Chapter 5 Landon
Landon
My head throbs like someone’s hammering nails into my skull.
I groan, rolling over, expecting the soft give of my bed, the familiar scent of my lavender pillow spray. But the surface beneath me is too firm, too leathery.
My eyes flutter open, blurry at first, adjusting to the dim light filtering through massive windows.
Fuck.
This isn’t my apartment. The ceiling is too high, the room too expansive, like some kind of upscale loft I’ve only seen in magazines.
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
It hits me all at once. The street. The prickling sensation of being followed.
The thud against the back of my head. Strong arms lifting me.
A car door slamming. My heart lurches, and a shrill scream rips from my throat before I can stop it.
It echoes off the walls, sharp and desperate, like a trapped animal.
“Oh God,” I gasp, clutching at my chest. Instinctively, my hand reaches out for my stuffie Claw but my fingers grasp empty air. He’s not here. Of course he’s not. He was in my backpack, which I must have dropped on the sidewalk.
The thought of my darling stuffie lying there, abandoned, sends a fresh wave of panic surging through me.
Claw is all I have left of Mom.
What if someone takes him? What if—
No. I need to focus. I need to breathe.
I push myself up on the couch, my vision clearing enough to take in the room. It’s huge, luxurious even: marble floors, sleek furniture, a view of the city skyline that screams money.
But it’s not home.
And I’m definitely not alone.
Across from me, in a wide armchair, sits a man. He’s massive, broad-shouldered, with dark hair cropped close and a jawline that could cut glass. His eyes are piercing, cold, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved.
He’s dressed in a dark suit, no tie, top button undone, but there’s nothing casual about him. He looks mean. Moody. And scary as hell. Like the kind of guy who could snap bones without breaking a sweat.
“You,” I whisper, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “You hit me. You brought me here.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just nods once, slowly, like it’s no big deal. His expression doesn’t change. No smirk, no apology. Simply that steady, unnerving gaze.
My mind races. Who is he? Why me?
I force myself to think like the law student I am. I try to gather evidence, build a case. But all I have are fragments: the suit, the car, the efficiency of it all. This isn’t random. This is planned.
I swallow hard, summoning every ounce of bravado I can muster.
“You have no idea who you’re messing with,” I say, trying to sound defiant.
“Let me go right now, or you’ll regret it.
I know people. Powerful people. My father’s a police detective.
He’ll have the whole force after you. SWAT teams, FBI…
you name it. This is kidnapping. A federal crime. You’ll rot in prison.”
It’s a lie, of course.
A desperate bluff.
My father’s no cop. He’s the opposite. But if this guy thinks I’m connected to law enforcement, maybe he’ll second-guess himself. Maybe he’ll panic and let me walk. It could pay dividends.
Right?
And even if he doesn’t buy it, he might give something away as to his identity or his motivation for bringing me here. People often make mistakes when wrong footed by a line of questioning, and that’s exactly what I plan to do.
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s amused but too bored to show it. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and speaks for the first time. His voice is deep, accented—Russian—with a gravelly edge that sends chills down my spine.
“I’m Ivan,” he says simply. “And I know exactly who your father is, Artyom Galkin. Or should that be Landon Lane?”
My stomach drops.
He knows my real name. My full name.
This isn’t about some random mugging or creep. This is business. Galkin business. The kind my father shielded me from, the kind that involves blood and shadows and men like Ivan.
What has Dad gotten into?
Or rather, what old grudge has come back to bite him?
Usually family beefs like this are settled on the streets or in dark alleys. This feels different to me. I’m no expert, but I’ve picked up enough from my father along the way. If they wanted me dead, I’d be dead already.
Unless…
I glance toward the door: thick, metal-reinforced, with not one, not two, but three heavy-duty bolts and a keycard panel. It looks like something out of a bank vault. There’s no way I’m getting through that without tools. Or help.
Ivan follows my gaze, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You can try,” he says, his tone casual but laced with warning.
“But I don’t advise it. The door’s wired.
Alarms, locks, the works. And even if you got out.
