"Drink," I say, not a request. "You're dehydrated. That headache won't go away on its own."
Landon eyes the bottle warily, like it might be poisoned.
But after a beat, he twists off the cap and takes a small sip. Still no words. His silence is a weapon, testing me, probing for cracks. I've seen it before in interrogations—hostages trying to flip the power dynamic by withholding.
But I'm patient.
I've got all the time in the world.
I pull out the chair across from him and sit, cradling my coffee. The aroma is rich, and grounding. "Hope you've learned your lesson," I say, meeting his gaze when he finally glances up. "That vent stunt?Stupid. Could've gotten yourself hurt worse than a spanking."
Landon’s eyes narrow, but he doesn't respond. Just another sip of water, his throat working as he swallows. The flush on his cheeks hasn't faded. If anything, it's deeper.
The boy is stewing.
Plotting.
I can feel it in the air between us, thick as the steam from earlier.Good. Let the boy test me. It'll make breaking him—or whatever Viktor has in mind—all the more interesting.
But I'm not here to play games all day. There's business to handle. Viktor will want an update soon, and I need to check the perimeter, make sure no Galkin goons are sniffing around yet.
"I'm heading out for a bit," I tell him, watching for his reaction. "Don't bother with the vent again. It's a dead-end network thatleads to a sealed HVAC unit two floors down. No escape route. You'd just get stuck and I'd have to fish you out. Embarrassing for both of us. And really fucking inconvenient."
I watch Landon’s lips twitch, like he’s fighting a retort, but he stays quiet.
Smart boy. Or stubborn. Either way I’m not complaining.
I lean back, sipping my coffee, letting the silence stretch. Then, casually…
"If you promise to behave,” I begin, eyeing the boy carefully. “And by that I mean no more escape attempts, no bullshit, I'll let you have your backpack. The driver picked it up off the street when we grabbed you. He figured you might want your stuff."
There it is: a flicker in his eyes.
Surprise, maybe relief.
Whatever it is, I saw it and Landon can’t take it back.
The backpack is in the entry closet, contents inventoried: notes, pens, a tablet—battery removed—and that stuffed bear. A cute thing, worn from years of handling.
“So?” I ask.
He nods solemnly, the first real acknowledgment since the bathroom.
"I promise," Landon mutters, voice low but clear.
"Good." I stand, drain the last of my coffee, and rinse the mug in the sink. As I prepare to leave—grabbing my jacket, checking my phone for messages from Viktor—I detour to the closet.
The backpack's there, zipped tight. I open it, rummage briefly, and pull out the stuffie and hand it to him without a word.
Landon snatches it, clutching it to his chest like a lifeline. His fingers dig into the fur, knuckles white, and for a second, his tough facade cracks—just a glimpse of vulnerability. Those green eyes soften as he hugs it close.
I pause at the door, watching. That reaction... it's more than just a toy. Comfort object? Regression? I've known a few Littles in my time. Boys who crave that dynamic, the structure, the care mixed with discipline.
The way he fell into the spanking, counting obediently even as he protested. And there’s the fact he was so obviously aroused too.
Not forgetting the safe word rolling off his tongue like second nature.Rabbit. Cute.
Is he a real Little? It would explain a lot. The foot-stomping tantrum in the shower, the way his body responded under my hand, arching just a little despite the pain.
