Chapter 9
Landon
My eyes snap open in the dark.
Not the groggy, gradual waking of normal mornings—this is instant, electric.
My heart already thumping hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.
The room is quiet except for the murmur of a television still playing somewhere down the hall.
An infomercial, I know the tone from too many of my own nights waking up having fallen asleep watching the TV.
Late-night sales pitch for miracle knives or miracle mops.
The kind of sound that means someone fell asleep on the couch in the first place.
But whatever. That’s not important right now.
My instincts scream one word: Now.
No hesitation. No second-guessing. The window is open—small, but real—and I’m not letting it close again.
“It’s now or never,” I whisper as I steel myself.
I slide out from under the covers without making the mattress creak. Bare feet touch cool hardwood. Claw is already in my arms. I press him against my chest for one heartbeat, then move.
The pajamas come off fast and silent. I pull on yesterday’s jeans, the plain t-shirt, the hoodie I’d left folded on the chair.
Every movement economical, practiced. Dad taught me how to move in the dark when I was twelve, he said it was “just in case.” I never thought “just in case” would mean escaping my own captor but life moves in mysterious ways.
Backpack next. Already half-packed from earlier paranoia. Laptop, battery still gone but who cares, charger cable, the few handwritten notes I’d salvaged from the bag Ivan gave back. I tuck Claw carefully inside, zip the top, sling the straps over both shoulders.
The weight is comforting. But right now I need speed, not comfort.
One last glance at the bed—covers thrown back like I might still be under them—then I ease the bedroom door open.
The hallway is dim, lit only by the blue flicker spilling from the living room.
The TV is louder now: an enthusiastic voice promising “revolutionary results in just fourteen days!” I creep forward, heel-to-toe, the way Dad showed me.
Weight on the balls of my feet, knees soft, breathing shallow through my mouth so I don’t whistle air through my nose.
The corridor opens into the main space.
There he is.
Ivan, moved now and sprawled in the armchair that has become his unofficial throne.
Head tipped back, mouth slightly open, deep rhythmic snores rolling out of him.
The remote is loose in his lap. One arm dangles over the side.
The coffee table in front of him holds an empty water glass, his keys, the phone—
The phone.
Not Ivan’s personal one. The burner. The one that buzzes with encrypted messages from the boss. Black case, no visible branding. I’ve seen him check it enough times to know it’s the lifeline to the outside world.
My pulse roars in my ears.
I move.
Silent steps across the rug. Quickly past the couch. Close enough now to smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the day’s sweat. Close enough to see the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The phone is right there.
I reach, my fingers close around cool metal. I pull it free. No alarm. No vibration. Just the soft snick of plastic leaving wood.
Screen lights up at my touch—no lock screen, thank God. Probably assumes no one would dare. Arrogant bastard.
I message Todd, the only person whose number I know off the top of my head. My father rarely has the same phone for more than a day, so knowing his number has never been a thing.
My fingers fly across the screen…
LANDON: I need your help. ASAP. Can’t say more but meet me at our favorite spot. You know the one. DO NOT call the police. Me XoXo
I hit send and feel my heart skip a beat. To say this is intense would be an understatement. The little whoosh sound feels deafening in the silence.
I don’t wait to see if it delivers. I slide the phone into my hoodie pocket—evidence, maybe leverage later—then turn my attention to Ivan himself.
His jacket is slung over the back of the chair. Leather. Soft from wear. I ease my hand inside the inner pocket.
More keys. A small fob with the building logo. Keycard—black plastic, gold stripe. Both clipped to a small ring.
This is happening. This is really happening.
I take everything I need.
My heart is slamming so hard I’m sure Ivan will wake from the vibration alone. He doesn’t.
One more stop.
Kitchen.
I detour left, silent as a shadow. The block of knives sits on the counter—gleaming under the faint under-cabinet lights. I select the chef’s knife. Eight-inch blade. Sharp enough to slice paper. I wrap it in a dish towel from the drawer, then tuck the bundle into the side pocket of my backpack.
Just in case.
Guards. Doormen. Whoever stands between me and the elevator.
Now back to the front door.
