Chapter 18 - Misha
The estate holds its breath.
I stand in the command center, watching feeds from two dozen cameras, listening to radio chatter from teams positioned across the perimeter. Everything is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that comes before violence, heavy with anticipation.
Alexei is at my shoulder, monitoring communications.
Dmitri's men are integrated with my own, a seamless defensive force spread across the grounds.
We've done everything right—fortified the weak points, established overlapping fields of fire, prepared contingencies for every scenario we could imagine.
It won't be enough. It's never enough.
My eyes drift to the feed from the basement corridor. The safe room door is sealed, Bianca locked inside. I can't see her—the room itself has no cameras, a security feature that now feels like a flaw—but I know she's there. Watching the same feeds I'm watching. Waiting.
I should have told her more. Should have found better words for what she means to me, for what I'm fighting to protect. But words have never been my strength. Violence is my language, and tonight I'll speak it fluently.
"Movement on the south perimeter," one of the teams reports. "Three vehicles approaching. No headlights."
I lean forward, studying the thermal imaging. Three SUVs, moving fast, cutting across the fields toward the estate's weakest approach.
"Hold positions," I order. "Let them commit."
The vehicles stop a hundred meters from the wall. Doors open. Men pour out—more than three vehicles should hold, which means they were packed tight, which means this is just the vanguard.
"Contact," the south team reports. "Engaging."
The first shots shatter the silence, and the night erupts into war.
The assault hits from three directions simultaneously.
South, east, and north—coordinated strikes designed to stretch our defenses, to force us to divide our forces. Professional. Disciplined. Sergei has been planning this for weeks, and it shows.
I direct the defense from the command center, my voice steady even as chaos unfolds on the monitors. "North team, reinforce the drainage tunnel. East team, hold the gate—do not let them breach. South team, push them back to the tree line."
Radio chatter fills the room. Gunfire crackles through the speakers. On the feeds, muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness, and men fall on both sides.
"We've got climbers on the east wall," someone reports. "Two down, more coming."
"Redirect team four to the east wall. Reinforce from the interior."
I'm operating on instinct now, seventeen years of training and experience compressed into split-second decisions. Move this team here. Redirect fire there. Plug this gap before it becomes a breach.
But underneath the tactical calculations, something else is running. A constant awareness of the basement, of her. Every explosion makes me think of Bianca flinching in the safe room. Every scream makes me imagine her fear.
I can't afford these thoughts. They're a distraction, a vulnerability. But I can't stop them either.
"North wall is taking heavy fire," Alexei reports. "They're focusing on the drainage tunnel."
The weakness we identified. Of course they know about it. Sergei has done his reconnaissance.
"Send the reserve team. Hold that position at all costs."
On the monitor, I watch our men rush to reinforce the north wall. The fighting is brutal—close quarters, hand-to-hand in places. Bodies fall. Blood stains the grass.
My men. Dying to protect this estate. Dying to protect her.
I push the thought aside and focus on the tactical display. Emotion is a luxury I can't afford. Not now.
By midnight, the assault falters.
Sergei's forces pull back across all fronts—not retreating, just regrouping. Testing our defenses, probing for weaknesses. This was never meant to be the real attack. This was reconnaissance.
The real assault will come later. Hours from now, maybe. Or tomorrow. Whenever Sergei decides he's gathered enough intelligence.
"Maintain positions," I order. "Rotating watches. I want everyone ready to respond at a moment's notice."
Alexei nods, already issuing commands through his radio. The command center settles into a tense rhythm—men monitoring feeds, checking communications, waiting for the next wave.
I should stay here. Should keep my eyes on the tactical display, my mind on the defense.
Instead, I find myself walking toward the basement.
The safe room door is exactly as I left it—sealed, secure, the electronic lock glowing red in the dim corridor. I enter my code and wait for the heavy click of disengagement.
Bianca is sitting in front of the monitors when I enter, her face pale in the bluish light of the screens. She turns at the sound of the door, and I see the fear in her eyes—fear that dissolves into relief when she recognizes me.
"Misha." She's on her feet and in my arms before I can speak, her body pressing against mine, her fingers digging into my back. "I watched the whole thing. The feeds—I saw—"
"It's over. For now." I hold her tight, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against my chest. "They've pulled back. We held them."
"For now," she repeats. "But they'll come back."
"Yes."
She pulls away just enough to look at my face. Her eyes search mine, looking for something—reassurance, maybe, or truth.
"How bad?"
"We lost three men. Several wounded." I don't sugarcoat it. She asked for honesty, and she deserves it. "But the perimeter held. They didn't breach the walls."
"Three men." Her voice is soft. "Three men dead. Because of me."
"Because of Sergei. Because of your father. Because of a world that treats women like property." I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Not because of you. Never because of you."
She doesn't argue, but I can see she doesn't entirely believe me either.
"I should get back to the command center," I say. "I just needed to see you. To make sure—"
"Stay."
