Chapter 11
Landon
The wooden bench has become my entire world.
Smooth oak under my cheek, under my belly, under my manhood. My wrists tied forward to the far legs, ankles secured to the near ones. The position forces my hips to tilt upward just enough that the edge of the bench presses relentlessly against my dick head.
Every tiny shift, every involuntary twitch, sends a spark through me.
It’s torture.
Pure, slow-burning torture.
But I don’t hate it.
I’ve been here… how long? An hour? Two? Time has dissolved into heat and ache and the maddening drip of Ivan’s seed still drying on my skin.
My nipples throb from the smooth, cold wood and my mind playing games with me.
My thighs tremble from holding position.
I’m hard and leaking pre-cum—embarrassingly so—and the slickness makes every accidental brush against the wood even more agonizing.
I’ve resisted.
God, I’ve resisted.
But now I’m cracking.
Just one small rock of my hips. Just enough pressure to tip me over. Ivan will never know, I tell myself. I can do it so subtly that it won’t get picked up by the CCTV camera that no doubt is trained in on me.
Ivan’s gone. He said an hour or two. It’s been longer than that. One little movement and I can finally…
Then out of nowhere I hear the sound of bolts, an electronic thud, and the front door opens.
Heavy footsteps.
Relief and panic collide in my chest.
My Daddy is back.
I freeze. Hold perfectly still. My heart is hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it across the room.
Ivan appears in the kitchen doorway. Coat still on. Face hard. Eyes scanning me—not with hunger this time, but with something sharper. Urgent.
He doesn’t speak.
“D-D-D-Daddy?” I whisper, my heart thumping.
But Ivan doesn’t speak. He crosses straight to the bench and kneels. His fingers work the knots at my ankles first—quick, efficient. Then my wrists. Rope falls away.
I push up on shaking arms. My legs wobble when I try to stand and my erection bounces from side to side as I sway.
“Ivan…”
“Get dressed.” His voice is low, clipped. “Now. Quickly.”
No praise. No “good boy.” No wicked smile.
Something is wrong.
Very wrong.
“What happened?” I ask, rubbing my wrists. “Did my father…”
“Move.” The word cracks like a whip. “Dress. Immediately. This isn’t a drill or a game. Do as I say and do it right this second.”
The edge in his tone shocks me into motion. I’ve never heard him shout—not like this. Fear prickles along my spine, cold and sudden. Has my moment arrived? Is Ivan taking me out to kill me? It’s possible. I’m realistic enough to know that. But surely after everything I mean too much to Ivan… right?
I scramble for my clothes—jeans, t-shirt, hoodie—scattered where he stripped me earlier. Fingers fumble buttons, zipper. I yank the jeans up, wincing as denim scrapes over tender skin.
Ivan is already moving. He grabs a black duffel from the closet, stuffs in weapons, cash stacks, burner phones. He’s methodical. Fast.
He tosses my backpack at my feet.
“Pack what you need. Now.”
I blink. “We’re… leaving?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Get your bear.”
My darling Claw.
I dart to the living room window seat where I left him propped against the glass. I scoop him up, hug him tight for one frantic second, then shove him into the backpack alongside the sketchpad and the few notes I still have.
Ivan is at the door already, his jacket zipped, pistol tucked at the small of his back. He looks back at me, eyes dark.
“Let’s go.”
I sling the backpack over both shoulders and follow him out.
The corridor is empty. Silent except for our footsteps.
He doesn’t take the elevator—heads straight for the fire exit stairwell at the end of the hall.
Ivan pushes the crash bar. Alarm should scream, but it doesn’t.
He must have disabled it somehow which tells me that there’s an extra layer to this thing that I’d imagined.
We descend the stairs—fast, quiet, a sense of urgency that feels like everything is on the line right now.
My legs still feel like jelly from the bench, from the denied orgasm, from whatever this sudden frantic exodus is.
At the rear lobby—service level, concrete and fluorescent buzz—Ivan stops. He holds up a hand.
“Still,” Ivan whispers, his voice low and tense.
We press against the wall beside the vending machines. He peers around the corner.
A guard walks slow patrol. Flashlight beam sweeps the floor. This is a routine patrol, he must be one of Ivan’s men. So why is Ivan acting like this?
Ivan’s breathing is steady, but I can feel the tension radiating off him.
If he doesn’t want to be seen by his own people…
Something is seriously wrong.
I try to stay quiet. Really try.
Then it happens.
A tiny, involuntary sneeze—dust from the stairwell, maybe, or nerves.
It’s tiny. Barely audible.
But the guard freezes.
Head turns.
Flashlight swings our way.
Ivan moves like lightning.
One step. Arm around the guard’s throat. Twist. Pressure point. The man drops—unconscious, but not dead I don’t think. Ivan lowers him gently to the concrete so he doesn’t crack his skull.
He looks at me. Eyes blazing.
“Run,” Ivan barks.
We bolt toward the staff exit—metal door, push bar, no alarm. Out into the alley behind the building, the cold air hits like a slap. Trash bins. Delivery trucks. The smell of diesel and garbage.
Ivan grabs my hand and pulls me into a sprint.
We run.
Adrenaline floods me—sharp, electric. My legs pump. My lungs burn. My backpack bounces against my spine. Claw jostles inside.
What the hell is happening?
