And we didn't use protection.
The realization hits me like a punch to the chest. I sit up too fast, and the room spins, forcing me to grip the headboard until it steadies.
We didn't use protection. That first night, in the rain, desperate and consuming—neither of us thought about it. And the nights since then, tangled together in this bed, we haven't thought about it either.
I'm a medical student. I know how this works. I know the statistics, the timing, the likelihood.
I could be pregnant.
The thought is so enormous that my mind skitters away from it, refusing to fully engage. Pregnant. With Misha's child. In the middle of a war, surrounded by enemies, trapped in a world I never chose.
No. I can't think about this now. Can't deal with it, can't process it. Sergei is hours away. Men are preparing to die defending this estate. I don't have the luxury of falling apart over a possibility that might not even be real.
I need to know for certain. And I need to know before I tell Misha—if there's anything to tell.
***
Mrs. Novak arrives an hour later with tea and toast on a tray. She takes one look at my face and sets the tray aside.
"You look pale," she says. "The nausea hasn't passed?"
"It comes and goes."
She studies me with those sharp, knowing eyes. I wonder how much she sees—this woman who's been with the Kashkin family for decades, who's probably witnessed every kind of crisis imaginable.
"Mrs. Novak," I say carefully. "Is there... would there be a way to get certain supplies without anyone knowing? Medical supplies?"
Her expression doesn't change. "What kind of supplies?"
I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat. But I need to know. I can't function in this uncertainty, can't make decisions about my own survival without understanding what I'm protecting.
"A pregnancy test."
The silence that follows is deafening. Mrs. Novak's face remains neutral, but something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or understanding.
"I see," she says quietly.
"I don't know for certain. It might be nothing. But I need to find out, and I can't—" I swallow hard. "I can't tell Misha until I know. Not with everything that's happening."
She nods slowly. "There's a medical kit in the basement. Comprehensive. It would have what you need." She pauses. "I can retrieve it without drawing attention."
"Thank you."
She moves toward the door, then stops. "Bianca. Whatever the result—you're not alone in this. You understand?"
The kindness in her voice nearly undoes me. I blink back the sudden sting of tears and nod.
"I understand."
***
The test takes three minutes.
I lock myself in the bathroom, the small plastic stick clutched in my trembling hands, and watch the seconds tick by on my phone. Three minutes to change everything. Three minutes to confirm or deny a possibility that has reshaped the entire landscape of my fear.
The first line appears immediately. Control line. The test is working.
I hold my breath.
