I've been watching her for hours. Counting the rise and fall of her ribs.
Tracing the curve of her shoulder with my eyes, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hip beneath the tangled sheets.
Memorizing her the way I memorize threat assessments—methodically, obsessively, as if my life depends on it.
Maybe it does.
The first light of dawn is creeping through the windows, gray and tentative. I should wake her. Should extract myself from this bed and return to the world of security briefings and enemy movements and all the violence that defines my existence.
But I can't make myself move.
She's here. In my bed. Her skin warm against mine, her scent on my pillows, evidence of what we did last night written in the marks on my shoulders where her nails dug in. This isn't a dream. It's real.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
I've had women before. Plenty of them—convenient arrangements, mutual transactions, bodies in the dark that meant nothing when the sun came up. I learned early that attachment was a vulnerability, that caring for someone gave your enemies a weapon to use against you.
So I stopped caring. Stopped feeling. Became the man my family needed me to be—cold, controlled, capable of violence without remorse.
And then I met her. And everything I thought I knew about myself turned out to be a lie.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
Bianca stirs, making a soft sound of protest, and I hold my breath until she settles. Carefully, slowly, I reach for the phone and silence it.
Alexei. Of course.
I should answer. Should find out what's happening in the world I've been ignoring since I carried her up these stairs.
But I give myself one more minute. One more minute of watching her sleep, of pretending we're just two people who found each other instead of a killer and the woman he bought at an auction.
One more minute of pretending I deserve this.
Then I ease out from under her, moving slowly so I don't wake her, and pad barefoot across the cold floor to the window. I call Alexei back.
"I've been trying to reach you for six hours," he says without preamble.
"I was occupied."
A pause. Alexei is too professional to comment, but I can feel his curiosity through the phone.
"The Nevada situation?" I ask.
"Clean. The women are at the safe house. Medical team has assessed them—some will need long-term care, but they're alive. Mirella asked about you specifically. Wanted to thank whoever was responsible."
Something loosens in my chest. I didn't realize I was holding that tension until it released. "Good. What else?"
"Sergei."
The name lands like a blade.
"What about him?"
"He left Seattle two days ago. We tracked him to Portland, then lost him." Alexei's voice is grim. "He could be anywhere by now. Our sources are working on reacquiring him, but—"
"He's coming here."
"Most likely. He's been gathering allies, building resources. Whatever he's planning, it's almost ready."
I stare out the window at the gray morning, the wet grounds, the guards patrolling the perimeter. All of it suddenly feels inadequate. Fragile.
"Double the patrols. I want eyes on every approach, every possible breach point. And reach out to our contacts in the city—anyone who might have heard whispers about Morozov movements."
"Already done. Dmitri is sending another team—they should arrive by tonight."
"Good."
"Misha." Alexei hesitates. "There's something else. Carmine Benedetti has been making noise. Apparently Sergei is pressuring him for information about the estate's security. Carmine's scared—he might talk."
"Then make sure he doesn't."
"Understood."
I end the call and stand there, the phone heavy in my hand, the weight of responsibility settling back onto my shoulders. For a few hours, I forgot. Forgot who I am, what I've done, the enemies circling like wolves.
Bianca reminded me what it felt like to be human.
But I can't afford to be human right now. I need to be the monster.
"Bad news?"
I turn. She's awake, sitting up in bed, the sheet pooled around her waist. Her hair is tangled, her lips swollen from my kisses, and there's a mark on her neck that I don't remember leaving. She looks thoroughly debauched.
She looks perfect.
"Sergei is on the move," I say. "We lost track of him two days ago."
She absorbs this without visible panic. Her face goes still, thoughtful, the way it does when she's processing information. I've learned to recognize that expression—the medical student assessing a patient, weighing symptoms and prognoses.
"What does that mean for us?"
"It means he's almost ready. Whatever he's been planning, it's going to happen soon."
"How soon?"
"Days. Maybe less."
She nods slowly. I wait for the fear, the retreat, the realization that she's entangled herself with a man whose enemies are now her enemies. Last night was one thing—passion, desperation, two people drowning and reaching for each other. But morning brings clarity. Morning brings consequences.
"What's the plan?" she asks.
I blink. "What?"
"The plan. To stop him. To protect the estate." She pushes the sheet aside and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, apparently unconcerned about her nakedness. "You have a plan, right?"
"I have the beginnings of one."
"Tell me."
I stare at her—this woman who, a week ago, was a medical student with a future, a life, a world that had nothing to do with blood and violence. Who should be running as far and as fast as she can from everything I represent.
"This isn't your fight, Bianca."
"Isn't it?" She stands, crossing to where I'm standing by the window. The morning light catches her body, illuminating curves and shadows, and I have to force myself to focus on her face. "Sergei isn't just coming for you. He's coming for me. That makes it my fight."
"I can protect you without your involvement."
"Can you? Or are you just trying to keep me in the dark again?" Her eyes flash. "We talked about this. I don't want to be managed. I want to understand what's happening so I can—"
"So you can what? Fight alongside my men? Pick up a gun and start shooting?"
"So I can be prepared. So I know what to expect if things go wrong." She holds my gaze. "I'm not a soldier. I know that. But I'm not a victim either. Not anymore."
The words hit something in my chest. I think about her on that auction stage, chin raised, refusing to break. About her in the greenhouse, bringing dead things back to life. About her walking toward me in the rain, choosing to close the distance instead of running away.
She's not a victim. She never was.
"The plan," I say slowly, "is to fortify the estate and wait. Sergei has more resources than I anticipated—he's been building alliances for weeks. A direct assault on him would be suicide."
