Chapter 6 Ivan
Ivan
The steam from the bathroom is still on my mind as I pace the kitchen. My footsteps echo softly on the marble floor, a rhythmic thud that matches the pulse in my temples.
That boy—Landon, Artyom, whatever the hell he wants to call himself—has fire in him, I'll give him that. The way he stomped his feet under the shower, a true defiance flashing in his eyes even as his ass turned pink under my hand.
And that cock too. It was thicker and bigger than his frame would suggest. The way it went from zero to a hundred too… that was one horny boy, there’s no doubt about that.
Hell.
It's stuck in my mind like a burr.
He’s sitting at the large oak table now, his back ramrod straight, face flushed a deep crimson that I suspect mirrors the state of his backside. His wet clothes cling to his body, outlining muscles I shouldn't be noticing, but damn if it's not hard to ignore.
I offered him a robe to wear, but he refused.
I guess it’s not my problem if he catches a cold like this.
He’s glaring at the tabletop like it personally offended him, arms crossed tightly over his chest. No tears, though. No begging. Just that stubborn silence.
I turn to the coffee machine: a sleek, Italian model that grinds beans fresh and brews espresso strong enough to wake the dead. The whir of the grinder fills the quiet, giving me a moment to collect myself.
My cock is still half-hard from the spanking, the memory of his soft skin under my palm, the way he gasped and counted...
Fuck.
Focus, Ivan.
This is a job, not a date.
"Want one?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral as I pour the dark liquid into a mug. "Coffee. Black, or I can add milk if you're into that."
He doesn't look up. Landon just shakes his head once, sharply. Unimpressed doesn't begin to cover it. His lips press into a thin line, like he’s biting back a string of curses.
Fair enough.
I just tanned his ass like a naughty child. But he broke the rules. Consequences were promised. And they were delivered. Landon knows that his behavior won’t go unchecked, and that will make this whole thing easier.
I set my mug down and open the refrigerator, the cool air a brief relief against my heated skin. Grabbing a bottle of water, I walk over and place it on the table next to him.
"Drink," I say, not a request. "You're dehydrated. That headache won't go away on its own."
Landon eyes the bottle warily, like it might be poisoned.
But after a beat, he twists off the cap and takes a small sip. Still no words. His silence is a weapon, testing me, probing for cracks. I've seen it before in interrogations—hostages trying to flip the power dynamic by withholding.
But I'm patient.
I've got all the time in the world.
I pull out the chair across from him and sit, cradling my coffee. The aroma is rich, and grounding. "Hope you've learned your lesson," I say, meeting his gaze when he finally glances up. "That vent stunt? Stupid. Could've gotten yourself hurt worse than a spanking."
Landon’s eyes narrow, but he doesn't respond. Just another sip of water, his throat working as he swallows. The flush on his cheeks hasn't faded. If anything, it's deeper.
The boy is stewing.
Plotting.
I can feel it in the air between us, thick as the steam from earlier. Good. Let the boy test me. It'll make breaking him—or whatever Viktor has in mind—all the more interesting.
But I'm not here to play games all day. There's business to handle. Viktor will want an update soon, and I need to check the perimeter, make sure no Galkin goons are sniffing around yet.
"I'm heading out for a bit," I tell him, watching for his reaction.
"Don't bother with the vent again. It's a dead-end network that leads to a sealed HVAC unit two floors down.
No escape route. You'd just get stuck and I'd have to fish you out.
Embarrassing for both of us. And really fucking inconvenient. "
I watch Landon’s lips twitch, like he’s fighting a retort, but he stays quiet.
Smart boy. Or stubborn. Either way I’m not complaining.
I lean back, sipping my coffee, letting the silence stretch. Then, casually…
"If you promise to behave,” I begin, eyeing the boy carefully. “And by that I mean no more escape attempts, no bullshit, I'll let you have your backpack. The driver picked it up off the street when we grabbed you. He figured you might want your stuff."
There it is: a flicker in his eyes.
Surprise, maybe relief.
Whatever it is, I saw it and Landon can’t take it back.
The backpack is in the entry closet, contents inventoried: notes, pens, a tablet—battery removed—and that stuffed bear. A cute thing, worn from years of handling.
“So?” I ask.
