The Throne
913 Words
Ch. 20: The Throne
Lena’s POV
The Volkov estate loomed before us, its iron gates rusted but unbroken, the gardens overgrown with thorns. The mansion itself was a monument to Viktor’s legacy—dark, imposing, and dripping with blood. The DeLuca m******e had left us victorious, but the air still reeked of gunpowder and death.
Anya stepped forward, her black dress stained with blood, her face unreadable. "Welcome home, devushka."
I didn’t move. The weight of the gun in my hand was heavy, the memory of pulling the trigger still fresh. I had killed for this. Betrayed for this. Bled for this.
And now, it was mine.
Damian stood beside me, his expression haunted, his knuckles white around the gun he hadn’t lowered since the chapel. Lucian leaned against the gate, watching me with cold, calculating eyes.
"You hesitate," Anya observed, her voice smooth. "A queen doesn’t hesitate."
I turned to her. "I’m not a queen."
"Not yet," she agreed. "But you will be."
I stepped forward, my boots crunching on the gravel. "What now?"
Anya smiled. "Now, you take what’s yours."
---
The study was exactly as Viktor had left it—the whiskey decanter half-empty, the ledgers open, the air thick with the scent of cigars and leather. I ran my fingers over the desk, imagining him sitting here, planning, scheming, ruining lives.
"Sit," Anya ordered, gesturing to the chair behind the desk.
I didn’t move. "This was never mine."
"It was always yours," she corrected. "Viktor knew it. I knew it." She stepped closer. "Even Damian knew it."
I glanced at him. He stood in the shadows, his face unreadable.
"You knew?" I accused.
He didn’t answer.
Anya sighed. "He suspected." She poured herself a drink. "Just like he suspected I was alive."
I stared at her. "You let me think I killed you."
"I let you believe what you needed to believe," she said, sipping her whiskey. "Just like I let Damian believe he was in control."
"And Lucian?"
"Lucian knew," she admitted. "He was the only one who ever saw me for what I was."
"A monster," I whispered.
Anya laughed. "No, detka. A survivor."*
I gripped the gun tighter. "Why tell me this now?"
"Because you need to understand," she said, her voice softening. "The throne isn’t given. It’s taken."
I looked at the chair again. The power it represented. The blood on my hands.
"What do I have to do?"
Anya set down her glass. "Prove you’re worthy."
"How?"
She pulled a gun from her waistband and slid it across the desk.
"Kill me."
---
Damian’s POV
I watched from the shadows, my heart pounding in my chest.
Anya was testing her.
Pushing her.
Forcing her to choose.
Lena picked up the gun, her hands shaking. "You’re crazy."
"Am I?" Anya spread her arms. "Or am I the only one who sees you for what you are?"
Lena’s finger hovered over the trigger. "A monster?"
"A queen," Anya corrected.
I stepped forward. "Lena—"
"Stay out of this," she snapped, her voice raw.
Anya smiled. "He can’t save you, devushka. Not from this."*
Lena’s eyes locked onto mine. Searching. Pleading.
I didn’t look away.
She turned back to Anya. "Why now?"
"Because the time for games is over," Anya said. "Either you rule, or you die."
Lena exhaled slowly. Then—
She pulled the trigger.
---
The Gunshot
The sound was deafening, echoing through the room.
Anya staggered, blood blooming on her chest. She collapsed to her knees, her breath ragged, her eyes wide with shock.
"Good girl," she gasped, blood on her lips.
Lena dropped the gun, her hands trembling. "I didn’t—"
"You did," Anya whispered. "And now you’re free."
I rushed forward, catching Anya as she fell. Her grip on my arm was weak, her voice a rasp. "She’s ready, Damian. Protect her."
"I will," I promised.
Anya’s smile was faint. "I knew you would." Her hand fell away. Her eyes closed.
Silence.
Lena stood there, staring at Anya’s body, her face pale. "I killed her."
"No," I said, standing. "You became what you were always meant to be."
She looked at me, her eyes glistening. "A monster?"
"A queen," I corrected.
Lucian stepped into the room, his face grave. "The men are waiting."
Lena nodded, squaring her shoulders. "Then let’s not keep them."
---
The Coronation
The great hall was packed with Volkov soldiers, their faces hard, their loyalty uncertain. They watched as Lena stepped onto the platform, her head high, her green eyes burning with fire.
I stood at her side, Lucian at her other. The three of us—a family forged in blood and betrayal.
Lena raised her voice, clear and strong. "I am Elena Volkov." She paused, letting the name sink in. "Viktor’s daughter. Your leader."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"From this moment, the Volkov name means something new," she continued. "No more lies. No more secrets."
Lucian glanced at me. "She sounds like you."
I didn’t take my eyes off Lena. "She’s better."
Lena turned to us, her expression unreadable. "I need you both."
"You have us," I said.
Lucian nodded. "Always."
She exhaled, then turned back to the men. "Who stands with me?"
Silence.
Then—
One by one, the soldiers dropped to their knees.
"Volkov," they *chanted. "Volkov."
Lena closed her eyes, just for a second. Then she opened them, stronger than ever.
The crown was hers.
And so were we.
- Writer
