Chapter 28 - Bianca
He carries me through the house like I weigh nothing.
I'm vaguely aware of Mrs. Novak's startled expression as we pass through the main hall, of the guards who carefully avert their eyes, of the stairs that Misha takes two at a time without breaking stride.
But mostly I'm aware of him—the heat of his body, the strength of his arms, the way his jaw is set with determination.
And the ring on my finger, catching the light with every step.
He kicks open the bedroom door and sets me down gently, his hands lingering on my waist. The room is dim, lit only by the last rays of sunset filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
"Bianca." His voice is rough, strained. "If you want to stop—"
I silence him with a kiss.
This time there's no hesitation, no gentle exploration. I pour everything into it—the fear and the relief, the grief and the joy, the overwhelming love that threatens to split me open. He responds in kind, his hands fisting in my hair, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming me with every stroke.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"I don't want to stop," I say. "I want you. All of you. Tonight."
Something shifts in his expression—a crack in the control he always maintains, a flash of raw hunger that makes my stomach clench.
"Then you'll have me," he says. "Every part of me."
He kisses me again, slower this time, more deliberate.
His hands slide down my sides, tracing the curves of my body through my clothes, relearning the shape of me.
I've changed since our first time together—my belly is rounder now, my breasts fuller—but he touches me like I'm precious. Like I'm perfect.
His fingers find the hem of my sweater and tug upward. I raise my arms, letting him pull it over my head, and then I'm standing before him in just my bra and jeans, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin.
He stares at me, his eyes dark and hungry.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "You're so beautiful."
I reach for his shirt, but he catches my hands, pressing them back to my sides.
"Not yet. Let me look at you."
He circles me slowly, like a predator assessing prey. I feel his gaze on every inch of my skin—my shoulders, my back, the swell of my breasts above the lace of my bra. When he stops behind me, I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can hear the controlled rasp of his breathing.
His hands settle on my hips, pulling me back against him. I gasp at the contact—at the hard length of him pressing against my lower back, at the possessiveness in his grip.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" His voice is a growl against my ear. "What you've always done to me?"
"Tell me."
"You make me lose control." His hands slide up my ribcage, brushing the undersides of my breasts. "You make me want things I've never wanted. Feel things I never thought I could feel."
His fingers trace the edge of my bra, teasing, tormenting.
"I've wanted you since the moment I saw you," he continues. "At that gala, two years ago. You were talking about hearts, about how they work, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to know if yours would beat faster when I touched you."
"And does it?"
He spins me around and presses his palm flat against my chest, right over my heart.
"You tell me."
It's pounding. Racing. Trying to break through my ribs and throw itself at him.
"Yes," I breathe. "It does."
He smiles—a real smile, rare and devastating—and then his mouth is on mine again.
We undress each other slowly, savoring each revelation.
His shirt falls away, revealing the canvas of ink and scars I've come to know so well. I trace the tattoos with my fingertips, following the dark lines across his shoulders, down his arms, over his ribs. He shivers under my touch, his muscles tensing, his breath catching.
"I love these," I whisper. "I love every mark on your body. Every story they tell."
"Even the violent ones?"
"Especially those." I press a kiss to the starburst scar on his shoulder—the bullet wound that nearly killed him, years ago. "They mean you survived. They mean you're here with me."
He makes a sound low in his throat—half groan, half growl—and then he's unhooking my bra, sliding it down my arms, baring my breasts to his gaze.
"God, Bianca." He cups them in his hands, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, already tight and aching. "You're perfect. Every part of you."
He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, and I cry out at the sensation—hot and wet and overwhelming. His tongue circles the sensitive peak, teasing, tasting, while his hand works the other breast, pinching and rolling until I'm trembling against him.
"Misha," I gasp. "Please—"
"Please what?"
"More. I need more."
He releases my nipple with a soft pop and looks up at me, his eyes black with desire.
"Then let's get rid of these."
