***
The sun is setting by the time I leave the greenhouse.
The sky is painted in shades of orange and purple, the last light gilding the gothic towers of the estate. Guards patrol the perimeter in careful rotations. Somewhere inside, Misha is coordinating defenses, preparing for a war that might arrive any day.
And I'm standing here, covered in dirt, trying to figure out who I am in this world.
Anna's words echo in my mind.Don't give up on him. He's worth the effort.
Is he? I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.
I came here as a captive. Somewhere along the way, I became something else. I'm just not sure what yet.
The only thing I know for certain is that I'm not the same person who walked into that auction a week ago. That girl wasnaive, sheltered, blind to the darkness in her own family. This girl—this woman—has seen the darkness up close. Has touched it, tasted it, let it inside her.
There's no going back from that. The only way out is through.
I take one last look at the sunset, then turn and walk toward the house. Toward Misha. Toward whatever comes next.
Chapter 18 - Misha
The estate holds its breath.
I stand in the command center, watching feeds from two dozen cameras, listening to radio chatter from teams positioned across the perimeter. Everything is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that comes before violence, heavy with anticipation.
Alexei is at my shoulder, monitoring communications. Dmitri's men are integrated with my own, a seamless defensive force spread across the grounds. We've done everything right—fortified the weak points, established overlapping fields of fire, prepared contingencies for every scenario we could imagine.
It won't be enough. It's never enough.
My eyes drift to the feed from the basement corridor. The safe room door is sealed, Bianca locked inside. I can't see her—the room itself has no cameras, a security feature that now feels like a flaw—but I know she's there. Watching the same feeds I'm watching. Waiting.
I should have told her more. Should have found better words for what she means to me, for what I'm fighting to protect. But words have never been my strength. Violence is my language, and tonight I'll speak it fluently.
"Movement on the south perimeter," one of the teams reports. "Three vehicles approaching. No headlights."
I lean forward, studying the thermal imaging. Three SUVs, moving fast, cutting across the fields toward the estate's weakest approach.
"Hold positions," I order. "Let them commit."
The vehicles stop a hundred meters from the wall. Doors open. Men pour out—more than three vehicles should hold,which means they were packed tight, which means this is just the vanguard.
"Contact," the south team reports. "Engaging."
The first shots shatter the silence, and the night erupts into war.
The assault hits from three directions simultaneously.
South, east, and north—coordinated strikes designed to stretch our defenses, to force us to divide our forces. Professional. Disciplined. Sergei has been planning this for weeks, and it shows.
I direct the defense from the command center, my voice steady even as chaos unfolds on the monitors. "North team, reinforce the drainage tunnel. East team, hold the gate—do not let them breach. South team, push them back to the tree line."
Radio chatter fills the room. Gunfire crackles through the speakers. On the feeds, muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness, and men fall on both sides.
"We've got climbers on the east wall," someone reports. "Two down, more coming."
"Redirect team four to the east wall. Reinforce from the interior."
I'm operating on instinct now, seventeen years of training and experience compressed into split-second decisions. Move this team here. Redirect fire there. Plug this gap before it becomes a breach.
