Chapter 4 #2
Sleep isn’t coming. Not for me.
I move to the study, flick on the desk lamp, pull the secure laptop from the drawer.
The study might be a thickly carpeted room full of rich, polished mahogany, but tonight its comfort is of little use to me.
I need to make this a war room, a place where I can focus and show the world why I’m not ready to lose my crown.
It’s time to start making lists.
Who was where tonight?
Who knew about the meet?
Who stands to gain if I’m gone?
And when I have names…
I’ll cross them off.
One bullet at a time.
Deep into the night, I pour another whisky—neat, no ice, the burn a poor substitute for the clarity I need.
The study lamp casts long shadows across the oak desk, illuminating scribbled notes on yellow legal pads: names, connections, timelines.
Niko's at the top—my brother in all but blood—but even his loyalty gnaws at me tonight.
Paranoia is a pakhan's best friend some say.
Well, it's kept me alive this long. But I also know from the history books that not trusting anyone is almost as deadly as trusting too many people. I need allies—but who?
I swirl the amber liquid, staring at the laptop screen.
No calls made. No texts sent.
The house is silent as a grave, the lake outside deadly still.
The Volkov family has enemies, always has—rival pakhans sniffing for weakness, feds circling like vultures—but this felt personal. It was sloppy enough to be internal, precise enough to sting. A rival working with the assistance of a corrupt cop? It’s possible.
Suddenly, I’m out of my thoughts and back in the real world.
A creak.
Faint, but unmistakable. The stairs—old wood protesting under the weight of even the slightest steps.
I set the glass down soundlessly, hand instinctively reaching for the gun tucked in the desk drawer. My pulse doesn't spike, it steadies. Years of hits have trained me for this… listen, assess, act.
I rise, silent as smoke, and ease toward the study door. It's cracked—just enough to peer through without announcing myself. The foyer is dim, lit only by moonlight filtering through the tall windows. And there he is.
Eddie.
Pale, worried, and tiptoeing down the last few steps. Backpack slung over one shoulder, stuffie clutched in his arms like a talisman.
Shit. He’s making a move.
His hair's a mess, eyes wide and darting. He’s heading straight for the front door.
The damn boy is trying to escape.
Rage flares hot in my chest. After everything—pulling him from that gallery hell, bringing him here for safety—he thinks he can just walk out? And where? Into the night, where whoever ambushed me might be waiting?
Stupid. Reckless. Little.
This cannot be allowed.
I wait, breath controlled, body coiled. Let him commit. Let him think he’s free.
“Do the right thing,” I whisper. “Turn around. Go back to bed.”
But it’s no use. This boy is doing precisely what he wants, no matter how irresponsible. He reaches the door, small hand trembling as it closes around the key in the lock. The deadbolt clicks—soft, but in the silence, it's a thunderclap.
I move.
Fast. Silent.
One hand clamps over his mouth from behind, the other arm banding around his waist, lifting him clean off his feet. He squeaks—muffled against my palm—then thrashes like a wild thing. Backpack drops with a thud, the stuffie tumbles to the floor.
"Leaving is not an option," I growl low in his ear. "And now, little one, you're going to learn that the hard way."
He freezes for a split second, then redoubles his fight—elbows jabbing, feet kicking air. I haul him back toward the living room, away from the door, ignoring the muffled protests vibrating against my hand. He’s strong for his size, but it's nothing—kitten scratches against a bear.
I kick the study door wider and drag him inside, slamming it shut behind us. Only then do I release his mouth, spinning him to face me.
"You—you can't keep me here!" Eddie bursts out, chest heaving, eyes flashing fire through the tears. "This is kidnapping! I want to go home!"
I grip his upper arms. "Home? To what? A bullet? Those men weren't after art, boy. They were after me. And now you're a witness. You walk out that door, you're dead before dawn."
He stomps his foot—again, that defiant spark. "I don't care! You're scary! This whole thing is scary! Let me go!"
My Daddy side surges—possessive, protective, punitive. He’s a Little, all right: bratty when cornered, needing boundaries more than anything.
"No," I say, voice like gravel. "You don't get to decide. Not tonight. Not until I say it's safe."
I release one arm, but keep hold of the other, marching him toward the leather armchair in the corner. He digs his heels in, but it's futile.
"What are you—stop! Let go!"
I sit, yanking him down across my lap in one fluid motion. Face down, bottom up. The classic position, one I suspect he knows all too well if his sass with me is anything to go by.
"You were warned earlier," I say, calm as ice. "About crying. About obeying. This is what happens when you don't listen."
“Argh! Screw you!” Eddie protests, kicking his feet and writhing on my lap.
“Safeword,” I demand.
“I hate you!” Eddie spits, a hint of something else in alongside his anger. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
“I’ll ask one final time,” I say, the slightest hint of Eddie’s crotch grinding purposefully against me sending a bolt of lightning to my cock. “Safeword. Tell your Daddy your safeword so he can spank your butt.”
“You’re not my Daddy!” Eddie protests, his breathing short and his hips bucking once again. “But… but… my safeword is lemongrass.”
And with that, I know I can begin.
This boy is about to discover that when a Pakhan gives a command, you obey or prepare yourself for a seriously hot backside…