His hands go to the button of my jeans, working it open with practiced efficiency. He slides the denim down my hips, taking my underwear with it, and then I'm completely naked before him—vulnerable, exposed, aching.
He steps back, just looking at me. His gaze travels from my face to my breasts to my rounded belly to the slick heat between my thighs. I should feel self-conscious, standing here bare while he's still half-dressed, but I don't. The way he looks at me makes me feel powerful. Desired. Worshipped.
"On the bed," he says. "Now."
I obey, climbing onto the mattress and settling against the pillows. He watches me the whole time, his hands working his belt, his zipper, pushing down his pants until he's as naked as I am.
He's magnificent. All hard muscle and golden skin, his body a weapon honed by years of violence. And his cock—thick and hard and straining toward me—makes my mouth water.
He climbs onto the bed, crawling over me, caging me with his arms. His body hovers above mine, close enough to feel his heat but not quite touching.
"I'm going to take my time with you," he says. "I'm going to make you fall apart. And then I'm going to do it all over again."
"Promises, promises."
He laughs—actually laughs—and then his mouth is on my throat, my collarbone, the valley between my breasts.
He works his way down my body with devastating slowness, kissing and licking and nipping at every inch of skin.
My belly, slightly rounded now with our child.
My hips, my thighs, the sensitive crease where my leg meets my pelvis.
By the time he reaches the apex of my thighs, I'm writhing.
"Misha, please—"
"Patience."
He spreads my legs wider, settling between them, his breath hot against my core. I can feel how wet I am, can feel myself clenching around nothing, desperate for friction.
The first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out.
He licks me like I'm a delicacy, like he's savoring every taste. Long, slow strokes from my entrance to my clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves before diving back down. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, keeping me from squirming away from the intense pleasure.
"Oh God," I moan. "Oh God, Misha—"
He doesn't respond, just increases his pace, his tongue working me with relentless precision. One finger slides inside me, then two, curling against that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
The orgasm builds like a wave, cresting higher and higher until I'm teetering on the edge of something vast and terrifying. His mouth seals over my clit, sucking hard, and I shatter.
The pleasure crashes through me in endless waves, my body convulsing, my voice breaking on his name. He works me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks fade, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs.
When I finally open my eyes, he's looking up at me with an expression of pure male satisfaction.
"That's one," he says.
He doesn't give me time to recover.
Before the trembling has fully stopped, he's crawling back up my body, positioning himself at my entrance. I can feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against me, slick with my arousal, and my hips tilt up instinctively.
"Wait," he says. "I need to—the baby—"
"The doctor said it's safe," I remind him. "We won't hurt anything."
Still, he's careful as he pushes inside me. Slow. Controlled. Letting my body adjust to the stretch.
It's different than our first time. That night was desperate, frantic, two people crashing together in the middle of a storm. This is something else. This is deliberate. Intimate. A claiming and a surrender all at once.
When he's fully seated inside me, we both go still.
"Okay?" he asks, his voice strained.
"More than okay." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Move. Please, Misha. I need you to move."
He does.
The first thrust is slow, experimental—a long withdrawal followed by a deep, grinding return that hits every nerve ending inside me. I gasp, and he does it again, setting a rhythm that's torturously unhurried.
"You feel incredible," he groans. "So tight. So wet. Made for me."
"Yours," I agree, the word escaping before I can stop it. "I'm yours."
Something snaps in him at that.
The controlled rhythm shatters, replaced by something harder, faster, more primal. He drives into me with an intensity that steals my breath, his hips pistoning, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise.
I love it. Love the weight of him, the power, the way he's losing himself in my body. I match his rhythm as best I can, lifting my hips to meet each thrust, my nails raking down his back.
"Harder," I demand. "Don't hold back."
"I don't want to hurt you—"
"You won't. I need this. I need you."
