Chapter 9
Eddie
We reach the kitchen, and Viktor finally releases my hand to guide me inside. He doesn't say a word as he helps me fully step out of my tangled clothes, his touch clinical and careful, avoiding anything that might make this moment feel more intimate than it already is.
As before, Viktor knows what he’s doing when it comes to aftercare. His hands are equally as capable of softness and care as they are of dishing out a spanking, or worse. Once I’m all done, Viktor takes a step back and his hungry eyes take in the sight of my red butt one last time.
“Okay, we’re done,” Viktor says. “Good boy.”
I stand there, half-naked and vulnerable, as he pulls my briefs and jeans back on, fastening them with a gentleness that clashes with the sternness in his eyes.
"Sit," he says quietly, pointing to a stool at the island.
But instead of obeying immediately, I hesitate, my bottom protesting at the thought of hard wood.
Viktor notices and softens just a fraction. He grabs a soft cushion from one of the chairs and places it on the stool.
"Better?"
“Yup,” I nod, easing myself down gingerly. The cushion helps, but the sting is still there—a constant pulse that makes it impossible to forget what just happened.
Viktor moves to the freezer, pulling out an ice pack and wrapping it in a towel before handing it to me. "Sit on this. Ten minutes should do."
I do as he says, the cold seeping through the fabric and numbing the heat.
It's a strange kind of relief, and as I sit there, I watch him rummage in a drawer.
His movements are efficient, almost tender, and it hits me again how contradictory he is—this man who can spank me until I cry and then care for me like I'm something precious.
When the ten minutes are up, he takes the ice pack away and swiftly re-applies the cooling cream himself as I once again present my naked ass, his fingers cool and light on my skin.
I bite my lip, trying not to react to the intimacy of it all.
"There," he says finally, stepping back. "Now, nap time."
"Nap?" I echo, surprised. "I might be a Little. But I'm not a baby."
Viktor’s expression doesn't change. "You need rest. And I need to keep an eye on you. It’s not a request."
He takes my hand again, leading me out of the kitchen and down the hall to the study.
The room is warm, with a large couch positioned near an open fire that's crackling softly, flames dancing in the hearth.
Bookshelves line the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that look old and important, and his desk sits in the corner, papers scattered across it like he's been working through the night.
Viktor guides me to the couch, helping me lie down on my side to avoid putting pressure on my sore bottom. He grabs a thick, soft blanket from a nearby chair and drapes it over me, tucking the edges in carefully.
I clutch Goldie tighter, burying my face in his mane for comfort.
The fire's warmth seeps into my bones, and despite everything, exhaustion starts to pull at me—the adrenaline crash from the run, the punishment, the emotional whirlwind.
"Sleep," Viktor says, his voice low and commanding but not unkind. He sits on the edge of the couch for a moment, adjusting the blanket one last time.
I look up at him, my eyes heavy. "Will you... stay?"
Viktor pauses, considers something, then nods.
"Right here," he says, a hint of a smile on his face.
To my surprise, he begins to hum a melody—soft at first, then turning into words. It's an old Russian lullaby, his voice deep and rumbling, carrying a melody that's both haunting and soothing.
"Bayu-bayushki-bayu," he sings quietly, the words foreign but the tone universal.
Viktor tells me afterward it's something his grandmother sang to him as a child, a song about wolves in the forest and how they would guard their young with their lives. In this moment, it wraps around me like the blanket, easing the tension from my body.
My butt still throbs with every heartbeat, a sharp reminder of my failed escape, but as the lullaby continues, my heart flutters in a different way.
There's something vulnerable in his voice, a glimpse of the man behind the devil, and it makes my chest ache.
I drift off to the sound of it, the fire's crackle blending with his song, pulling me into sleep.
When I wake, the room is a little dimmer, the fire still going but the sunlight outside shifting toward afternoon. I blink, disoriented for a second, then sit up slowly, the blanket pooling around my waist.
My bottom aches still, but more of a warm reminder than the fiery sting from before. Goldie is still in my arms, and I give him a squeeze before looking around.
Viktor walks in right then, carrying a tray with an espresso for himself—the gold leafed cup steaming—and a larger mug for me. The scent of warm milk hits me, comforting and familiar.