Triple bolts. Keycard reader. Numeric keypad beside it—four digits.
I’ve been watching him punch it in at every chance. Never obvious, always angled away, but I’ve caught fragments, and maybe that’s enough. Years of studying legal documents and reference numbers have honed my skill at this kind of thing.
First two: 3… 5…
Last one: 9.
Middle digit is the question mark.
I exhale slowly. Steady hands.
3519
Red light. Wrong.
“Shit,” I whisper. “No. Don’t panic. You’ve got this.”
3509
Red.
3529
Red.
3539
Red.
3549
Green.
“Yes!” I rasp, my voice quiet but urgent.
The lock disengages with a soft, mechanical thunk.
I almost sob with relief.
Hand on the handle.
Pull.
The door opens—two inches—before a massive palm slams it shut above my head.
I spin.
Ivan.
Awake.
Towering over me, his eyes black with fury. The knife is already out of the towel, trembling in my grip, point aimed at his midsection.
“Back off,” I hiss. “I will kill you if I have to.”
My voice is shaking. But I mean it. This is it. Fight or flight. Kill or be killed.
Ivan pauses. Just long enough for me to think—maybe—he’s actually weighing the odds.
Then he moves.
Left feint.
I lunge right to counter.
“Argh!” I spit, swishing the knife.
Ivan’s already shifting the other way—fast, fluid, like water. One hand snaps out, catches my wrist. Twists it hard. Pain flares white-hot up my arm. The knife clatters across the hallway tile, spinning into shadow.
“No! No! No!” I growl, desperate and cornered.
I’m slammed back against the door—his forearm across my collarbone, not crushing, just pinning. Immovable.
“Enough,” Ivan growls.
I thrash. My knee comes up. He blocks it with his thigh. My free hand claws at his face—he catches that wrist too. Now both arms are trapped above my head, body pressed flat to the steel door.
Ivan leans in, his breath hot against my cheek, the scent of vodka right there.
“You just made the biggest mistake of your life, boy,” Ivan barks. “Daddy’s not happy. Not happy at all.”
The door’s triple bolts are thrown in rapid succession.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I’m locked down again.
He doesn’t release me yet. His chest rises and falls fast—not from exertion. From anger. From something darker.
“You think you can sneak past me? Steal my boss’s phone? Pull a knife?” Ivan’s voice drops to a lethal whisper. “You’re going to be punished like you’ve never been punished before.”
My stomach plummets.
Not fear, exactly.
Something worse.
Certainty.
I’ve crossed the line he warned me about.
And now I’m going to pay…
Ivan’s hand closes around my throat before I can plead or come up with some bullshit excuse. It’s over. I’m in real trouble now.
I’m not choking—yet—but it’s firm enough that breathing becomes a conscious effort. My back slams against the steel door again, the impact jarring my teeth. The keys and keycard clatter to the floor between us. His body pins mine from chest to knee, immovable as granite.
I look up into his face.
“Boy,” Ivan snarls, full of pure menace. “Your time has come.”
The man who played with toy cars on the rug this afternoon is gone.
What stares back is something darker. Something cold and ancient and furious. Pupils blown wide, irises reduced to thin silver rims. Pure, unfiltered evil. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The look says everything:
You tried to run. You pulled a knife. You betrayed the fragile truce we had built.
I kick—hard, wild—aiming for his groin, his shin, anything.
Ivan doesn’t even flinch. Just tightens his grip enough to make stars burst behind my eyes, then drags me forward by the throat like I weigh nothing.
My feet scramble for purchase. Socks slide uselessly on marble.
He hauls me down the hallway—past the kitchen, past the living room where the infomercial is still cheerfully selling kitchen gadgets—straight into the master bedroom I’ve never been allowed to enter.
The door bangs shut behind us.
He releases my throat.
I gasp, sucking air, hands flying to my neck.
No time to recover. Not even close.
Ivan’s fingers hook under the hem of my hoodie and yank upward in one brutal motion.
Fabric rips at the seam. Cold air hits skin.
I try to twist away but he catches my wrists in one massive hand, pins them above my head against the wall while the other strips me with ruthless efficiency.