He groans, his head dropping to my shoulder, and then he's giving me everything. Every stroke is deep and devastating, hitting that spot inside me that makes me see stars. The pleasure builds again, tighter and brighter than before, coiling at the base of my spine.
"I'm close," I gasp. "Misha, I'm so close—"
"Let go." His hand slides between us, finding my clit, rubbing in tight circles. "Come for me, Bianca. Let me feel you."
The orgasm rips through me with the force of a hurricane.
I scream his name, my body clenching around him, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me.
He follows moments later, his rhythm stuttering, his cock pulsing inside me as he spills himself with a groan that sounds like it's torn from his soul.
We collapse together, tangled and sweating, our hearts pounding in unison.
***
Afterward, we lie in the darkness, wrapped around each other.
His hand rests on my belly, fingers splayed over the slight curve where our child grows. I can feel him breathing against my hair, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
"I never thought I'd have this," he says quietly.
"Have what?"
"Any of it. Someone to hold. Someone to come home to." His hand moves in gentle circles on my stomach. "A family."
"You had family. Dmitri. Anna."
"That's different. That's blood obligation, shared history, people bound together by circumstance." He presses a kiss to my temple. "This is something I chose. Someone I chose."
I turn in his arms, facing him. In the dim light, his features are softer than usual, the sharp edges blurred by shadows and satisfaction.
"I chose you too," I say. "Even when I didn't want to. Even when I was fighting it with everything I had."
"And now?"
"Now I'm done fighting." I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. "Now I just want to build something. With you."
He catches my hand and presses a kiss to my palm, then to the ring that glitters on my finger.
"We'll build it together," he promises. "Whatever you want. Whatever you need. A home. A family. A life."
"A life," I echo. "I like the sound of that."
He pulls me closer, tucking my head under his chin, his arms wrapped around me like he's afraid I'll disappear.
"Sleep," he murmurs. "I've got you."
And I do. For the first time in weeks—maybe for the first time ever—I fall asleep feeling completely, utterly safe.
***
I wake to sunlight and the smell of coffee.
Misha is already awake, propped up against the headboard, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. The sheet has pooled at his waist, leaving his chest bare, the tattoos dark against his skin.
"Good morning, fiancée," he says.
The word sends a thrill through me. Fiancée. I'm engaged. To him.
"Good morning, fiancé." I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles I forgot I had. "How long have you been watching me sleep?"
"Long enough to memorize the way you look in the morning light." He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my face. "I could get used to this."
"You'll have to. You proposed. No take-backs."
He laughs—that rare, genuine laugh that transforms his whole face—and pulls me into his arms.
"No take-backs," he agrees. "You're stuck with me now."
I snuggle into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my cheek.
"I can think of worse fates."
We lie there for a while, not speaking, just existing together in the golden morning light. His hand finds my belly again, resting there with a tenderness that makes my heart ache.
"We should start thinking about names," he says.
"Already?"
"Why not? We have a few months. Might as well be prepared."
I consider this. Names. For our child. The child we made together, in the middle of chaos and violence and impossible circumstances.
"If it's a girl," I say slowly, "I'd like to name her Maria. After your mother."
His hand stills on my stomach. When I look up at him, his eyes are bright with emotion.
"Maria," he repeats. "She would have liked that."
"And if it's a boy?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Alex. After my father."
"Alex Kashkin." I test the name on my tongue. "Maria Kashkin. They sound like good names."
"They sound like family names."
"They are family names." I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Our family."
He holds me tighter, and I feel the tremor that runs through him—the emotion he's still learning to express, still learning to feel.
"Our family," he echoes.
Outside, the sun climbs higher in the sky. The estate comes to life around us—guards changing shifts, staff beginning their routines, the endless machinery of Misha's world continuing to turn.
But in this room, in this bed, there's only us.
A man and a woman, learning to love each other.
A ring on my finger.
A child growing in my belly.
And a future that, for the first time, feels like something to look forward to.