"Awake," he says, setting the tray on the coffee table.
"How did you know?" I ask, rubbing my eyes. "I just opened them."
He settles on the opposite end of the couch, picking up his espresso. "Two hours. Matter of time." His tone is matter-of-fact, but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes too, giving me a hint of something more to him.
I giggle, the sound surprising even me after everything.
"Stalker much?" I sit up fully, reaching for the mug. It's warm milk, just like I hoped, and he's sprinkled chocolate on top—fine shavings that melt into the foam. "This looks amazing. Thank you, stalker."
Viktor rolls his eyes, nods, sips his coffee. "Hmmm. Enough sass. Drink. It’ll be good for you."
I blow on it gently, then take a sip. Creamy, sweet, perfect.
We sit in companionable silence for a moment, the fire popping between us. But curiosity burns, and I can't hold it back.
"Viktor... what do you do? For work, I mean. That whole shooting thing... it's not normal."
He sets his cup down, gaze steady on mine. "Family business. That's all a boy like you needs to know."
I nod, not pushing.
Crime, obviously—mafia, Bratva, whatever they call it.
Guns, power, danger. All that nasty stuff. Deep down, I know. I guess I just wanted to hear him say it. But saying it out loud might shatter this fragile peace, and right now, with the milk warming my hands and the blanket still draped over my legs, I don't want to.
"Okay," I finally reply, my voice quiet.
He shifts slightly, his posture relaxing a fraction more.
"Your art,” Viktor says, genuine curiosity in his voice. “Talk. Tell me… why sculpture?"
I smile, surprised he remembers. "It's..
. everything. With clay, I can shape the world how I want it.
Make something from nothing. It's tactile, you know?
Hands in the mud, feeling it come alive.
Painting's flat, but sculpture has dimension.
Life. I started in school, this teacher saw I couldn't sit still, put me at the wheel. I’ve been hooked ever since.
" I pause, sipping more milk. "My show's ruined now, though. All that work, shot to hell."
Viktor listens, really listens, his dark eyes focused. Then he says, "If you promise to behave…no more running… I’ll arrange supplies. Clay, tools. Here."
My heart leaps. "Really? I'd... do anything. I’d promise anything for that. I need to get my hands wet. I need to create. Especially after the gallery mess."
Viktor reaches over, places his hand on my knee. It's meant as reassurance—warm, steady pressure. But suddenly, electricity sparks between us. His touch sends a jolt up my leg, heat blooming where his palm rests.
Our eyes meet, and something shifts—the air thickens, charged. Not just Daddy protectiveness. Something much more.
Desire.
A real connection.
I realize then, with a sinking thrill, things might be about to get even more complicated. The fire crackles on, but the warmth in the room feels different now. His hand lingers a second too long before he pulls back, clearing his throat.
"Good. Supplies tomorrow."
I nod, but my mind races.
Art here? With him?
Yes, escape still calls to me, but this... this pull.
Complicated doesn't begin to cover it.
The afternoon drifts into evening with a quiet rhythm that feels almost normal, if I ignore the locked doors and the armed man who occasionally passes the windows on patrol. Viktor works at his desk for a while longer, then closes the laptop and stands, stretching his broad shoulders.
The fire has burned low, leaving the room warm and golden. He looks over at me where I’m curled on the couch with a picture book I’ve been pretending to read.
“Movie?” he asks, voice low. “Something easy. No guns.”
I manage a small smile. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”
Viktor chooses an old animated Disney film—bright colors, talking animals, nothing heavy.
We settle on the couch together, a respectful distance between us at first. But as the opening credits roll and the fire pops softly, I find myself inching closer.
The blanket is still draped over my legs, and when I shift to tuck my feet under me, my shoulder brushes his arm.
Viktor doesn’t pull away. Instead, after a few minutes, he lifts his arm and lets me lean against his side.
I rest my head on his chest.
His heartbeat is steady, strong, nothing like the frantic racing of my own.
The movie plays on, but I barely follow it. His arm comes around my shoulders, heavy and warm, fingers resting lightly on my upper arm. It’s the most natural thing in the world, and the most dangerous.