I get no explanation from Ivan. He just keeps pulling me forward—through the alley, across a side street, down another narrow cut-through. No words. No explanation.
Only urgency.
And fear.
And the scariest thing of all is that it’s Ivan who is frightened right now.
The sidewalk is packed—morning rush hour in full swing. Suits hurrying to offices, delivery guys weaving through on electric bikes, tourists with phones held high snapping pictures of the skyline. Normal people living normal lives.
I feel like a ghost among the unsuspecting crowd.
Ivan’s hand is locked around my upper arm, fingers digging in just hard enough to remind me I’m not walking alone. Not free. His pace is brisk but not panicked—controlled, deliberate, the way someone moves when they know exactly how many seconds they have before the net closes.
My backpack bounces against my spine with every step. Claw is inside, pressed against my laptop. The only familiar thing left, my one crumb of comfort in this mess.
But Ivan’s grip hurts.
“Ivan,” I murmur, keeping my voice low so only he hears. “You’re bruising me. If you relax a little, I won’t run. I promise.”
He glances down at me—quick, assessing. Something flickers in his eyes. Not anger. Not the cold fury from last night. Worry, maybe. Or guilt.
Ivan loosens his fingers. Not all the way—just enough that blood flows again.
I could break free right now.
One sharp twist, a scream loud enough to turn every head on the block, a sprint into the crowd. Someone would help. Someone would call 911. I could end this in thirty seconds.
Ivan knows it too.
His voice drops, rough but steady. “You just need to trust me,” Ivan says. “Trust me long enough to get you somewhere safe. Somewhere we can talk. Really talk. That’s all I’m asking.”
I look up at him—jaw tight, eyes scanning rooftops, alley mouths, every reflective surface like he’s waiting for a muzzle flash.
He’s not lying.
Not about this part, at least.
Something inside me twists—anger, fear, exhaustion, and something softer I don’t want to name. I swallow.
“Okay,” I whisper. “For now.”
“Good,” Ivan says, his focus turned up all the way.
We turn left at the next corner. A small café sits wedged between a dry cleaner and a phone-repair shop. Floor-to-ceiling windows, mismatched chairs, the smell of burnt toast drifting out every time the door opens.
Ivan steers us inside. Chooses a table in the back corner—back to the wall, clear view of the entrance. Classic.
He orders black coffee for himself, chamomile tea for me without asking. I don’t argue.
When the drinks arrive he wraps both hands around his mug like he’s trying to absorb the heat.
Then he starts talking.
Quiet. Low. Only for me…
“Your location was compromised,” Ivan says. “It happens. But when it does, it’s time to move, no questions asked.”
I freeze, teacup halfway to my lips.
“Not by me,” Ivan adds quickly. “Someone in Viktor’s circle must have leaked it or talked to loosely after one too many vodkas.
Word’s spreading. And it’s not just Volkov versus Galkin anymore.
The other families… Armenians, Italians, the Irish crews…
they’re smelling blood. Everyone’s picking sides or settling old scores. The city is about to burn.”
My stomach drops.
“And me?” I ask, my voice small.
“You’re a target.” He meets my eyes. No evasion. “Not leverage anymore. A message. If they can’t get to Mikhail directly, they’ll go through you. Kill you publicly, leave the body somewhere it’ll be found fast. Make sure everyone knows the Galkin line can be cut.”
I stare at him.
He doesn’t look away.
“My father…”
“Is in mortal danger too,” Ivan finishes. “He’s dug in, fortified, but he’s one man. Old. Stubborn. If the coalition turns on him…” He lets the sentence die. Doesn’t need to finish it.
I set the teacup down. Hands shaking.
“You’re saying my father would let me die to save face?”
Ivan doesn’t answer right away.
When he does, his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“I’m saying he’s playing a game he can’t win,” I van says. “And you’re the piece he’s willing to sacrifice.”
The words land heavy. I don’t know if Ivan is telling me the whole truth. In fact, I’m almost certain that he isn’t. But as far as his intentions go, I’ve got a real feeling that he’s doing what’s best for me.
I look down at the steam rising from my tea. Watch it curl and disappear.
Part of me wants to scream that he’s not telling me everything, that he’s twisting things to suit whatever his Volkov agenda is. I know how these things go. I know that this is probably another manipulation—another way to keep me docile, compliant, grateful.
But the other part—the part that grew up listening to hushed conversations behind closed doors, the part that saw blood on my father’s shirt when I was nine—knows he’s telling the truth on a most basic level.
I’m in danger. And right now, Ivan is probably the best option to keep me safe.
I lift my eyes.
“So what now?”
Ivan exhales through his nose.
“I know a motel. Edge of town. Off the grid. Cash only. No cameras. No questions. We lay low there tonight. Tomorrow we figure out the next move.”
I search his face.
He’s exhausted. Lines around his eyes deeper than yesterday. Jaw shadowed with stubble. But steady.
Ivan is risking everything.
For me.
Or maybe for whatever version of himself he still wants to believe in.
Either way.
I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly.
“Okay.”
“Finish your tea,” Ivan mutters. “We move in two minutes. We’ve gone way past the point of no return now, boy. From here on out, it’s a fight for survival, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”
I can see that Ivan means what he says.
But that doesn’t mean I trust him—after all, I’m still a Galkin…