Chapter 7 Landon
Landon
Urgh.
Stay patient
Your time will come.
But the hours drag like molasses, each minute stretching into an eternity in this gilded prison.
I've been patient, though—oh sooo patient.
Biding my time, watching Ivan like a hawk without letting him see my talons. Since he sat down earlier and asked about my sketch, showing that flicker of interest in the cabin by the lake, I've been weaving in little threads about my childhood.
Nothing overt, nothing that screams pity me or see me as human to obviously. Just casual mentions here and there, dropped like breadcrumbs.
Over lunch, some bland sandwiches he threw together from the kitchen stock, I mentioned how Mom used to pack picnics for those lake trips, with homemade blini and fresh berries.
“She always said the best memories are the simple ones," I said offhand, while picking at the crust. Ivan simply grunted, didn't probe, but I saw his eyes linger on Claw for a second longer than necessary.
Ivan can’t help himself.
He might think he’s smart, but I can spot his tells a mile away.
Later, when he rummaged in a store cupboard and tossed me a change of clothes—gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, nothing fancy, still in plastic wrap—I thanked him quietly and added, "Reminds me of the oversized shirts Dad used to give me when I was a kid, playing dress-up in his closet."
Again, Ivan nodded, muttered something about it being practical, but didn't meet my eyes. Good. Let him picture the little boy version of me, innocent and far removed from the underworld wars he's tangled in.
Empathy is a slow poison.
I'm counting on it to weaken Ivan’s resolve without him even realizing.
Now, dinner's done. Burgers and fries, as promised—or threatened. Greasy, American, utterly unremarkable. I ate mine slowly, actually savoring the normalcy of it, while Ivan devoured his like it was fuel, not food.
The wrappers are crumpled on the coffee table, and we're in the living room, the massive flat-screen playing an animated movie I picked from the streaming service he reluctantly handed me the remote for.
Something light, colorful… talking animals on an adventure, the kind of thing that takes me back to rainy afternoons as a kid.
I'm on the couch, legs tucked under me, Claw in my lap.
Ivan's opposite, in that armchair he favors, his phone in one hand, eyes flicking between the screen and the TV. He's tense, always is, like he's waiting for a knock at the door. Or a bullet.
The movie's soundtrack bubbles with upbeat music, but the room feels heavy, charged…
I yawn, exaggerated but genuine— the day's emotional gymnastics have worn me out.
"I might head to bed," I say, stretching my arms overhead. The t-shirt rides up a bit, exposing a sliver of midriff, but I pretend not to notice. “I’m tired.”
Ivan looks up sharply, suspicion etching lines around his eyes. "Bed? Already?" His voice is gruff, probing. "Remember, no viable escape routes. Windows are sealed, doors are locked. You know the score. Don't get any ideas."
I meet his gaze, wry smile tugging at my lips. "Oh, I'm over the idea of escape. Especially after that spanking you gave me." I say it lightly, like it's a joke between old friends, but I watch for the reaction.
There it is: a flash in his eyes, dark and heated.
Ivan’s jaw tightens, fingers gripping the phone a little harder.
Is that desire?
Regret perhaps?
It’s something primal, anyway. It sends a shiver down my spine, not entirely unwelcome. I don't wait for him to respond. I stand quickly, clutching Claw, and make a beeline for the bedroom.
"Night," I toss over my shoulder, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.
The bedroom is sparse but comfortable. A king bed with crisp sheets, nightstand, lamp.
No clear windows, which is probably intentional. Only frosted panes that give a little light but not much else. It’s far from ideal, but none of this is ideal so whatever.
I rummage in the bedroom store cupboard again—more basics stocked there—and find a pair of pajamas.
Soft cotton, pale blue, shorts and a tank top.
Nothing sexy, but they fit well enough. I change quickly, the fabric cool against my skin, then slip under the covers with Claw nestled against my chest.
Okay, Landon.
Think.
You can't just wait this out. Dad's probably tearing the city apart looking for me, but who knows how long that takes? Or if he'll succeed without starting a war.
I have to take control, find and exploit a weakness in Ivan's armor. The empathy angle is working, slowly but hopefully surely.
Maybe amp it up tomorrow—more stories, more vulnerability.