.. well, let’s just say the building’s not friendly to uninvited guests.
You look like you can run, but I’ve never met a person who could outrun a bullet. ”
I clench my fists to stop my hands from shaking.
Panic bubbles up, hot and insistent, but I shove it down. Panicking won’t help. I need to stay calm, think rationally. Like in a deposition. I need to control the narrative, probe for weaknesses.
“Can I... can I have a glass of water?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. It’s a small request, something to buy time, to ground myself.
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Sure.”
I watch as he stands—God, he’s tall, easily over six feet—and moves to the kitchen area with a predator’s grace.
Ivan’s shoulders roll under the suit jacket, muscles shifting like coiled springs.
He’s powerful, built like he could bench-press a car.
But there’s precision in his movements, no wasted energy.
I watch as he fills a glass from a fancy filtered tap and walks back, handing it to me without a word.
Our fingers brush briefly, and I jerk back like I’ve been burned. He doesn’t react, just returns to his chair, watching me sip the water. It’s cold, soothing my dry throat, but my mind is already spinning.
Escape plan: Step one, assess the environment.
Windows? Too high up, probably reinforced glass.
Kitchen? Knives, maybe, but he’d see me coming if I tried anything right now.
Bathroom? Every place has a bathroom. Maybe there’s a window there, or a vent.
Before I can refine the thought, Ivan leans forward again, his eyes locking onto mine…
“Listen carefully, Landon,” I van says, his voice a low rumble.
“There are rules here. You obey me at all times. No questions, no arguments. No contact with the outside world. That means no phones, no signals, nothing. And you never, ever attempt to escape. Break any of these, and there will be consequences. Understand?”
Consequences. The word hangs in the air, implying things I don’t want to imagine.
I nod sullenly, staring into my glass.
This isn’t good. Not at all.
I’m trapped with a man who could crush me without effort, in a penthouse fortress, all because of my father’s world bleeding into mine.
But I won’t just sit here and wait to be ransomed or... worse.
I have to find a way out.
And the sooner, the better.
Time crawls. I’ve got my thoughts, and not much else.
Ivan doesn’t talk much—he just sits there, occasionally checking a phone or pouring himself another drink from the bar.
Vodka, I think. I make a note of how much he drinks, realizing that if he gets sloppy with one shot too many, that could give me a chance to make a move.
The penthouse is eerily quiet, save for the low buzz of the aircon. I pace a little, testing the boundaries, but he watches every move. No openings yet.
My head still aches, and I feel grimy from the night—sweat, fear, whatever.
A shower might clear my mind, give me space to think.
And privacy? Maybe that will give me the space I need to really get my brain in gear.
“Can I go for a shower?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “To freshen up, at least? I feel disgusting. Trust me, you don’t want to smell me right now.”
Ivan considers it, then nods.
“Okay. The large bathroom is down the hall, first door on the left. Towels inside.”
I stand, smoothing my clothes, still the same outfit from last night, wrinkled and uncomfortable.
“And you’ll leave me alone, right?” I ask. “I need some dignity here. I’m not showering with you lurking or peeping.”
Ivan’s eyes narrow, but he shrugs.
“Fine,” he says. “But don’t take too long. And remember the rules. Do not fuck with me, boy. There will be consequences if you do, believe me.”
I nod, heart pounding as I walk down the hall.
The bathroom is as luxurious as the rest—marble counters, a rainfall showerhead, stocked with high-end soaps and shampoos. I lock the door behind me, testing it. It’s solid, but no deadbolt.
Still, it’s something.
Anything to give me just enough privacy to put some kind of plan in place at the very least.
First things first: scan for escape.
The window is small, frosted, and sealed shut—no latch.
But up on the ceiling, there’s a vent. It’s rectangular, maybe big enough to crawl through if I can pop it open.
Movies make it look easy—unscrew the grate, shimmy into the ducts. But in reality? Who knows. It will be a super-tight squeeze, and for all I know it will lead me nowhere.
But it’s a chance. And right now, I’m thinking that I might not get another.
I turn on the shower full blast, letting the water roar to mask any noise. Steam fills the room quickly.
