"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.
