Chapter 19 - Bianca
I wake to the sound of his heartbeat.
For a moment, I don't remember where I am. The room is unfamiliar—darker than the guest room, the furniture heavier, the curtains drawn against the gray morning light. Then I feel the warmth of his body against my back, his arm draped over my waist, and everything comes flooding back.
Being carried up the stairs.
His room. His bed.
I lie still, not wanting to break the spell. His breathing is deep and even against my hair, but there's tension in the arm that holds me—he's awake. Has been for a while, probably. Listening to every sound, cataloging every potential threat.
Even at rest, he's a soldier.
"Morning," I murmur.
His arm tightens briefly. "How do you feel?"
"Safe." The word surprises me, but it's true. Despite everything—Sergei, the assault, the war waiting outside these walls—I feel safe in his arms.
Then the nausea hits.
It comes without warning, a sudden roll in my stomach that has me throwing off the covers and stumbling toward the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I'm retching, my body heaving with a violence that leaves me shaking.
Misha is there in seconds, his hand on my back, pulling my hair away from my face. "Bianca. What's wrong?"
"I don't—" Another wave cuts me off. I grip the porcelain and ride it out, my eyes watering, my throat burning.
When it finally passes, I slump against the cool tile, trembling. Misha crouches beside me, his face tight with concern.
"Food poisoning?" he asks. "Or nerves?"
"Probably nerves." I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "The stress of everything. The waiting."
He nods, but his eyes are searching my face, looking for something more. I look away before he can find it.
Because even as I say the words, a different possibility is taking shape in my mind. One I'm not ready to examine. Not yet.
***
He helps me back to bed, brings me water and crackers, watches me with that intense focus that makes me feel like the only person in the world.
"Stay here today," he says. "Rest. I'll have Mrs. Novak check on you."
"I'm fine. It's just—"
"You're not fine. You just threw up everything in your stomach." His voice is firm but not unkind. "The estate is on high alert. Sergei could move at any time. I need to know you're safe, and I need to focus on the defenses. I can't do that if I'm worried about you collapsing somewhere."
I want to argue, but he's right. And honestly, the thought of getting out of bed right now makes my stomach turn again.
"Fine," I concede. "But I want updates. Real ones, not sanitized versions designed to keep me calm."
"You'll have them." He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead—gentle, almost reverent. "I'll come back when I can."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the silence and the churning in my gut.
I tell myself it's stress.
The nausea. The exhaustion that seems to press me into the mattress even after a full night's sleep. The tenderness in my breasts that I noticed in the shower yesterday but dismissed as nothing.
It's stress. It has to be stress. My body is responding to trauma—the auction, the captivity, the threat of violence. That's all this is.
But even as I think it, another part of my mind is doing the math.
Our first night together was... I count backward, trying to pin down the days. They've blurred together since I arrived at the estate, one bleeding into the next. But it was at least two weeks ago. Maybe closer to three.
My period was due a week ago.
I didn't notice. There's been so much happening—the tactical briefings, the greenhouse, the escalating threat—that something as mundane as a menstrual cycle didn't even register. But now that I'm thinking about it, I can't stop thinking about it.
I'm late. I'm nauseous. I'm exhausted.
And we didn't use protection.
The realization hits me like a punch to the chest. I sit up too fast, and the room spins, forcing me to grip the headboard until it steadies.
We didn't use protection. That first night, in the rain, desperate and consuming—neither of us thought about it. And the nights since then, tangled together in this bed, we haven't thought about it either.
I'm a medical student. I know how this works. I know the statistics, the timing, the likelihood.
I could be pregnant.
The thought is so enormous that my mind skitters away from it, refusing to fully engage. Pregnant. With Misha's child. In the middle of a war, surrounded by enemies, trapped in a world I never chose.
No. I can't think about this now. Can't deal with it, can't process it. Sergei is hours away. Men are preparing to die defending this estate. I don't have the luxury of falling apart over a possibility that might not even be real.
I need to know for certain. And I need to know before I tell Misha—if there's anything to tell.
***
Mrs. Novak arrives an hour later with tea and toast on a tray. She takes one look at my face and sets the tray aside.