By eight o’clock my eyelids are heavy. The day has been too much—breakfast, toys, the failed escape, the punishment, the aftercare, the promise of art supplies. It’s a lot. My body feels like lead. I yawn, trying to hide it behind my hand.
Viktor glances down. “Tired, baby boy?”
I nod against his chest. “Really tired.”
He reaches for the remote and pauses the movie. “Then bed. I’ll carry you.”
I pout. “I can walk.”
“You can barely keep your eyes open.” Viktor’s tone is gentle but final. “No arguing.”
I want to protest more, but the truth is I’m too exhausted to put up much of a fight.
When he stands and scoops me up, blanket and all, I don’t resist. My arms loop around his neck, Goldie squished between us. He carries me upstairs with the same effortless strength he used earlier today, only this time there’s no anger, no punishment. Just quiet care.
In the guest bedroom, he sets me gently on my feet beside the bed.
The lamp is already on, casting a soft glow. My rumpled jeans and t-shirt feel grimy after the day’s chaos.
“Change,” Viktor says, opening a drawer in the dresser. He pulls out a pair of silky pajamas—his, obviously. Deep burgundy, expensive, far too big for me. “These will be comfortable.”
I take them, the fabric cool and smooth against my fingers. “Thanks. Wow. These feel… nice.”
He turns his back while I change, giving me privacy without leaving the room.
I slip out of my clothes quickly, folding them on the chair, then slide into the pajamas.
The shirt hangs past my thighs almost like a dress, sleeves swallowing my hands.
The pants pool at my ankles until I roll the waistband a few times.
They smell faintly of him—clean soap, cedar, something darker and warmer.
I shouldn’t like it as much as I do and I feel my special place tingle and dampen as the silky fabric caresses my entire body.
“I’m covered,” I say softly.
He turns, looks me over, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Cute.”
I blush, climbing into bed. The sheets are cool against my legs. Viktor pulls the covers up, tucking them around me with careful hands. He smooths the blanket over my chest, then rests one palm on my shoulder for a moment.
“Listen carefully,” he says, voice dropping to that low, serious register. “You do not leave this room until morning. No wandering. No windows. No tricks. If you do, there will be consequences. Understand?”
I nod, eyes wide. “I understand. I promise.”
He studies my face for a long second, searching for any hint of deception. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he gives a single nod. “Good boy.”
Viktor leans down, presses a kiss to my forehead—lingering just long enough that my heart stutters—then straightens. “Sleep.”
The door closes quietly behind him. The room falls silent except for the faint crackle of the fire downstairs and the soft sound of my own breathing.
I pull Goldie close, burying my face in his golden mane. “I don’t know what to do,” I whisper to him. “I really don’t.”
My bottom still aches faintly when I shift, a dull reminder of earlier, but it’s nothing compared to the confusion in my chest. I should hate Viktor.
He’s keeping me here. He spanked me until I cried.
He’s dangerous—mafia, guns, blood. I literally saw him kill a man with such precision I know it was far from his first body.
And yet.
The way he sang that lullaby. The way he tucked me in. The promise of clay and tools so I can make something beautiful again. The solid warmth of his chest when I leaned against him during the movie. The gentle kiss on my forehead just now…
Mmmmph.
My heart flutters every time I think about it.
“Could he actually be my Daddy?” I murmur into Goldie’s fur. The words feel huge, terrifying, impossible.
I close my eyes, trying to picture escape—slipping out the window, running through the woods, finding a road, calling Robbie.
But the images blur. Instead I see Viktor’s face when he carried me up here, steady and sure.
I see his hand on my knee earlier, the electricity that sparked between us.
I feel the safety of his arms, the low rumble of his voice promising consequences if I disobey.
I’m tired of running.
I’m tired of being afraid.
And tired of pretending I don’t feel whatever this is growing inside me.
But admitting it? That’s the scariest thing of all.
I hug Goldie tighter, letting exhaustion pull me under.
Tomorrow I’ll think about it. Tomorrow I’ll decide.
For now, I let the scent of Viktor’s pajamas and the memory of his lullaby carry me into sleep. And hopefully some very naughty dreams too…