Standing on the toilet for height, I reach up, fingers prying at the vent cover. It’s screwed in, but loosely—maybe maintenance oversight. I twist one screw with my nails, wincing as it digs into my skin.
“Yes!” I whisper, excitement bubbling up inside me.
The screw loosens. Then another.
Come on, come on...
The third screw gives, and the grate pops free with a soft clatter, muffled by the shower. I catch it before it falls, heart racing. The duct beyond is dark, narrow… but possible. If I can hoist myself up that is…
“Okay,” I say, bracing myself to use all my upper body strength. “Three. Two…”
But just before I hit One, the door bursts open with a crash, wood splintering slightly around the lock. Ivan stands there, fury etched across his face, eyes blazing like storm clouds. He takes in the scene—the running shower, the dangling vent grate in my hand—and his jaw clenches.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ivan growls, stepping forward. “Actually, don’t bother answering that.”
Before I know it, Ivan has his hands around my neck and he pulls me directly under the shower water. Almost right away, I’m soaked to the bone and my sopping wet clothes cling to my body.
“You fool!” Ivan bellows, his voice full of anger. “You didn’t think you could escape, did you?”
I stomp my foot on the shower floor in pure frustration.
“I hate you!” I holler, stomping my other foot for good measure. “Let me out of this shower! Right now!”
“I will,” Ivan says. “But not before you learn your damn lesson.”
With that, I let out a shrill gasp as Ivan practically tears my jeans down over my waist and down toward my ankles. He pins me in place against the wall, my body directly under the shower as the hot water continues to blast downward.
“Safeword,” Ivan barks. “Your ass is going to be sorry now, boy. Believe me when I say that.”
“Rabbit,” I blurt out, instinctively. “My safeword is Rabbit.”
I moan involuntarily as I feel Ivan’s hands rip my briefs directly off my body in one wild movement before tossing them across the room. With my bare bottom on display, I feel my dick harden with excitement as Ivan’s strong hands move me into position.
I can’t believe how rock-hard my cock is. It’s humiliating, totally degrading. But to be honest, I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.
“You’re lucky I don’t wedge a bar of soap in that insolent mouth of yours,” Ivan growls, one hand pressing on my lower back and the other gripping the back of my neck. “Now count these spanks. Lose count and we go back to zero, boy. Got it?”
“Whatever!” I protest, clenching my butt cheeks and preparing myself for what is to come.
“As you wish,” Ivan snaps, drawing his hand back and landing a hard opening spank perfectly in the center of my left buttock before equaling things up with an equally accurate delivery to my right cheek. “Count, boy!”
“One! Two!” I say, the pain from the spanks taking me by surprise.
This is no roleplay or foreplay spanking from some clueless jock or fake Daddy. This is the real thing.
And it hurts.
“Owwwww! Three! Owwwwww! Four!” I call out, my cheeks already throbbing.
“Hold still,” Ivan barks, his hands gripping my ass cheeks and wobbling them for his own amusement. “Naughty boys get red butts. If you didn’t know before, you sure as hell will do from here on out.”
“Owwwww! Owwwww!” I cry, the fifth and sixth spanks landing so hard I almost feel my legs giving way underneath me.
“Now get yourself washed and dried,” Ivan barks, stepping back and watching on as I hop from foot to foot and desperately try to distract myself from the pain. “And, yes, I will be watching you every step of the way.”
“Yes, sir,” I answer, my ass on fire but my mind already back in business mode. “I’ll do better from now on.”
Ivan nods.
But if he thinks I’m scared of him or ready to play by his rules he’s got another thing coming.
From here on out, I’m all about the long game.
He wants a boy he can break, punish, and play with…
it’s written all over his face, and judging by the big tent at the front of his trousers it’s hardwired into his cock too.
Well, if that’s what he wants, that’s what I’ll give him.
All the while I’ll be plotting my escape. Ivan is a hired hand, a kidnapper and an asshole.
Ivan has kidnapped Landon Lane.
But I’m also Artyom Galkin too—and Ivan has no idea what he’s capable of…