Chapter 25 - Bianca
The world comes back in fragments.
The hum of tires on pavement. The warmth of Misha's body against my side. Voices—distant, muffled, speaking in tones too low for me to make out the words. I drift in and out, awareness flickering like a faulty light bulb, my mind refusing to fully engage with reality.
I killed someone today. I can still feel the recoil of the gun in my hands, still see the guard falling, still smell the copper tang of blood in the air.
I push the thought away. Can't deal with it now. Can't deal with anything now.
The SUV stops. Doors open. Misha lifts me out, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. I want to tell him I can walk, but the words won't come. My body has surrendered, gone limp and heavy, all the adrenaline that kept me fighting finally drained away.
Bright lights. Antiseptic smell. The squeak of wheels on linoleum. A hospital, or something like one—private, probably, given the absence of crowded waiting rooms and curious stares.
Someone tries to take me from Misha's arms. He growls something in Russian, his grip tightening, and the person backs away.
Then I'm on a bed, soft sheets beneath me, and people are moving around me with quiet efficiency. Blood pressure cuff on my arm. Penlight in my eyes. Gentle hands examining my wrists, my face, the bruises I didn't even realize I had.
Through it all, Misha doesn't leave. He stands beside the bed, his hand wrapped around mine, his presence a solid anchor in the chaos.
His face is still streaked with smoke and blood—he hasn't cleaned up, hasn't taken care of himself at all.
He just watches, his eyes tracking every movement the medical staff makes.
"Sir, we need to examine her properly," a woman's voice says. Calm, professional. "Perhaps you could wait outside while we—"
"No."
One word. Final. The kind of voice that doesn't invite argument.
A pause. Then: "Very well. But please step back so we can work."
He releases my hand, moves to the foot of the bed. His eyes never leave my face.
***
The examination is thorough.
They check everything—every bruise, every cut, every inch of my battered body.
They ask questions I don't want to answer, about what happened in captivity, about what Sergei did or didn't do.
I tell them the truth: he didn't touch me.
Not like that. He wanted to break me psychologically, not physically.
Small mercies.
When they're finally satisfied that my injuries are superficial—abraded wrists, minor contusions, dehydration and exhaustion—the tone shifts. The doctor, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair, pulls up a stool and sits beside me.
"I understand you believe you may be pregnant," she says quietly. "Is that correct?"
I nod, my throat tight.
"How far along do you think you are?"
"Three weeks. Maybe four. I'm not sure exactly."
"And you've experienced symptoms? Nausea, fatigue?"
"Yes. Both."
She nods, making notes on her tablet. "We'll do a blood test to confirm, and then an ultrasound to check on the baby's development. Given what you've been through—the stress, the physical trauma, the sedation—we want to make sure everything is progressing normally."
The words hit me like a fist. Given what I've been through. The stress. The trauma. All the things that could have hurt the baby, could have ended the pregnancy before it really began.
"Is there a chance—" I can't finish the sentence.
"There's always a chance of complications," the doctor says gently. "But the fact that you haven't experienced any bleeding or severe cramping is a good sign. Let's take a look and see what we're dealing with."
She leaves to prepare the ultrasound equipment. I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, my hand pressed against my stomach.
Please be okay. Please, please be okay.
Misha appears at my side. He doesn't say anything—just takes my hand and holds it, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. The gesture is surprisingly tender, at odds with the blood still staining his clothes and the violence that clings to him like a second skin.
"Whatever happens," he says quietly, "we'll deal with it together."
I look at him—really look at him, for the first time since the rescue. He's exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, lines of tension carved into his face. He's been through a war tonight, led an assault on a fortified compound, killed God knows how many people to get to me.
And now he's here, holding my hand, waiting to find out if the baby we accidentally created has survived.
"Are you scared?" I ask.
He's silent for a long moment. Then: "Terrified."
The honesty surprises me. Misha doesn't admit to fear. Misha doesn't admit to any emotion that might be perceived as weakness.
"Me too," I whisper.
His grip on my hand tightens.
The ultrasound technician is young, efficient, and blessedly silent.
She dims the lights, applies cold gel to my stomach, and presses the wand against my skin. The monitor beside the bed flickers to life, showing grainy black-and-white images that mean nothing to me.
I hold my breath. Beside me, Misha has gone completely still.
The technician moves the wand, adjusting angles, searching. The seconds stretch into eternity. I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, can feel Misha's hand crushing mine, can sense the tension radiating off him in waves.
Then—
"There."
The technician points to the screen, to a small flutter in the center of the image. A tiny pulsing blob, barely visible, but unmistakably alive.
"That's the heartbeat," she says. "Strong and steady. About 120 beats per minute, which is normal for this stage of development."
A heartbeat. The baby has a heartbeat.
The sound fills the room—a rapid whooshing that seems impossibly fast, impossibly fragile. The sound of life, persisting against all odds.
I can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't do anything but stare at that tiny flicker on the screen, that impossible miracle that survived captivity and sedation and violence and fear.
Beside me, Misha makes a sound I've never heard from him before. Something between a gasp and a groan, like he's been punched in the gut. I turn to look at him and find his eyes fixed on the monitor, his face stripped of all its usual armor.
He looks... shattered. Broken open. Like everything he thought he knew about himself has just been rearranged.
"That's our baby," I whisper.
He doesn't answer. Just stares at the screen, at that flickering heartbeat, his jaw tight and his eyes suspiciously bright.