Jeans tugged to my ankles. T-shirt torn over my head.
My briefs shredded, not pulled down, torn.
I’m naked.
Totally exposed.
Humiliating heat floods my face, my chest.
“Please,” I whisper. “Ivan… mercy. I’m sorry…”
But he doesn’t answer.
Instead he drags me toward the foot of the massive bed. The frame is dark wood, sturdy posts at each corner. He forces me to bend forward, chest to mattress, arms stretched out.
Rope—soft black cord from the nightstand drawer—loops around my wrists, cinches tight, then is secured to the far bedposts.
I’m half-standing, half-bent, ass and dangling cock presented, my legs trembling.
I’m vulnerable in a way I’ve never been.
He steps behind me.
I hear the whisper of leather sliding through belt loops.
My stomach drops.
“Ivan—”
“Quiet.”
The first stroke cracks across both cheeks like lightning.
I scream—raw, involuntary.
Fire blooms instantly, bright and vicious. My whole body jerks against the ropes.
He doesn’t pause.
A second stroke. Third. Fourth.
Each one precise. Methodical. Expert.
“Daddy!” I cry out, my cheeks throbbing.
The pain is blinding at first—sharp, cutting—then it morphs, spreads, becomes a deep, throbbing heat that sinks into muscle.
My ass is on fire.
And—God help me—between my legs I’m hard. Throbbing. Aching. The tip of my dick almost feels like it’s about to explode.
And worst of all, Ivan notices.
Of course he notices.
He steps close, reaches around, thumbs brushing my nipples. They’re already peaked, traitorously hard.
A low, dangerous sound rumbles in his chest.
He disappears for a second then returns with two small metal clothespins—black, rubber-tipped.
“Wait!” I cry.
Too late.
One closes on my left nipple. Then the right.
Sharp, pinching agony. I cry out, arching, ropes biting into wrists.
“These stay until sunrise,” Ivan says, voice gravel. “The belt stays in my hand until sunrise. You will remain exactly like this until the sun comes up. Understood?”
Tears burn my eyes. Rage—hot, helpless—explodes in my chest.
I stomp my feet against the floor.
“I hate you!” I scream. “You’re not my Daddy! I hate you!”
Another lash.
I howl.
The belt falls again. And again.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Never rushed.
Ivan drags it out—minutes between strokes sometimes—letting the burn build, letting anticipation twist my stomach.
My voice cracks. My legs shake. Sweat beads on my back, runs down my spine.
The pain is everywhere now. My ass, my thighs, my nipples screaming from the clamps.
And still—still—my core clenches every time leather meets skin.
By the time gray light begins to leak around the edges of the blackout curtains, I’m trembling on the edge of collapse. Legs jelly. Wrists raw. Voice gone to hoarse whimpers.
Ivan stops.
Silence except for my ragged breathing.
Footsteps.
He steps in close behind me.
One arm bands around my waist. The other slides between my thighs.
My tormentor’s fingers find me—hard, aching, desperate.
His fingers caress my shaft and then wrap around, tight.
I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me like a shockwave—violent, blinding, endless. I don’t think my dick is ever going to stop shooting out my seed as my entire body convulses. My knees buckle and only his arm keeps me upright. I sob against the mattress, body convulsing, pleasure so intense it hurts.
When it finally stops, I’m spent.
Ivan reaches up. Unties the ropes and holds me to stop me from falling.
He lifts me—gentle now—turns me, cradles me against his chest.
I’m shaking. Ivan sits on the edge of the bed, me in his lap, arms wrapped around me like I might disappear.
I bury my face in his neck.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I won’t run again. I promise, Daddy.”
He doesn’t speak at first. Just holds me. One hand strokes my hair. The other rubs slow circles on my burning ass.
Minutes pass.
Dawn lightens the room.
Finally he exhales—long, weary.
“I know,” Ivan says.
He shifts us both, lays back on the bed, pulling me with him.
I curl into his side, cheek on his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart.
His arms come around me—strong, warm, safe in the strangest way.
We collapse together.
Exhausted.
Sated.
And, for the first time, truly, dangerously at peace.