He nods solemnly, the first real acknowledgment since the bathroom.
"I promise," Landon mutters, voice low but clear.
"Good." I stand, drain the last of my coffee, and rinse the mug in the sink. As I prepare to leave—grabbing my jacket, checking my phone for messages from Viktor—I detour to the closet.
The backpack's there, zipped tight. I open it, rummage briefly, and pull out the stuffie and hand it to him without a word.
Landon snatches it, clutching it to his chest like a lifeline. His fingers dig into the fur, knuckles white, and for a second, his tough facade cracks—just a glimpse of vulnerability. Those green eyes soften as he hugs it close.
I pause at the door, watching. That reaction... it's more than just a toy. Comfort object? Regression? I've known a few Littles in my time. Boys who crave that dynamic, the structure, the care mixed with discipline.
The way he fell into the spanking, counting obediently even as he protested. And there’s the fact he was so obviously aroused too.
Not forgetting the safe word rolling off his tongue like second nature. Rabbit. Cute.
Is he a real Little? It would explain a lot. The foot-stomping tantrum in the shower, the way his body responded under my hand, arching just a little despite the pain.
The thought stirs something in me, a heat I push down.
Not now. Not with this boy. Not gonna happen.
I engage the locks—triple bolts, keycard, biometric scan—and step out. The hallway's clear, elevators secure.
Downstairs, two guards, loyal Volkov men, discreet in plain clothes, nod as I pass.
"Monitor him,” I say. "Cams, audio. Any issues, call me."
"Got it, boss."
Outside, the city's alive with morning traffic, horns blaring, pedestrians hustling. I head to a corner café a block away.
Neutral ground, good sightlines.
There, I order a black coffee, find a table by the window. The brew's not as good as the penthouse machine, but it's hot and strong. It’ll do for now. Although I’m not sure I’ll be coming here for a Sunday espresso any time soon.
My phone buzzes as I sit—secure line, app linked to the penthouse CCTV. I pull up the feed, multiple angles: living room, kitchen, bedroom.
And there he is, on the couch, curled up with the stuffie pressed to his face. Landon is lying on his side, knees drawn up, one hand stroking the bear's ear absentmindedly.
Vulnerable. Innocent.
But I know better… there's steel under that softness.
The more I watch, the more convinced I am: he’s a Little. The stomping in the shower? Classic brat behavior, testing boundaries. The safe word? He didn't hesitate, like it's part of his world.
And the spanking...
God, the way he moaned, even as his perfectly supple cheeks heated and reddened. His body tensed, then relaxed into it, submitting so naturally. We slipped into roles without a word—me as the stern Daddy, him as the naughty boy needing correction.
It felt right. Too right.
My cock twitches at the memory, hardening against my thigh. The sound of my hand on his wet skin, the jiggle of his ass cheeks, the way he counted—voice breathy, defiant but compliant.
I shift in my seat, adjusting discreetly.
Damn.
If he is a Little, this complicates things. Viktor's plan is leverage, not... whatever this stirring is. But the thought of him over my lap again, or tucked into bed with that stuffie, me reading him a story...
No. Stop.
He’s Galkin's son.
The boy is a pawn. Not a damn thing more.
I sip my coffee, forcing my mind elsewhere. The window overlooks a busy street: cabs, delivery vans, the usual chaos.
But then, a couple of cars catch my eye.
Black sedans, tinted windows, cruising slow. Too slow for traffic. They circle the block once, twice, before peeling off.
Suspicious.
My senses prickle—years in this game hone that instinct.
Word must have gotten back to Mikhail by now. Viktor's contact would have been made hours ago:
Your son is with us. Back off your plot, concede territory, or he pays the price.
The old man's probably raging, mobilizing his network.
Those cars? Scouts, maybe. Testing the waters. It’s all possible. I’ve been around for far too long to let anything slide without at least a suspicious eye.
The game is on.
Galkin vs. Volkov, round whatever.
I've been in the middle of these before—hits, negotiations, blood. But this feels different.
This one is personal.
Because of Landon.
What will the outcome be? Mikhail caves, he goes home, back to his law books and stuffie?
Or Galkin pushes, and I have to... escalate?
