Anastasiya Volkova (Reversed

The road winds like a scar through the Russian countryside—frost-bitten trees stretching toward a gray sky, their bare branches clawing at the clouds. The cab rattles with every stone beneath its wheels, its heater barely working, the driver silent except for the occasional grunt when hitting a pothole. You’ve lost track of how long it’s been. Hours, maybe. Or just one hour that feels longer than it should.

You sit in the back seat, coat pulled tight, watching frost bloom slowly across the corners of the window. Outside, the landscape is a blur of snow-dusted pine, iron fences, and empty earth. It looks like a place forgotten by time. You tell yourself this is temporary. Just a season. A family debt. A contract you had no part in.

But the ticket wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

"You are to marry Anastasiya Petrovna Volkova.”

That was all the letter from your parents said—aside from a note about honor, obligation, and preserving the bloodline. No further explanation. No apologies. Just the simple truth that your freedom, your future, and your body were all part of some forgotten bargain.

Now, here you are. The cab’s brakes screech as it slows at a towering set of black iron gates. Two guards with rifles emerge from a booth, one tapping the window.

You lower it slowly.

He peers at you through mirrored sunglasses, then looks at a clipboard.

Name?

You answer.

He studies you. Long enough to make it uncomfortable. Then a nod.

Drive on.

The gates swing open—not smoothly, but with a groaning creak that feels intentional, as if the place wants you to know it's opening for you, not to you.

And then you see it.

The Volkova Estate rises out of the earth like a cathedral built for wolves. Stone walls blackened with age. Spires. Gargoyles. Crimson curtains in towering windows. A mansion, yes—but also something else. A relic. A warning.

The cab pulls to a stop before the grand stairway. You step out.

The cold bites instantly. Your shoes crunch on frost-coated gravel. Somewhere above, crows cry and vanish into the trees. The air smells like snow and iron and burning cedar.

The front doors open before you knock.

Yakov stands there, dressed in a black butler’s uniform so crisp it looks painted on. Silver at the temples. Gloves immaculate. He does not smile.

Welcome to the Volkova Estate, he says with perfect calm. This way.

No introduction. No small talk. He turns and you follow.

The entrance hall swallows you whole. Vaulted ceilings. Marble underfoot. A chandelier the size of a small car hangs above, its crystals casting faint starbursts across the black stone. The silence is oppressive—like a church during a funeral.

Then, at the top of the stairs, he appears.

Mikhail Volkova.

Tall, barrel-chested, draped in a charcoal coat with fur at the collar. His beard is silver, neatly trimmed. His eyes—gray, sharp, and assessing—cut through you with the indifference of a man used to dealing with death.

He does not descend. He waits for you to climb.

Each step echoes as you ascend the marble stairway, heart pounding in rhythm with your boots. You reach the top, and he extends his hand. You shake it.

His grip is crushing.

You are smaller than I imagined, he says. No smile. But blood does not lie. We will see what’s in yours.

Then you hear it. Soft footsteps behind you. Lighter. Slower. Intentional.

You turn.

Anastasiya.

She is dressed in black velvet and white silk. Her hair—pure white, silken and cascading down her back—contrasts starkly with her red lips and the ice in her eyes. She walks with the grace of a queen born, not made. Every step is deliberate, every blink a calculation.

She stops two paces away from you and tilts her head, examining you as if you were an acquisition.

They sent me this? she says, to no one in particular.

Her voice is smooth, faintly accented, and cruel in its precision.

At least you’re not shaking.

You don’t respond.

Good. I hate when they tremble.

She circles you once—slowly—then stops just behind your shoulder.

You feel her breath near your ear.

Let’s hope you last the summer.

And then she’s gone. Down the hall without another word.

You exhale only once she’s out of sight.

From the corner of your eye, you catch two others.

A young man, watching you with thinly veiled resentment. Blonde, overdressed, fake confidence. That must be Levka, Mikhail's assistant. His lips twitch in a forced smile. He says nothing.

*Beside him stands a young woman in a maid's uniform. Dark hair, lowered eyes, holding a silver tray of tea. Small, quiet. Observing. Her gaze brushes yours once—briefly—and then returns to the floor.

Lena.

You feel something there. Unspoken. Tense. Electric.

You will be taken to your quarters, Mikhail says. Yakov will show you. You are not a guest. You are property under observation.

He turns and walks away.

Yakov gestures for you to follow, and you do.

As the doors close behind you, the chill doesn’t leave your bones.

It deepens.

You have entered the wolf's den.

And the wolves have already started watching.*

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