Chapter 19 - Bianca #2
"Better," she says approvingly. "Now. Tell me how you're really doing. And don't say 'fine'—I can see you're not fine."
I chew slowly, buying time. How am I doing? I'm pregnant with her brother's child, there's a war about to start, and I'm terrified I might not survive the night. But I can't tell her any of that.
"I'm scared," I admit finally. "About what's coming."
"That's sensible. Anyone who wasn't scared would be an idiot.
" Anna reaches over and squeezes my hand.
"But you're not alone in this. You know that, right?
Whatever happens tonight, you have people fighting for you.
Misha, obviously. But also Dmitri, and the men, and—" she shrugs "—me, for whatever that's worth. "
"It's worth a lot, actually."
She smiles, and for a moment she looks so much like Misha that it takes my breath away. The same bone structure, the same intensity in her eyes. But where Misha is all sharp edges and controlled violence, Anna is warmth and light.
"I thought Misha would have sent you away by now," I say. "Somewhere safer."
Anna's smile turns wry. "Oh, he tried. Gave me a whole speech about how I needed to leave before nightfall, how the estate was going to become a war zone, how he couldn't protect me and fight at the same time." She waves a hand dismissively. "I told him to go to hell."
"You what?"
"I'm a Kashkin." She says it simply, like it explains everything. "This is my family's home. My brother is about to fight for his life—and yours. You think I'm going to run away and wait by the phone to find out if everyone I love is dead?"
I stare at her, caught between admiration and alarm. "But if something happens—"
"Then I'll be here to face it with the rest of you." Her jaw sets in a stubborn line I recognize from Misha. "I'm not a soldier, Bianca. I can't fight the way they do. But I can be here. I can help with the wounded, keep people calm, do whatever needs doing. That's worth something."
"Misha must be furious."
"Absolutely livid." She grins, unrepentant.
"He threatened to have me physically removed.
I reminded him that our mother would haunt him from the grave if he manhandled his own sister.
He backed down." The grin fades into something more serious.
"He's scared too, you know. He doesn't show it—God forbid Misha Kashkin show an emotion—but I can tell. He's scared of losing you."
The words land somewhere deep in my chest. "He said that?"
"He didn't have to. I've known him my whole life. I've seen him lose people before—our parents, friends, allies. But I've never seen him look the way he looks when he talks about you." She reaches out and takes my hand. "You matter to him, Bianca. More than I think he knows how to say."
I don't know how to respond. The emotions are too tangled—fear and hope and grief and love, all twisted together into something I can't name.
"Tell me about him," I say instead. "About what he was like before."
"Before our parents died, you mean?"
I nod.
Anna is quiet for a moment, her gaze distant.
"He was... softer. Not soft—never that. Even as a kid, he was intense, focused, the kind of person who noticed everything.
But he laughed more. Smiled more. He used to bring flowers to our mother from the garden, these ridiculous bouquets of weeds and wildflowers that he thought were beautiful. "
The image is so at odds with the man I know that I can barely reconcile them. Misha, bringing flowers. Misha, laughing.
"What happened to him? After?"
"He became what he needed to become." Anna's voice is matter-of-fact, but there's an old sadness beneath it.
"Someone had to protect what was left of our family.
Someone had to be hard enough to survive in this world.
Dmitri was already involved in the business, but Misha—" She shakes her head.
"Misha threw himself into it like he was trying to drown.
He built walls so high that nobody could reach him anymore. Not even me."
"But you kept trying."
"Of course I did. He's my brother. You don't give up on family just because they make it difficult." She looks at me, her expression softening. "And now there's you. The first person who's managed to get through those walls in seventeen years."
I don't know what to say to that. The weight of it—the responsibility—settles on my shoulders alongside everything else.
"I don't know if I've gotten through anything," I say honestly. "Most of the time I still feel like I'm just... surviving. Day to day. Moment to moment."
"That's all any of us are doing, darling. The trick is finding someone worth surviving for." Anna squeezes my hand, then releases it and stands, stretching her back. "I should let you rest. But I'm not going anywhere—I'll be around if you need me. Probably driving Mrs. Novak crazy in the kitchen."
"Anna." I catch her arm before she can leave. "Thank you. For staying. For... all of this."
She smiles, and it's the warmest thing I've seen in days. "That's what family does. And like it or not, you're family now." She winks. "Misha just hasn't made it official yet."
She slips out before I can respond, leaving a faint trace of expensive perfume and the echo of that word.
Family.
I press my hand to my stomach, to the secret I'm carrying, and wonder what it would be like to actually have one.
***
Evening falls. The estate grows quiet, tense, every shadow holding its breath.
Misha finally comes to me.
He appears in the doorway, still dressed for command—dark clothes, radio clipped to his belt, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. He looks like he's been through a war already, though the real one hasn't started yet.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Better. The nausea passed."
He crosses to the bed and sits on the edge, his hand finding mine. The contact is grounding—his palm warm and rough against my fingers.
"I heard Anna refused to leave."
"She did."
A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Stubborn woman."
"She said you threatened to have her physically removed."
"I considered it." He shakes his head, but there's something that might be reluctant affection beneath the frustration.
"She's always been like this. When we were children, she once locked herself in the wine cellar because our parents tried to send her away during a security threat.
Stayed there for six hours until they agreed to let her stay. "
"That sounds about right."
"She's going to get herself killed one day with that stubbornness."
"Or she's going to save someone's life because she refused to leave." I squeeze his hand. "She's stronger than you give her credit for."
He's silent for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "Sergei left Sacramento an hour ago," he says finally. "He's heading north. We don't know his exact route, but the estimates put him here by late tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest."
My heart stutters. "So it's happening."
"It's happening." His grip tightens. "I need to move you to the safe room soon. It's the most secure location in the estate—reinforced walls, independent air supply, communication equipment. If they breach the perimeter, you'll be protected there."
"And you?"
"I'll be commanding the defense." His eyes meet mine. "I won't be able to come to you once it starts. Not until it's over."
"I understand."
"Bianca." He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "When this is over—we need to talk. About us. About what happens next."
"Is that a promise?"
"It's the closest I can give you right now."
I want to tell him. The words are right there, pressing against my teeth: I'm pregnant. We're having a baby. Everything is different now.
But the timing is wrong. He needs to focus, needs to be sharp and clear-headed for the battle ahead. Telling him now would split his attention, add fear to an already impossible situation.
So I swallow the words and squeeze his hand instead.
"Come back to me," I say. "Whatever happens out there—come back."
"I will." He leans forward and kisses me—deep and desperate, like he's trying to memorize the taste of me. "I will."
Then he helps me out of bed, and together we walk down to the basement, to the safe room that will be my prison for the battle to come.
He settles me inside, shows me the monitors, the communication system, the supplies. His movements are efficient, military, but his eyes keep returning to my face.
"Stay here," he says. "No matter what you see on those monitors, no matter what you hear—stay here. Promise me."
"I promise."
He cups my face in his hands and kisses me one more time. Then he's gone, the heavy door sealing shut behind him.
I'm alone.
I sink into the chair in front of the monitors and watch the feeds—guards patrolling, lights sweeping the perimeter, the estate holding its breath.
My hand drifts to my stomach.
"It's just us now," I whisper to the life inside me. "Let's hope your father comes back."
The war is here. And all I can do is wait to see who survives it.