Even at rest, he's a soldier.
"Morning," I murmur.
His arm tightens briefly. "How do you feel?"
"Safe." The word surprises me, but it's true. Despite everything—Sergei, the assault, the war waiting outside these walls—I feel safe in his arms.
Then the nausea hits.
It comes without warning, a sudden roll in my stomach that has me throwing off the covers and stumbling toward the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I'm retching, my body heaving with a violence that leaves me shaking.
Misha is there in seconds, his hand on my back, pulling my hair away from my face. "Bianca. What's wrong?"
"I don't—" Another wave cuts me off. I grip the porcelain and ride it out, my eyes watering, my throat burning.
When it finally passes, I slump against the cool tile, trembling. Misha crouches beside me, his face tight with concern.
"Food poisoning?" he asks. "Or nerves?"
"Probably nerves." I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "The stress of everything. The waiting."
He nods, but his eyes are searching my face, looking for something more. I look away before he can find it.
Because even as I say the words, a different possibility is taking shape in my mind. One I'm not ready to examine. Not yet.
***
He helps me back to bed, brings me water and crackers, watches me with that intense focus that makes me feel like the only person in the world.
"Stay here today," he says. "Rest. I'll have Mrs. Novak check on you."
"I'm fine. It's just—"
"You're not fine. You just threw up everything in your stomach." His voice is firm but not unkind. "The estate is on high alert. Sergei could move at any time. I need to know you're safe, and I need to focus on the defenses. I can't do that if I'm worried about you collapsing somewhere."
I want to argue, but he's right. And honestly, the thought of getting out of bed right now makes my stomach turn again.
"Fine," I concede. "But I want updates. Real ones, not sanitized versions designed to keep me calm."
"You'll have them." He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead—gentle, almost reverent. "I'll come back when I can."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the silence and the churning in my gut.
I tell myself it's stress.
The nausea. The exhaustion that seems to press me into the mattress even after a full night's sleep. The tenderness in my breasts that I noticed in the shower yesterday but dismissed as nothing.
It's stress. It has to be stress. My body is responding to trauma—the auction, the captivity, the threat of violence. That's all this is.
But even as I think it, another part of my mind is doing the math.
Our first night together was... I count backward, trying to pin down the days. They've blurred together since I arrived at the estate, one bleeding into the next. But it was at least two weeks ago. Maybe closer to three.
My period was due a week ago.
I didn't notice. There's been so much happening—the tactical briefings, the greenhouse, the escalating threat—that something as mundane as a menstrual cycle didn't even register. But now that I'm thinking about it, I can't stop thinking about it.
I'm late. I'm nauseous. I'm exhausted.
