Chapter 17 - Bianca
The schematics spread across Misha's desk look like blueprints for a prison.
Perimeter walls marked in red. Guard positions in blue.
Potential breach points circled in black, each one annotated with response protocols and contingency measures.
The estate I've been living in—the gothic mansion with its gargoyles and overgrown gardens—reduced to lines and angles and tactical vulnerabilities.
"The north wall is our weakest point," Alexei says, tapping a section of the map. "The drainage system creates a gap in our sensor coverage. We've added additional patrols, but if Sergei's people have done their reconnaissance, they'll know about it."
I nod, trying to absorb the information, but my mind keeps slipping. Misha is standing by the window, arms crossed, watching the briefing with an expression I can't read. Every few minutes, his eyes drift to me, and I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
Last night. His hands on my body. His voice in my ear. The way he said my name like it was something sacred.
I force myself to focus on the map.
"What about the east gate?" I ask. "You mentioned it needed upgrades."
Alexei glances at Misha before answering—a quick, almost imperceptible check for permission. I notice. Of course I notice. I'm an outsider here, tolerated because Misha wants me present, but not yet trusted. Not yet part of this world.
"The electronic lock has been replaced," Alexei says. "And we've added redundant cameras. It's secure."
"Secure enough for a full assault?"
Another glance at Misha. "That depends on the size of the force."
"Which we don't know, because we lost track of Sergei."
Alexei's jaw tightens. "We're working on reacquiring him. Our sources in Portland are—"
"Compromised, clearly, or you wouldn't have lost him in the first place."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. Alexei stares at me, his expression cooling several degrees. I've overstepped—I know that. I'm a medical student questioning a man who's spent decades in this world, who's kept Misha alive through God knows how many threats.
But I don't back down. I hold his gaze, my chin lifted, waiting.
From the window, Misha says nothing. Doesn't intervene. Doesn't rescue me or shut me down. Just watches, letting this play out.
"Our sources," Alexei says slowly, "operate in hostile territory with limited support. They're not compromised. They're outmaneuvered. There's a difference."
"Is there? From where I'm standing, the result is the same. We don't know where Sergei is or when he's coming."
"No. We don't." Alexei's voice is flat. "Welcome to warfare, Miss Benedetti. It's rarely as clean as the textbooks suggest."
The barb lands, but I don't flinch. "I'm not looking for clean. I'm looking for honest. If our position is weaker than these maps suggest, I'd rather know now than find out when someone's breaching the walls."
Something shifts in Alexei's expression. Not warmth—nothing close to that—but perhaps a grudging acknowledgment. I've shown I won't be dismissed. Whether that earns me respect or just marks me as a nuisance remains to be seen.
"The position is defensible," he says finally. "Not impregnable, but defensible. If Sergei comes with a small force, we hold. If he comes with an army..." He shrugs. "We have contingencies."
"Show me the contingencies."
He does. For the next hour, Alexei walks me through evacuation routes, safe room protocols, communication systems. He shows me how to use the panic button that's been installed in my room, how to activate the lockdown sequence, where to hide if the perimeter is breached.
By the end, my head is spinning with tactical details, and I feel less prepared than when I started. But at least I understand the shape of the threat. The parameters of my own potential death.
"That's the essentials," Alexei says, gathering the maps. "I'll have detailed protocols sent to your room."
"Thank you."
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite read. "You ask good questions," he says. "For a civilian."
It's not quite a compliment. But it's not nothing either.
The door closes behind him, and suddenly I'm alone with Misha.
The silence stretches.
"You held your own," he says.
"I annoyed your head of security."
"You challenged him. There's a difference." He pushes off from the window and crosses to the desk, standing close enough that I can smell him—cedar and smoke and something that's uniquely him. "Alexei respects people who push back. He's just not used to it coming from someone outside the family."
"I'm not family."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning I didn't intend. Or maybe I did intend it. Maybe I'm testing him, seeing how he'll respond.