The word stops me cold.
"Bianca—"
"Just for a little while. Please." Her hands fist in my shirt, holding me in place. "I know you have to go back. I know there's a war happening out there. But I need—" She breaks off, shaking her head. "I just need you. For a few minutes. Is that selfish?"
"Yes," I say honestly. "But I don't care."
I kiss her.
It starts gentle—soft, reassuring, a promise that we're both still here, still alive. But the adrenaline is still coursing through my veins, the fear and the fury and the desperate need to feel something other than the weight of command.
She responds in kind, her mouth opening under mine, her tongue sliding against my lips. The kiss deepens, becomes something else—hungry, desperate, two people clinging to each other in the eye of a storm.
"Misha," she breathes against my mouth. "I need you."
"Here?" I pull back, looking around the safe room—the concrete walls, the harsh fluorescent lights, the bank of monitors still showing camera feeds from around the estate. "This isn't—"
"I don't care where." She's already pulling at my shirt, her fingers working the buttons with trembling urgency. "I just need to feel you. I need to know this is real."
I should refuse. Should insist on propriety, on waiting until the battle is over, until we're somewhere more comfortable.
But she's looking at me with those gold-flecked eyes, her lips swollen from my kiss, her body pressed against mine—and I can't say no. I've never been able to say no to her.
I lift her onto the desk, scattering papers and knocking a keyboard to the floor. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, and I groan at the contact—at the heat of her, even through our clothes.
"We should be quick," I manage. "I can't be gone long—"
"Then stop talking."
She kisses me again, fierce and demanding, and I stop talking.
My hands find the hem of her sweater, pushing it up, revealing the soft skin beneath. She's not wearing a bra—she must have been sleeping when the assault started—and I groan at the sight of her breasts, full and perfect, her nipples already hard.
I bend my head and take one into my mouth, sucking, teasing with my tongue. She gasps, her back arching, her fingers tangling in my hair.
"Yes," she breathes. "God, yes—"
I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention, while my hands work at the button of her jeans. She lifts her hips to help me, and I drag the denim down her legs, taking her underwear with it.
She's wet. I can see it, glistening in the harsh light. Can smell her arousal, heady and intoxicating.
"Touch me," she demands. "Please, Misha—"
I slide one finger inside her, then two, and she moans—a sound that goes straight to my cock. She's tight and hot and perfect, her walls clenching around me as I work her with my hand.
"More," she gasps. "I need more—"
I withdraw my fingers and reach for my belt, fumbling with the buckle. She helps, her hands frantic, and then I'm free—hard and aching, desperate to be inside her.
I pause at her entrance, the head of my cock pressed against her slick heat.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"Yes." She grabs my hips, pulling me forward. "Now. Please."
I thrust into her in one smooth motion, burying myself to the hilt. We both groan at the sensation—the stretch, the fullness, the connection.
For a moment, we're still. Just breathing. Just feeling.
Then she moves her hips, and I'm lost.
I take her hard and fast, all the fear and fury of the night channeling into something primal. She meets me thrust for thrust, her nails raking down my back, her voice breaking on my name.
"Misha—God—don't stop—"
I couldn't stop if I wanted to. The pressure is building at the base of my spine, my muscles coiling tighter with every stroke. She's close too—I can feel it in the way her walls flutter around me, the way her breath comes in sharp, desperate gasps.
"Come for me," I growl against her ear. "Let go. I've got you."
She shatters with a cry, her body convulsing, her nails digging into my shoulders. The sight of her—the sound of her—pushes me over the edge.
I come with a groan, spilling inside her, my hips jerking as the pleasure crashes through me in waves.
We collapse together, sweating and gasping, still joined. Her legs are trembling around my waist. My arms are shaking from holding myself up.
"That was—" She laughs, breathless. "That was not what I expected when you walked in."
"Disappointed?"
"Definitely not." She pulls my face down for a soft, lingering kiss. "But you should probably get back to the command center before Alexei sends a search party."
She's right. I know she's right. But I can't make myself move yet.
"Give me one more minute," I say, resting my forehead against hers. "Just one more minute of this."
She smiles and holds me tighter.
***
When I return to the command center, Alexei gives me a knowing look but says nothing. The feeds are quiet—Sergei's forces still holding their positions, waiting for something.
"Any movement?" I ask.
"Nothing significant. They're regrouping, probably planning their next push." He pauses. "You were gone longer than expected."
"I had things to discuss with her."
"I'm sure you did."
I ignore the implication in his voice and turn to the tactical display. The monitors glow with camera feeds, guard positions, threat assessments. The war is still coming. The danger is still real.
But for the first time all night, I feel like I can face it.
Because whatever happens—whether we survive this assault or fall to Sergei's forces—I know what I'm fighting for. Not just territory or power or family legacy.
Her. I'm fighting for her.
And that makes all the difference.