Landon pauses, pen hovering. For a second I think he won’t answer. Then he exhales, soft, almost resigned.
“Memory,” Landon answers. “We used to go there sometimes. When I was little. Me, my father… and my mom.” His voice catches on the last word, just barely. He covers it with a quick stroke of the pen, adding shading to the pines. “It was the only place that felt…normal. No bodyguards. No locked doors. Just the lake and the quiet.”
I look at the drawing again.
The figures are small, but the way the child is sandwiched between the two adults—protected, held—says more than the words.
I want to ask how old he was. I want to know if his mom used to read him stories on the dock. If his father ever smiled there the way he doesn’t smile anywhere else. I want to know what it felt like to be that safe, that ordinary, even for a weekend.
But I don’t ask.
Getting personal is a trap. Lines blur. Empathy creeps in. And empathy gets people killed in this business… either the one feeling it or the one it’s aimed at.
Viktor didn’t hire me to care. He hired me to contain and maybe kill.
I clear my throat. “I’ll order food for later. Burgers, fries, soft drinks. Nothing fancy. No alcohol.”
He finally looks at me. Green eyes sharp again, the softness from a moment ago gone like it was never there.
“Thai food?” he asks, almost hopeful. “Pad Thai? Or green curry? Something with actual flavor?”
I shake my head. “Burgers or nothing. Simple. Easy to verify. No surprises.”
He stares at me for a long beat, then drops his gaze back to the sketch. The pen moves again—slow, deliberate strokes—but there’s tension in his wrist now.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Burgers.”
I nod, roll my eyes, and stand.
“You’re lucky I’m not making you boiled cabbage,” I growl, almost catching a hint of a smile from him. “And one more thing. What’s the bear called?”
“Claw,” Landon replied. “And he hates boiled cabbage even more than I do. Burgers will have to do.”
I head toward the living room to make the call.
Behind me, the pencil keeps scratching. Soft, rhythmic. Like he’s trying to draw himself back to that lake, that dock, that version of his life where doors didn’t need triple bolts and men like me didn’t exist.
I don’t look back.
Some pictures are better left unfinished.
For the time being at least…
Chapter 7
Landon
Urgh.
Stay patient
Your time will come.
But the hours drag like molasses, each minute stretching into an eternity in this gilded prison.
I've been patient, though—ohsooopatient.
Biding my time, watching Ivan like a hawk without letting him see my talons. Since he sat down earlier and asked about my sketch, showing that flicker of interest in the cabin by the lake, I've been weaving in little threads about my childhood.
