"It's nothing."
"Misha—"
"Later." I cup her face in my hands. "Right now, I just need to hold you."
She nods, tears streaming down her face, and presses herself against me.
Around us, my men are securing the perimeter, loading wounded into vehicles, preparing for the long drive back. The compound burns behind us, lighting up the night sky.
I hold her tighter, feeling her heartbeat against my chest, and for the first time in hours—in days—I let myself breathe.
Then she pulls back, looking up at me with something new in her eyes. Fear, yes, but also something else. Something I can't quite read.
"Misha, there's something I need to tell you."
"What is it?"
She hesitates, her hands pressed flat against my chest. I can feel her trembling.
"I'm pregnant."
The words hit me like a physical blow. For a moment, I can't move, can't think, can't do anything but stare at her.
"What?"
"I found out right before the attack. I was going to tell you, but then everything happened so fast, and—" Her voice breaks. "I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner. I should have—"
"Bianca." I take her face in my hands, force her to meet my eyes. "How long have you known?"
"Since the morning of the assault. I took a test. Mrs. Novak helped me get it." Tears are streaming down her face now. "I wanted to tell you before the battle, but I didn't want to distract you, and then they took me, and I was so scared that something would happen, that the baby wouldn't—"
"The baby." The word feels foreign on my tongue. Strange and terrifying and somehow right. "You're carrying my child."
She nods, her lower lip trembling.
I pull her against me, holding her so tightly that I can feel every breath she takes, every beat of her heart.
My child. Our child. Growing inside her while she was chained to a wall in Sergei's dungeon. While I was tearing through his compound, killing everyone between me and her.
"Are you—" I pull back, searching her face. "The baby. Is it—"
"I don't know." Her voice is small, fragile. "I haven't been able to see a doctor. But I haven't had any bleeding, any cramping. I think—I hope—"
"We'll get you to a doctor. As soon as we're back. We'll make sure everything is okay."
She nods, but I can see the exhaustion crashing over her now—the adrenaline fading, the fear and pain and relief all catching up at once. Her eyes are glazing, her body swaying.
"Misha, I don't feel—"
Her knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the ground, sweeping her up into my arms. She's limp, unconscious, her head lolling against my shoulder. The medic is there in seconds, checking her pulse, her breathing.
"She's exhausted," he says. "Dehydrated, malnourished. She needs rest and fluids, but she'll be okay."
"She's pregnant," I tell him. "Get her to a hospital. Now."
The medic's eyes widen, but he doesn't hesitate. "Yes, sir."