Or play on that look in his eyes when I mentioned the spanking. Use it.
I could try to seduce him? Distract him enough to grab his phone, or a key, or…
But before I can think of what I might do, my mind wanders, unbidden, back to the bathroom. The hot water cascading down, Ivan’s hands on me—firm, unyielding. The way he ripped my briefs off, positioned me just so. The sting of each spank, sharp and humiliating, but underneath it... heat.
Exposure.
Total submission.
It was terrifying, but sexy in a way I didn't expect. Being dominated like that, by someone so powerful, so in control. A real alpha.
My body responded even as my mind rebelled… my cock hard between my legs, the way I arched into it without meaning to. I could have climaxed from a single intimate touch from his hand at that moment.
God. I need this.
I need to get it out of my system right now…
I shift and throw off the covers, a familiar ache building.
No. Focus on escape. Focus on…
But my hand drifts lower anyway, slipping under the pajama shorts. Just to relieve tension, I tell myself.
My fingers wrap around my shaft, squeezing slowly, teasing, as the memory replays… his growl, commanding me to count each spank, the wobble of my cheeks under his grip.
Mmmph.
I'm throbbing already, twitching and ready. I bite my lip, stifling a moan, as I pump faster. I imagine his hands again, not spanking this time, but exploring.
Dominating in other ways.
Pinning me down, taking what he wants.
I’m totally submissive. Exposed, at his mercy.
It's wrong, so wrong, but the forbidden edge only makes it hotter.
As pressure builds, coiling tight, I sense... something. A prickle on my neck, like eyes on me. The door's shut, locked from the outside probably.
But is he watching?
Or listening?
The thought should horrify me, but it doesn't. It amps everything up as I buck my hips and work in tandem with my hand. Fuck, it feels so good.
My fist works faster still, my other hand grabbing my balls and pulling.
I’m almost there…
But then I spot it. Tiny, discreet, in the top corner of the ceiling: a camera. Red light blinking faintly.
Oh God. He's watching. Or it could be recording and he’ll be able to watch it over and over again to his heart’s content…
It should stop me cold. But instead, it tips me over. The idea of him seeing this—me, pleasuring myself to thoughts of him—sends me crashing into climax.
“Fuck,” I groan, my thighs tensing and my entire body feeling alive in the moment.
I gasp, clutching Claw with my free hand, riding out the orgasm as my hot, thick cum shoots up onto my stomach, my hips continuing to buck and writhe and I get everything I can out of this release.
Wow.
Wow.
Wow. That was intense…
Panting, I roll over, snuggling under the covers, turning my back to the camera and away from the watching eye.
My mind clears in the afterglow, sharp and focused.
And suddenly, a plan hatches.
If he's watching, if that look in his eyes means what I think... I can use this.
I can play the Little, the submissive.
I will draw him in, make him drop his guard.
I’ll pretend to break, to need him.
Then I’ll strike when he's vulnerable, like a true Galkin.
“What time is it?” I ask myself, my eyes barely open.
Sunlight filters through the opaque windowpanes in soft, golden bands across the bedroom floor.
I wake slowly, the kind of slow where your body feels heavy and content, like it’s been wrapped in warm velvet all night.
No nightmares.
No jerking awake in a cold sweat.
Just deep, dreamless sleep—the first real rest I’ve had since this all started.
I stretch under the covers, toes pointing, arms arching overhead, and a small, secret smile curls my lips.
Last night replays in lazy fragments: the camera in the corner, the rush of being watched, the way my body shattered harder because of it.
God, if that’s the kind of orgasm that buys me eight solid hours of sleep, maybe I should make self-love a nightly ritual while I’m stuck here.
Captive with benefits? It could be worse, I guess.
The thought is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh out loud.
Claw is tucked against my side, one fuzzy paw draped over my stomach like he’s claiming me. I press a kiss to the top of his head.
“Morning, buddy,” I whisper. “We survived another night.”
My bladder eventually wins the argument with laziness.
I roll out of bed, still in the pale-blue pajamas, hair a tangled mess, and pad barefoot into the hallway with Claw hooked under one arm.
The penthouse smells faintly of coffee already: dark, rich, expensive.
