Evening falls. The estate grows quiet, tense, every shadow holding its breath.
Misha finally comes to me.
He appears in the doorway, still dressed for command—dark clothes, radio clipped to his belt, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face. He looks like he's been through a war already, though the real one hasn't started yet.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Better. The nausea passed."
He crosses to the bed and sits on the edge, his hand finding mine. The contact is grounding—his palm warm and rough against my fingers.
"I heard Anna refused to leave."
"She did."
A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Stubborn woman."
"She said you threatened to have her physically removed."
"I considered it." He shakes his head, but there's something that might be reluctant affection beneath the frustration. "She's always been like this. When we were children, she once locked herself in the wine cellar because our parents tried to send her away during a security threat. Stayed there for six hours until they agreed to let her stay."
"That sounds about right."
"She's going to get herself killed one day with that stubbornness."
"Or she's going to save someone's life because she refused to leave." I squeeze his hand. "She's stronger than you give her credit for."
He's silent for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "Sergei left Sacramento an hour ago," he says finally. "He's heading north. We don't know his exact route, but the estimates put him here by late tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest."
My heart stutters. "So it's happening."
"It's happening." His grip tightens. "I need to move you to the safe room soon. It's the most secure location in the estate—reinforced walls, independent air supply, communication equipment. If they breach the perimeter, you'll be protected there."
"And you?"
"I'll be commanding the defense." His eyes meet mine. "I won't be able to come to you once it starts. Not until it's over."
"I understand."
"Bianca." He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "When this is over—we need to talk. About us. About what happens next."
"Is that a promise?"
"It's the closest I can give you right now."
I want to tell him. The words are right there, pressing against my teeth:I'm pregnant. We're having a baby. Everything is different now.
But the timing is wrong. He needs to focus, needs to be sharp and clear-headed for the battle ahead. Telling him now would split his attention, add fear to an already impossible situation.
So I swallow the words and squeeze his hand instead.
"Come back to me," I say. "Whatever happens out there—come back."
"I will." He leans forward and kisses me—deep and desperate, like he's trying to memorize the taste of me. "I will."
Then he helps me out of bed, and together we walk down to the basement, to the safe room that will be my prison for the battle to come.
He settles me inside, shows me the monitors, the communication system, the supplies. His movements are efficient, military, but his eyes keep returning to my face.