"You look pale," she says. "The nausea hasn't passed?"
"It comes and goes."
She studies me with those sharp, knowing eyes. I wonder how much she sees—this woman who's been with the Kashkin family for decades, who's probably witnessed every kind of crisis imaginable.
"Mrs. Novak," I say carefully. "Is there... would there be a way to get certain supplies without anyone knowing? Medical supplies?"
Her expression doesn't change. "What kind of supplies?"
I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat. But I need to know. I can't function in this uncertainty, can't make decisions about my own survival without understanding what I'm protecting.
"A pregnancy test."
The silence that follows is deafening. Mrs. Novak's face remains neutral, but something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or understanding.
"I see," she says quietly.
"I don't know for certain. It might be nothing. But I need to find out, and I can't—" I swallow hard. "I can't tell Misha until I know. Not with everything that's happening."
She nods slowly. "There's a medical kit in the basement. Comprehensive. It would have what you need." She pauses. "I can retrieve it without drawing attention."
"Thank you."
She moves toward the door, then stops. "Bianca. Whatever the result—you're not alone in this. You understand?"
The kindness in her voice nearly undoes me. I blink back the sudden sting of tears and nod.
"I understand."
***
The test takes three minutes.
I lock myself in the bathroom, the small plastic stick clutched in my trembling hands, and watch the seconds tick by on my phone. Three minutes to change everything. Three minutes to confirm or deny a possibility that has reshaped the entire landscape of my fear.
The first line appears immediately. Control line. The test is working.
I hold my breath.
The second line emerges slowly—faint at first, then darker. Undeniable.
Pregnant.
I sink onto the edge of the bathtub, the test clutched in my hands, and stare at those two lines until they blur. My chest is tight, my breath coming in short gasps that might be panic or might be something else entirely.
Pregnant. I'm pregnant.
There's a life growing inside me. Misha's child. Our child. Created in desperation and desire, taking root in the midst of chaos.
I press my hand to my stomach—flat still, unchanged—and try to feel something beyond the shock. Joy? Terror? Some combination of both?
All I feel is numb.
I think about my mother—the woman I never knew, who died giving birth to me. Is that my fate too? To bring a life into this world at the cost of my own?
I think about Misha—the man who's killed people, who runs an empire built on violence, who's currently preparing for a war that might claim his life. What kind of father would he be? What kind of life would this child have?
I think about Sergei—the monster who's coming for me, who would use this pregnancy as leverage, as a weapon, as a way to hurt Misha in the deepest way possible.
He can't know. No one can know. Not yet.
I stand on shaking legs and wrap the test in tissue, burying it at the bottom of the bathroom trash. Then I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is pale, hollow-eyed, terrified. But beneath the terror, there's something else. Something fierce and primal that I've never felt before.
I'm not just protecting myself anymore. I'm protecting someone who can't protect themselves. Someone who didn't ask to exist, who has no say in the chaos they've been conceived into.
I press my hand to my stomach again.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I whisper to the life I can't yet feel. "I don't know if I can keep you safe. But I'm going to try."
The rest of the day passes in a blur of waiting and dread.
I force myself to eat the toast Mrs. Novak brought, even though it tastes like cardboard.
I drink the tea, stay in bed, try to rest the way Misha ordered.
But my mind won't quiet. It circles endlessly between the pregnancy and the war, between the life growing inside me and the death waiting outside these walls.
A knock at the door startles me from my thoughts. Before I can respond, Anna sweeps in, carrying a second tray with sandwiches and a pot of fresh tea.
"Mrs. Novak said you weren't feeling well," she announces, setting the tray on the bedside table with a decisive clatter. "I thought you could use some company. And food. Have you eaten anything today?"
"Some toast. Earlier."
"Toast." She says the word like it's an insult. "That's not food, that's a gesture toward food." She settles onto the edge of the bed, tucking her legs beneath her with easy familiarity. "Eat. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"No, but you are. Or will be. Which means you know I'm right."
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. Anna has that effect—a warmth that cuts through even the darkest mood. I pick up a sandwich and take a bite, more to appease her than from any real hunger.