Ivan’s awake, of course. The man probably doesn’t sleep.
He’s at the kitchen table, broad shoulders hunched over his phone. The second my bare feet hit the cool marble, he snaps the screen dark and slides the device into his pocket in one smooth motion.
Too fast. Too deliberate. Another tell.
My pulse kicks up a notch.
Was he watching the feed? Talking about me?
Reporting to his boss? Or something else entirely?
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice light, sleepy-soft.
He grunts without looking up. “Morning.”
“What’s for breakfast?”
Ivan jerks his chin toward the tall cupboard beside the fridge. “Take your pick. Cereal’s in there. Milk is in the fridge. Help yourself.”
No offer to cook. No pleasantries. Just grouchy efficiency. I almost smile it’s so predictable.
I open the cupboard. Rows of plain boxes stare back at me—generic corn flakes, bran something-or-other, a sad-looking muesli.
Nothing exciting.
I grab the least offensive box—plain corn flakes, because at least they’re neutral—pour a generous heap into a bowl, and top it with cold milk from the fridge. The spoon clinks against ceramic as I carry it to the table and slide into the chair across from him.
Ivan’s pretending to read something on a tablet now, but I can feel his awareness on me like heat from a stove.
I take a bite, crunching slowly, then decide to poke the bear.
“So… are the cameras around here constantly recording?” I ask it casually, like I’m asking about the weather. “Or do you just flip them on when you need something to watch?”
Ivan flinches. It’s small—just a tiny tightening of his jaw, a fractional dip of his eyelids—but it’s there. Another tell.
He saw.
He definitely saw last night.
Satisfaction curls warm in my belly and I feel satisfied to have got this one over on him. He might be Mr. Tough Guy Dom, but I can have my own way too.
“None of your business,” Ivan says, voice low and clipped. “All you need to know is there’s no escape. That’s it.”
I roll my eyes, exaggerated enough for him to catch it. “Whatever.”
He doesn’t reply. Just stares at his tablet like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I finish another spoonful, then lean back, spoon dangling from my fingers. “Can I have a coffee? Please?”
He exhales through his nose like I’ve asked him to donate a kidney, but he stands anyway.
I watch Ivan move to the espresso machine with the same economical grace he does everything else.
Beans grind, water hisses, and thirty seconds later he sets a perfect little demitasse cup in front of me.
No foam art, no frills—just rich, dark crema on top.
I wrap my hands around it, inhale deeply. “This smells… amazing.”
He grunts again, his version of “you’re welcome,” apparently, and returns to his seat.
I take a sip.
It’s hot, bitter, perfect. The caffeine hits my bloodstream like a gentle sunrise.
“Okay,” I say, genuine this time. “No messing. You make really good coffee. Like, barista-level good.”
Ivan glances up, surprised for half a second before the mask slams back down.
“It’s just coffee.”
“No, it’s not.” I take another sip, savoring. “Thank you.”
Silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly… just loaded.
I set the cup down carefully. “Any idea how long I’ll have to stay here? Like… ballpark? A week? A month? Until my hair turns gray?”
His expression hardens. “No questions, boy.”
I wait. Don’t push. Just sip my coffee and crunch my cereal and let the silence do the work.
After a long beat, Ivan exhales again, longer this time, almost resigned.
“As soon as I know something, I’ll tell you,” Ivan says, a hint of kindness in his voice. Small, but definitely there. “That’s all I can say.”
It’s not much. But it’s honest. No bullshit promise, no empty reassurance. Just facts.
I nod slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”
Ivan looks at me. Really looks. Not the cold assessment of a captor sizing up a problem, but something closer to curiosity. Or maybe recognition. Like he’s seeing past the defiance for the first time.
I hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, then drop my eyes back to my bowl. Let him think I’m grateful. Let him think I’m softening.
Inside, though, my mind is racing.
Ivan’s not just a thug. Not entirely. He’s a man doing a job—loyal, disciplined, maybe even honorable in his own twisted way. That makes him dangerous… but it also makes him predictable. And exploitable.
The coffee warms my palms. The cereal is soggy now, but I don’t care.
I’ve got time.
And I’ve got a plan.