The thought of harming him—really harming him—sits wrong. But orders are orders. I’ll never disobey my pakhan. It’s not who I am. It’s not a question for me. I will follow my leader, always. I made a vow of loyalty, and no Galkin prince will make me go against that.
I down the rest of my coffee, eyes on the street. No more suspicious vehicles for now. But they'll come. They always do.
Back to the penthouse soon. Keep the boy safe. Keep him in line.
And maybe, just maybe, figure out if that Little spark is real.
The elevator ride back up feels longer than usual. Maybe it’s the weight of the day settling in, or maybe it’s the image burned into my head from the CCTV feed: Landon curled on the couch, hugging that little brown bear like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
I’ve seen hostages cling to all kinds of things—photos, rosaries, lucky charms—but the way he held it, small fingers buried in the fur, eyes half-closed… it hit different.
I step into the penthouse. The triple bolts disengage with a soft click, and I lock them behind me out of habit. The place smells faintly of coffee and steam from earlier.
Quiet. Too quiet.
He’s not on the couch anymore.
I scan the room—living area clear, windows untouched, no sign of tampering. Then I hear the faint scratch of pencil on paper coming from the kitchen.
“Hello?” I call, keeping my voice even. “Landon?”
Then I see him. He’s sitting at the long table, back to me, shoulders hunched forward.
His backpack is open beside his chair: notebooks and highlighters spilled out like he raided it for supplies.
In front of him is a single sheet of lined legal pad paper, and he’s drawing on it with one of his black gel pens.
His stuffie sits propped against the edge of the table, watching him work like a tiny supervisor.
I move closer, footsteps deliberate so he hears me coming.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look up. The boy just keeps sketching.
“Interesting,” I say, casting my eyes over the drawing.
It’s a cabin. Simple lines, but confident.
A peaked roof, a stone chimney, tall pines in the background, a narrow dock stretching out over what must be a lake.
Sun low on the water, ripples catching light.
There’s a small rowboat tied up, and two figures on the dock—tiny, stick-like, but one has long hair, the other broad shoulders.
And a child between them, holding hands.
I pull out the chair next to the young man and sit. Not too close. He tenses anyway.
“That from memory?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “Or imagination?”
Landon pauses, pen hovering. For a second I think he won’t answer. Then he exhales, soft, almost resigned.
“Memory,” Landon answers. “We used to go there sometimes. When I was little. Me, my father… and my mom.” His voice catches on the last word, just barely.
He covers it with a quick stroke of the pen, adding shading to the pines.
“It was the only place that felt… normal. No bodyguards. No locked doors. Just the lake and the quiet.”
I look at the drawing again.
The figures are small, but the way the child is sandwiched between the two adults—protected, held—says more than the words.
I want to ask how old he was. I want to know if his mom used to read him stories on the dock. If his father ever smiled there the way he doesn’t smile anywhere else. I want to know what it felt like to be that safe, that ordinary, even for a weekend.
But I don’t ask.
Getting personal is a trap. Lines blur. Empathy creeps in. And empathy gets people killed in this business… either the one feeling it or the one it’s aimed at.
Viktor didn’t hire me to care. He hired me to contain and maybe kill.
I clear my throat. “I’ll order food for later. Burgers, fries, soft drinks. Nothing fancy. No alcohol.”
He finally looks at me. Green eyes sharp again, the softness from a moment ago gone like it was never there.
“Thai food?” he asks, almost hopeful. “Pad Thai? Or green curry? Something with actual flavor?”
I shake my head. “Burgers or nothing. Simple. Easy to verify. No surprises.”
He stares at me for a long beat, then drops his gaze back to the sketch. The pen moves again—slow, deliberate strokes—but there’s tension in his wrist now.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Burgers.”
I nod, roll my eyes, and stand.
“You’re lucky I’m not making you boiled cabbage,” I growl, almost catching a hint of a smile from him. “And one more thing. What’s the bear called?”
“Claw,” Landon replied. “And he hates boiled cabbage even more than I do. Burgers will have to do.”
I head toward the living room to make the call.
Behind me, the pencil keeps scratching. Soft, rhythmic. Like he’s trying to draw himself back to that lake, that dock, that version of his life where doors didn’t need triple bolts and men like me didn’t exist.
I don’t look back.
Some pictures are better left unfinished.
For the time being at least…