Nothing overt, nothing that screams pity me or see me as human to obviously. Just casual mentions here and there, dropped like breadcrumbs.
Over lunch, some bland sandwiches he threw together from the kitchen stock, I mentioned how Mom used to pack picnics for those lake trips, with homemade blini and fresh berries.
“She always said the best memories are the simple ones," I said offhand, while picking at the crust. Ivan simply grunted, didn't probe, but I saw his eyes linger on Claw for a second longer than necessary.
Ivan can’t help himself.
He might think he’s smart, but I can spot his tells a mile away.
Later, when he rummaged in a store cupboard and tossed me a change of clothes—gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, nothing fancy, still in plastic wrap—I thanked him quietly and added, "Reminds me of the oversized shirts Dad used to give me when I was a kid, playing dress-up in his closet."
Again, Ivan nodded, muttered something about it being practical, but didn't meet my eyes.Good. Let him picture the little boy version of me, innocent and far removed from the underworld wars he's tangled in.
Empathy is a slow poison.
I'm counting on it to weaken Ivan’s resolve without him even realizing.
Now, dinner's done. Burgers and fries, as promised—or threatened. Greasy, American, utterly unremarkable. I ate mine slowly, actually savoring the normalcy of it, while Ivan devoured his like it was fuel, not food.
The wrappers are crumpled on the coffee table, and we're in the living room, the massive flat-screen playing an animated movie I picked from the streaming service he reluctantly handed me the remote for. Something light, colorful… talking animals on an adventure, the kind of thing that takes me back to rainy afternoons as a kid.
I'm on the couch, legs tucked under me, Claw in my lap.
Ivan's opposite, in that armchair he favors, his phone in one hand, eyes flicking between the screen and the TV. He's tense, always is, like he's waiting for a knock at the door. Or a bullet.
The movie's soundtrack bubbles with upbeat music, but the room feels heavy, charged…
I yawn, exaggerated but genuine— the day's emotional gymnastics have worn me out.
"I might head to bed," I say, stretching my arms overhead. The t-shirt rides up a bit, exposing a sliver of midriff, but I pretend not to notice. “I’mtired.”
Ivan looks up sharply, suspicion etching lines around his eyes. "Bed?Already?" His voice is gruff, probing. "Remember, no viable escape routes. Windows are sealed, doors are locked. You know the score. Don't get any ideas."
I meet his gaze, wry smile tugging at my lips. "Oh, I'moverthe idea of escape. Especially after that spanking you gave me." I say it lightly, like it's a joke between old friends, but I watch for the reaction.
There it is: a flash in his eyes, dark and heated.
Ivan’s jaw tightens, fingers gripping the phone a little harder.
Is that desire?
Regret perhaps?
It’s something primal, anyway. It sends a shiver down my spine, not entirely unwelcome. I don't wait for him to respond. I stand quickly, clutching Claw, and make a beeline for the bedroom.
"Night," I toss over my shoulder, shutting the door behind me with a soft click.
The bedroom is sparse but comfortable. A king bed with crisp sheets, nightstand, lamp.
No clear windows, which is probably intentional. Only frosted panes that give a little light but not much else. It’s far from ideal, butnoneof this is ideal so whatever.
I rummage in the bedroom store cupboard again—more basics stocked there—and find a pair of pajamas. Soft cotton, pale blue, shorts and a tank top. Nothing sexy, but they fit well enough. I change quickly, the fabric cool against my skin, then slip under the covers with Claw nestled against my chest.
Okay, Landon.
Think.
You can't just wait this out. Dad's probably tearing the city apart looking for me, but who knows how long that takes? Or if he'll succeed without starting a war.
