The thought stirs something in me, a heat I push down.
Not now. Not with this boy. Not gonna happen.
I engage the locks—triple bolts, keycard, biometric scan—and step out. The hallway's clear, elevators secure.
Downstairs, two guards, loyal Volkov men, discreet in plain clothes, nod as I pass.
"Monitor him,” I say. "Cams, audio. Any issues, call me."
"Got it, boss."
Outside, the city's alive with morning traffic, horns blaring, pedestrians hustling. I head to a corner café a block away.
Neutral ground, good sightlines.
There, I order a black coffee, find a table by the window. The brew's not as good as the penthouse machine, but it's hot and strong. It’ll do for now. Although I’m not sure I’ll be coming here for a Sunday espresso any time soon.
My phone buzzes as I sit—secure line, app linked to the penthouse CCTV. I pull up the feed, multiple angles: living room, kitchen, bedroom.
And there he is, on the couch, curled up with the stuffie pressed to his face. Landon is lying on his side, knees drawn up, one hand stroking the bear's ear absentmindedly.
Vulnerable. Innocent.
But I know better… there's steel under that softness.
The more I watch, the more convinced I am: he’s a Little. The stomping in the shower? Classic brat behavior, testing boundaries. The safe word? He didn't hesitate, like it's part of his world.
And the spanking...
God, the way he moaned, even as his perfectly supple cheeks heated and reddened. His body tensed, then relaxed into it, submitting so naturally. We slipped into roles without a word—me as the stern Daddy, him as the naughty boy needing correction.
It felt right.Tooright.
My cock twitches at the memory, hardening against my thigh. The sound of my hand on his wet skin, the jiggle of his ass cheeks, the way he counted—voice breathy, defiant but compliant.
I shift in my seat, adjusting discreetly.
Damn.
If he is a Little, this complicates things. Viktor's plan is leverage, not... whatever this stirring is. But the thought of him over my lap again, or tucked into bed with that stuffie, me reading him a story...
No. Stop.
He’s Galkin's son.
The boy is a pawn. Not a damn thing more.
I sip my coffee, forcing my mind elsewhere. The window overlooks a busy street: cabs, delivery vans, the usual chaos.
But then, a couple of cars catch my eye.
Black sedans, tinted windows, cruising slow. Too slow for traffic. They circle the block once, twice, before peeling off.
Suspicious.
My senses prickle—years in this game hone that instinct.
Word must have gotten back to Mikhail by now. Viktor's contact would have been made hours ago:
