Fuck that shit at this point.
I step forward, out from behind Drogo, and my legs do not shake anymore. My hands are steady. I walk to the nearest table and pick up a glass of vodka—someone's abandoned drink, still half-full. The liquid sloshes slightly as I raise it, but my hand does not tremble.
"I said," I speak clearly, loudly, looking at every single face in this room, "enough." I point the glass at them, at all of them—these men who think violence is entertainment, who celebrate death, who would have let this go on all night. "You are all too much."
Then I raise the glass higher. "Za semyu," I say—to family—and I drain the entire thing in one long swallow. The vodka burns going down, harsh and clean, washing away the taste of copper. I slam the glass down hard enough that it cracks against the table.
Drogo appears behind me, and when I glance back at him, I see something in his face that takes my breath away. Pride. Awe. Love so intense it borders on worship. He picks up another glass, never taking his eyes off mine, and raises it.
"Za semyu!" he roars, looking directly at me, and drains his vodka in one swallow.
The room follows. Every single person—eighty men, fifteen women, everyone who just witnessed what I did—raises their glass and shouts so loud the chandeliers shake. "ZA SEMYU!" The sound crashes over me like a wave, like thunder, like recognition.
Not Za Pakhan. Za semyu.To family. To the queen who just protected her king. To the woman who commanded the dead and they obeyed.
Drogo turns me to face him, his hands on my waist, and the look in his eyes makes my knees weak for an entirely different reason. "My queen," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. "My fierce, beautiful, terrifying queen."
Then he kisses me in front of everyone—deep, possessive, claiming—and the room erupts again. Cheering. Stomping. Chanting something in Russian that I do not understand but that sounds like approval, like acceptance, like belonging.
When he releases me, I am gasping, dizzy, overwhelmed. He keeps one arm locked around my waist, holding me up, and addresses the room in Russian. I catch my name. I catch "queen." I catch "family." The rest is lost in the roar of approval that follows.
Marcus appears at our side, still smiling that same easy smile, and raises his glass to me. "Well damn," he says in English. "That was impressive."
"Shut up," I mutter, but there is no heat in it. I am too exhausted, too overwhelmed, too completely done with this entire night.
"You heard the lady," Drogo says, and his voice carries across the room even though he is not shouting. "The queen is tired. This celebration ends in one hour. Everyone drinks, everyone toasts, everyone remembers this night. And then you leave. Understood?"
"Understood, Pakhan!" The response is immediate, unified, loud.
Drogo turns back to me, his hand cupping my face. "Can you survive one more hour?"
I look at the room—at the men who now look at me with something like respect or fear or both, at the women who are staring like I am something they have never seen before, at Marcus still grinning like this is all perfectly normal, at thetwo new bodies being wrapped in parchment by those same efficient men.
"One hour," I agree. "Then you take me home and we never speak of this night again."
He smiles—that devastating smile that still makes my heart skip despite everything. "Deal. But first—" He raises his voice again. "One final toast! To my queen! To the woman who sees death and says enough! To Alena!"
"TO ALENA!" The room roars, glasses raised, vodka flowing.
And somehow, impossibly, I smile back. Because these are my people now. This violence, this darkness, this world of blood and oaths and ghosts who kill on command—it is mine. Whether I wanted it or not. Whether I am ready or not.
I am the Pakhan's queen. The woman who commands the dead. The horror writer who just became the horror.
And God help anyone who threatens my family now.
EPILOGE
DROGO
The park is quiet for once. Late afternoon sun cuts through the trees in long golden bars, turning the grass almost gold. Marcus sits beside me on the bench, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s spotting a sniper in the playground. Around us, my men are placed strategically—two near the swings, one by the fountain, another leaning against a tree pretending to check his phone. They’re not subtle, but they don’t need to be. Everyone in this city knows who I am now.
My son, Nikolai, is laughing somewhere near the slide—loud, fearless, already too tall for five. He’s got Alena’s eye shape and my temper. Right now, he’s got his arms wrapped around Marcus’s daughter, Sofia, in what he thinks is a “hug.” She’s giggling, trying to squirm away but not really trying.
Marcus’s stare could melt steel.
“Can you stop eyeballing my son, please?” I say, voice low, amused.
Marcus doesn’t look away. “Will your son take his hands off my daughter?”