His eyes darken. "No," he says quietly. "You're not. Not yet."
Not yet. The words send a shiver down my spine—whether from fear or anticipation, I can't tell.
"I need some air," I say, stepping back from the desk. From him. "I'm going to the greenhouse."
He nods. "I have calls to make. Security arrangements."
"Of course."
I move toward the door, and he doesn't stop me. Doesn't reach for me, doesn't close the distance. Just watches me go with those ice-blue eyes that give nothing away.
I tell myself I'm not disappointed. I'm not sure I believe it.
***
The greenhouse is the only place I can breathe.
I push through the door and let the warm, humid air envelop me. The space looks different than it did a week ago—cleaner, more organized. The dead plants have been cleared, the salvageable ones repotted, the paths swept free of debris. It's still a work in progress, but it's progress nonetheless.
I grab a trowel and kneel beside a row of pots, digging into the soil with more force than necessary. The physical work helps—gives my hands something to do while my mind races.
What am I doing here?
Not here in the greenhouse. Here in this situation. Here in Misha's bed, in his life, in the middle of a war I didn't choose.
Last night felt real. The way he touched me, the way he looked at me, the things he said when he thought I was falling asleep. But in the light of day, surrounded by maps and weapons and tactical briefings, I'm not sure what any of it means.
He bought me at an auction. He lied to me for four months. He disappeared for two years and spent that time watching me without my knowledge. These aren't small things. They're not things I can just forgive because he makes my heart race and my body ache.
And yet.
And yet I walked out into the rain for him. I pulled him down onto his bed and gave him something I'd never given anyone. I chose him, even knowing what he is, what he's done.
What does that make me?
I dig deeper into the soil, my fingers finding roots and stones. The fern I saved last week is thriving now, its fronds unfurling toward the grimy glass. Life persisting despite everything.
Like me. Like him.
The letters from his father are still in my room—I haven't found the right moment to give them to Misha.
Part of me feels guilty for reading them, for intruding on something so private.
But another part of me is grateful for the glimpse they offered into who the Kashkins were before tragedy tore them apart.
Alexander loved Maria. Really loved her—desperately, completely, in spite of the blood that stained their lives. And she must have loved him too, or she wouldn't have kept those letters, wouldn't have buried them in her sanctuary like treasures.
Could Misha and I have something like that?
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I push it down immediately. It's too soon to think about that. Too soon to think about anything beyond survival. Sergei is coming. Men might die defending this estate. I need to focus on the present, not some impossible future.
But the thought lingers anyway, stubborn as the weeds I'm pulling from the soil.
***
I hear the car before I see it.
The crunch of gravel, the low rumble of an engine. I look up from my work, my heart suddenly pounding—but it's not an attack. Just a single vehicle, sleek and black, pulling up to the front of the house.
I watch through the grimy glass as a woman emerges from the back seat. She's young—late twenties, maybe—with dark hair and sharp features that look familiar. She moves with confidence, ignoring the guards who approach her, and strides toward the front door like she owns the place.
It takes me a moment to place the resemblance. The cheekbones. The set of the jaw. The way she carries herself like the world should rearrange itself around her.
Misha's sister. It has to be.
I should stay here. Should let whatever family reunion is happening inside play out without my interference. But curiosity wins over caution, and I find myself wiping my hands on my pants and heading toward the house.
I'm halfway across the garden when she intercepts me.
"You must be Bianca."
She's standing on the terrace, watching me approach with an expression that's equal parts curiosity and assessment.
Up close, the family resemblance is even stronger—the same pale eyes, the same angular features.
But where Misha is all cold control, she radiates warmth. Or at least the appearance of it.
"And you must be Anna," I say.
"Guilty." She descends the steps, closing the distance between us. "My brother told me to stay away. Said it wasn't safe." A smile curves her lips. "I've never been good at following orders."
"That seems to be a family trait."
She laughs—genuine, surprised. "I like you already. Come, walk with me. I want to see what you've done with my mother's greenhouse."