"So you're playing defense."
"For now. Until we know more about what he's bringing."
"And if his forces are bigger than yours? If your defenses aren't enough?"
"Then we have contingencies. Safe houses, extraction routes. Dmitri is ready to provide backup if things go sideways."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "What about my father? Alexei said he might talk."
I hesitate. This is the part I didn't want to tell her—the part where her family's betrayal might get us all killed.
"Carmine is a coward," I say finally. "He'll do whatever he thinks will keep him alive. Right now, that means staying neutral. But if Sergei puts enough pressure on him..."
"He'll sell us out. The way he sold me."
"Yes."
She laughs—a bitter, humorless sound. "Of course he will. Some things never change."
"Bianca—"
"Don't." She holds up a hand. "Don't apologize for him. Don't try to soften it. My father is a monster who sold his own daughter to pay his debts. If he betrays us, it won't be a surprise. It'll just be consistent."
There's a hardness in her voice that wasn't there a week ago. The last illusions about her family have crumbled, leaving nothing but cold, clear-eyed understanding.
It should make me sad. Instead, I feel something like pride.
"I'm going to shower," she says, turning toward the bathroom. "Then I want a full briefing. Security layout, defensive positions, contingency plans—all of it. If I'm going to be part of this, I need to know what I'm part of."
She disappears into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear water running.
I stand at the window, watching the guards patrol the perimeter, and try to reconcile the woman I just spoke with to the woman I held last night.
They're the same person—I know that. But the shift is disorienting.
Last night she was soft in my arms, gasping my name, giving me pieces of herself she'd never given anyone.
This morning she's all sharp edges and strategic thinking.
Maybe that's what survival looks like. Softness in the dark, armor in the daylight.
I can relate.
My phone buzzes again. Another update from Alexei—nothing urgent, just confirmation that the additional security teams are en route. I respond with a series of clipped instructions, my mind already shifting into operational mode.
But a part of me stays in last night. In the sound of her voice saying my name. In the way her body felt beneath mine, tight and trembling, giving me something precious.
She waited for me. Two years, and she waited.
I don't know what that means. Don't know if it's the beginning of something or just a moment of madness we'll both regret when this is over. The feelings between us are real—I'm sure of that now—but feelings don't guarantee a future. Not in my world.
And I still don't know if I'm capable of giving her the things she needs. The things she deserves.
The bathroom door opens. She emerges in a cloud of steam, wrapped in one of my towels, her wet hair leaving dark trails on her shoulders. She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Nothing." I cross to the closet, pulling out a shirt for her. "Here. Your clothes from yesterday are probably still wet."
She takes the shirt, letting the towel drop without self-consciousness. I watch her button it—my shirt, on her body, falling to mid-thigh—and something possessive coils in my chest.
Mine. The word echoes in my head, unbidden. She's mine.
But even as I think it, I know it's not quite true. She's here because circumstances forced her here. She slept with me because the tension between us finally became unbearable. But that doesn't mean she's chosen this life. Chosen me.
When Sergei is dealt with, she'll have options. Real options. She could go back to medical school, rebuild her life, find someone who doesn't have blood on his hands and enemies at his gates.
The thought makes my jaw clench.
"The tattoos," she says, interrupting my spiral.
I look up. "What about them?"
She crosses to where I'm standing, reaches out, traces a line of ink on my forearm. Her touch is light, curious.
"I couldn't see them clearly last night. In the dark." She follows the pattern up to my shoulder. "There are so many."
"Occupational hazard."
"Do they mean something?"
I hesitate. The tattoos are a map of my life—every kill, every loss, every milestone in my rise through the ranks. Some of them I got by choice. Others were given to me, ritual markings that signal my place in this world.
"Some of them," I say finally.
"Will you tell me about them? Someday?"
That word again. Someday. The future stretching out in front of us, uncertain and fragile.
"This one," I say, touching a small symbol on my inner wrist, "was my first. I was eighteen. It marks my initiation into the brotherhood."
She studies it, her fingers tracing the edges. "What did you have to do? To earn it?"
"You don't want to know."
"Probably not." She looks up at me, her expression unreadable. "But I'm asking anyway."
I hold her gaze. She deserves honesty—I promised her that. But some truths are uglier than others.
"I killed a man," I say quietly. "A traitor who had sold information to the Ivanovs. Dmitri gave me the gun and told me to prove my loyalty."
"Did you hesitate?"
"No."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Just nods slowly, like she's filing the information away for later processing.
"Thank you for telling me," she says.
"Bianca—"
"Don't." She presses a finger to my lips. "Don't apologize. Don't explain. I asked, and you answered. That's what I wanted."
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, something passing between us that I can't name. Then she steps back, breaking the contact.
"Now. That briefing you promised me. I want to see the security layout."
I should refuse. Should insist that she stay out of the tactical details, that protecting her is my job and she should focus on staying safe.
But she's looking at me with those gold-flecked eyes, stubborn and determined, and I realize that I'm not going to win this fight.
"All right," I say. "Get dressed. I'll have Alexei pull up the schematics."
She smiles—small, fierce, triumphant. Then she turns to find the rest of her clothes.
I watch her go, something shifting in my chest. She's not what I expected. Not soft, not fragile, not the innocent girl I fell for at a charity gala. She's becoming something else—someone forged in fire, tempered by betrayal.
Someone who might actually be able to survive this world.
I don't know what we are to each other. Don't know if last night was the beginning of something or just a collision of need and circumstance. But I know one thing for certain.
I've spent seventeen years learning how to destroy. Maybe it's time I learned how to protect something worth keeping.