But underneath the tactical calculations, something else is running. A constant awareness of the basement, of her. Every explosion makes me think of Bianca flinching in the safe room. Every scream makes me imagine her fear.
I can't afford these thoughts. They're a distraction, a vulnerability. But I can't stop them either.
"North wall is taking heavy fire," Alexei reports. "They're focusing on the drainage tunnel."
The weakness we identified. Of course they know about it. Sergei has done his reconnaissance.
"Send the reserve team. Hold that position at all costs."
On the monitor, I watch our men rush to reinforce the north wall. The fighting is brutal—close quarters, hand-to-hand in places. Bodies fall. Blood stains the grass.
My men. Dying to protect this estate. Dying to protect her.
I push the thought aside and focus on the tactical display. Emotion is a luxury I can't afford. Not now.
By midnight, the assault falters.
Sergei's forces pull back across all fronts—not retreating, just regrouping. Testing our defenses, probing for weaknesses. This was never meant to be the real attack. This was reconnaissance.
The real assault will come later. Hours from now, maybe. Or tomorrow. Whenever Sergei decides he's gathered enough intelligence.
"Maintain positions," I order. "Rotating watches. I want everyone ready to respond at a moment's notice."
Alexei nods, already issuing commands through his radio. The command center settles into a tense rhythm—men monitoring feeds, checking communications, waiting for the next wave.
I should stay here. Should keep my eyes on the tactical display, my mind on the defense.
Instead, I find myself walking toward the basement.
The safe room door is exactly as I left it—sealed, secure, the electronic lock glowing red in the dim corridor. I enter my code and wait for the heavy click of disengagement.
Bianca is sitting in front of the monitors when I enter, her face pale in the bluish light of the screens. She turns at the sound of the door, and I see the fear in her eyes—fear that dissolves into relief when she recognizes me.
"Misha." She's on her feet and in my arms before I can speak, her body pressing against mine, her fingers digging into my back. "I watched the whole thing. The feeds—I saw—"
"It's over. For now." I hold her tight, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against my chest. "They've pulled back. We held them."
"For now," she repeats. "But they'll come back."
"Yes."
She pulls away just enough to look at my face. Her eyes search mine, looking for something—reassurance, maybe, or truth.
"How bad?"
"We lost three men. Several wounded." I don't sugarcoat it. She asked for honesty, and she deserves it. "But the perimeter held. They didn't breach the walls."
"Three men." Her voice is soft. "Three men dead. Because of me."
"Because of Sergei. Because of your father. Because of a world that treats women like property." I cup her face in myhands, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Not because of you. Never because of you."
She doesn't argue, but I can see she doesn't entirely believe me either.
"I should get back to the command center," I say. "I just needed to see you. To make sure—"
"Stay."
The word stops me cold.