It's not a request. But somehow, I don't mind. There's something about her—a directness that cuts through the layers of tension and uncertainty that have defined my existence here.
We walk together toward the greenhouse, Anna's heels clicking on the gravel. She's dressed impeccably—designer clothes, perfect makeup—but she doesn't seem to care that her shoes are getting dirty or that the wind is ruining her hair.
"Misha talks about you," she says as we reach the greenhouse door. "Not directly, of course. He's never been good at saying what he means. But I can read between the lines."
"What do the lines say?"
"That you've gotten under his skin in a way no one else ever has." She pushes open the door and steps inside, looking around at the cleared aisles and salvaged plants. "This is remarkable. It's been dead for years."
"It wasn't dead. Just neglected."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"No." I move past her, touching the fern I've been nursing back to health. "Dead means beyond saving. Neglected means waiting for someone to care."
Anna is quiet for a moment, studying me with those sharp eyes. "You're not what I expected," she says finally.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Someone softer, maybe. Someone who would crumble under the weight of all this." She gestures vaguely—at the greenhouse, at the estate, at the invisible threat looming beyond the walls. "But you're still standing. Still fighting. That takes strength."
"Or stupidity."
"Sometimes they're the same thing." She perches on the edge of the workbench, crossing her legs. "My brother is difficult. I'm sure you've noticed."
"I've noticed."
"He wasn't always like this. Before our parents died, he was different. Lighter. He used to laugh—really laugh, not the hollow thing he does now." Her expression softens. "Losing them broke something in him. He built walls so high that nothing could get through. Not even family."
"But you're still close."
"Close is relative. I love him. He loves me. But there are parts of himself he doesn't share with anyone." She pauses. "Until you, apparently."
I don't know how to respond to that. The idea that Misha has shown me parts of himself he keeps hidden from his own sister is both flattering and terrifying.
"He's not good at feelings," Anna continues. "But that doesn't mean he doesn't have them. It just means he doesn't know how to express them. Or maybe he's afraid to." She fixes me with a look. "Don't give up on him. He's worth the effort, even when he makes it hard."
"I'm not sure what we are to each other," I admit. "Everything is so complicated."
"Of course it is. This life is nothing but complications." She slides off the workbench. "But complications don't have to be obstacles. Sometimes they're just... the shape of the path. You navigate them, and eventually you find your way through."
She says it so simply, like navigating a world of violence and betrayal is no different from choosing the right route through traffic. Maybe for her, it isn't. She was born into this, after all.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask.
"Because my brother is happier than I've seen him in seventeen years, and I think you're the reason. I don't want to see either of you throw that away because you're both too stubborn to admit what you're feeling." She smiles, taking the edge off her words. "Consider this a sisterly intervention."
Before I can respond, her phone buzzes. She checks it, frowns.
"Dmitri's team is arriving. I should go play welcoming committee." She pauses at the greenhouse door. "It was good to meet you, Bianca. I hope we get the chance to know each other better."
"So do I."
She disappears toward the house, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
***
The sun is setting by the time I leave the greenhouse.
The sky is painted in shades of orange and purple, the last light gilding the gothic towers of the estate. Guards patrol the perimeter in careful rotations. Somewhere inside, Misha is coordinating defenses, preparing for a war that might arrive any day.
And I'm standing here, covered in dirt, trying to figure out who I am in this world.
Anna's words echo in my mind. Don't give up on him. He's worth the effort.
Is he? I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.
I came here as a captive. Somewhere along the way, I became something else. I'm just not sure what yet.
The only thing I know for certain is that I'm not the same person who walked into that auction a week ago. That girl was naive, sheltered, blind to the darkness in her own family. This girl—this woman—has seen the darkness up close. Has touched it, tasted it, let it inside her.
There's no going back from that. The only way out is through.
I take one last look at the sunset, then turn and walk toward the house. Toward Misha. Toward whatever comes next.