***
The greenhouse is the only place I can breathe.
I push through the door and let the warm, humid air envelop me. The space looks different than it did a week ago—cleaner, more organized. The dead plants have been cleared, the salvageable ones repotted, the paths swept free of debris. It's still a work in progress, but it's progress nonetheless.
I grab a trowel and kneel beside a row of pots, digging into the soil with more force than necessary. The physical work helps—gives my hands something to do while my mind races.
What am I doing here?
Not here in the greenhouse. Here in this situation. Here in Misha's bed, in his life, in the middle of a war I didn't choose.
Last night felt real. The way he touched me, the way he looked at me, the things he said when he thought I was falling asleep. But in the light of day, surrounded by maps and weapons and tactical briefings, I'm not sure what any of it means.
He bought me at an auction. He lied to me for four months. He disappeared for two years and spent that time watching me without my knowledge. These aren't small things. They're not things I can just forgive because he makes my heart race and my body ache.
And yet.
And yet I walked out into the rain for him. I pulled him down onto his bed and gave him something I'd never given anyone. I chose him, even knowing what he is, what he's done.
What does that make me?
I dig deeper into the soil, my fingers finding roots and stones. The fern I saved last week is thriving now, its fronds unfurling toward the grimy glass. Life persisting despite everything.
Like me. Like him.
The letters from his father are still in my room—I haven't found the right moment to give them to Misha. Part of me feels guilty for reading them, for intruding on something so private. But another part of me is grateful for the glimpse they offered into who the Kashkins were before tragedy tore them apart.
Alexander loved Maria. Really loved her—desperately, completely, in spite of the blood that stained their lives. And she must have loved him too, or she wouldn't have kept those letters, wouldn't have buried them in her sanctuary like treasures.
Could Misha and I have something like that?
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I push it down immediately. It's too soon to think about that. Too soon to think about anything beyond survival. Sergei is coming. Men might die defending this estate. I need to focus on the present, not some impossible future.
But the thought lingers anyway, stubborn as the weeds I'm pulling from the soil.
***
I hear the car before I see it.
The crunch of gravel, the low rumble of an engine. I look up from my work, my heart suddenly pounding—but it's not an attack. Just a single vehicle, sleek and black, pulling up to the front of the house.
I watch through the grimy glass as a woman emerges from the back seat. She's young—late twenties, maybe—with dark hair and sharp features that look familiar. She moves with confidence, ignoring the guards who approach her, and strides toward the front door like she owns the place.
It takes me a moment to place the resemblance. The cheekbones. The set of the jaw. The way she carries herself like the world should rearrange itself around her.
Misha's sister. It has to be.
I should stay here. Should let whatever family reunion is happening inside play out without my interference. But curiosity wins over caution, and I find myself wiping my hands on my pants and heading toward the house.
I'm halfway across the garden when she intercepts me.
"You must be Bianca."
She's standing on the terrace, watching me approach with an expression that's equal parts curiosity and assessment. Up close, the family resemblance is even stronger—the same pale eyes, the same angular features. But where Misha is all cold control, she radiates warmth. Or at least the appearance of it.
"And you must be Anna," I say.
"Guilty." She descends the steps, closing the distance between us. "My brother told me to stay away. Said it wasn't safe." A smile curves her lips. "I've never been good at following orders."