The technician tactfully busies herself with measurements and notes, giving us a moment of privacy. I watch Misha watching our child, and something shifts in my chest. Something I'm not ready to name.
"Misha."
He tears his gaze away from the monitor, meets my eyes. The vulnerability in his expression takes my breath away. This is not the cold enforcer, the lethal commander, the man who killed his way through a compound to reach me. This is someone else entirely. Someone I'm only beginning to know.
"I don't know how to do this," he says. His voice is rough, barely audible. "I don't know how to be a father. I don't know how to be anything other than what I am."
"Neither do I." I reach up and touch his face, feeling the stubble beneath my fingers, the tension in his jaw. "But we have time to figure it out."
"Do we?" He catches my hand, presses it against his cheek. "My world isn't safe. You've seen that now. The Morozovs will want revenge. There will always be enemies, always be threats. What kind of life is that for a child?"
"I don't know," I admit. "But I know that child exists, whether we planned it or not. And I know you came for me. You tore apart an entire compound to bring me back. That has to count for something."
He's silent for a long moment. Then he turns his head and presses a kiss to my palm—a gesture so gentle, so unexpected, that it makes my eyes sting with tears.
"It counts for everything," he murmurs against my skin.
***
The doctor returns with good news.
The baby is healthy. Development is on track for four weeks gestation. There's no sign of damage from the stress or the sedation. Barring complications, the pregnancy should proceed normally.
Normally. As if anything about this situation is normal.
She prescribes rest, prenatal vitamins, follow-up appointments. She tells me to avoid stress—a laughable suggestion, given my circumstances—and to listen to my body. She gives me pamphlets about nutrition and exercise and what to expect in the coming months.
I take them all, nod at all the right moments, and feel like I'm watching the conversation from very far away.
When she finally leaves, the room falls quiet. The monitors have been turned off, the equipment wheeled away. It's just me and Misha, alone in the dim light, the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on us.
"You should rest," he says.
"I know."
But I don't close my eyes. Instead, I look at him—this man who bought me at an auction, who lied to me for months, who killed for me and bled for me and held my hand while we listened to our baby's heartbeat.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now you sleep. Tomorrow, we go back to the estate. I'll have security upgraded, new protocols put in place. The Morozovs won't—"
"That's not what I mean." I push myself up on the pillows, ignoring the protest of my exhausted muscles. "I mean us. What happens to us?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The question hangs between us, heavy with everything we haven't said, everything we haven't figured out.
"I don't know," he admits finally. "I don't have a plan for this. For any of this." He gestures vaguely—at me, at my stomach, at the space between us. "I only know that I'm not letting you go. Either of you. Whatever that means, whatever form it takes—you're mine to protect now. Both of you."
It's not a declaration. Not a promise of forever. But it's honest, and right now, honesty is enough.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"Okay. We'll figure it out. Together." I lie back against the pillows, my eyes finally starting to close. "But right now, I really need to sleep."
"Then sleep." He pulls a chair beside the bed, settles into it like he's planning to stay for hours. Days. However long it takes. "I'll be here when you wake up."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he needs rest too, needs to clean up, needs to take care of himself. But the exhaustion is too heavy, dragging me down into darkness, and the last thing I see before sleep claims me is Misha's face, watching over me with an expression I've never seen before.
Something fierce. Something protective. Something that might, in time, become something more.
I close my eyes and let go.
***
I sleep for twelve hours.
When I wake, the room is bright with afternoon sunlight. Misha is still in the chair beside my bed, but he's cleaned up now—fresh clothes, no blood, his hair still damp from a shower. He's reading something on his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Hey," I say. My voice comes out as a croak.
His head snaps up. "You're awake."
"Apparently." I push myself upright, wincing at the stiffness in my muscles. "Have you been here the whole time?"
"I stepped out to shower and change. Mrs. Novak brought clothes." He sets down the phone and moves to the side of the bed. "How do you feel?"
"Like I was kidnapped, escaped, got recaptured, and then rescued from a burning compound." I manage a weak smile. "So, about average for the week."
He doesn't smile back. Just looks at me with that intense focus that always makes me feel like I'm the only person in the world.
"You fought your way through half of Sergei's guards," he says. "You nearly escaped on your own. You killed two men with a stolen gun and no training."
"I had some training. Medical school teaches you a lot about anatomy. I knew where to aim."
"Bianca." He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch but not touching. "I've commanded men for a decade. Trained soldiers, hardened professionals. Most of them wouldn't have done what you did."
I don't know what to say to that. The memories are still too raw, too close to the surface. The weight of the gun in my hand. The recoil. The bodies falling.
"I did what I had to do," I say finally. "For me. For the baby."
"I know." He reaches out, brushes a strand of hair from my face. The gesture is achingly gentle. "That's what makes it remarkable."
We sit in silence for a moment, the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, the sounds of the medical facility muffled and distant. It feels like we're in a bubble, suspended outside of time, outside of all the complications waiting for us.
"I want to go home," I say.
It takes me a moment to realize what I've said. Home. Not my apartment, not medical school, not the life I had before. Home, meaning the estate. Meaning the gothic mansion with its gargoyles and ghosts and greenhouse waiting for me.
Meaning wherever Misha is.
He notices too. I can see it in his eyes—a flicker of something that might be hope.
"Then let's go home," he says.