The boy’s breathing slows, deepens. His eyelids droop. He fights it—blinks hard, tries to refocus on the play—but gravity wins.
“Bedtime,” I say quietly.
But Landon makes a small, protesting sound in the back of his throat. “Just… until the end of the quarter.Please?”
Those green eyes lift to mine—wide, pleading, ridiculous puppy-dog innocence dialed up to eleven.
I sigh. “One quarter.”
He beams, sleepy, victorious. He then snuggles closer, cheek against my shirt.
Less than five minutes later his eyes flutter shut for good. A soft, rhythmic snore escapes him. Barely audible. And very, very cute.
I roll my eyes.
Then I chuckle—low, quiet, surprised at myself.
Despite the attitude. Despite the Galkin name stamped on his bloodline. Despite the fact that he’s technically my hostage…
Landon is okay.
Morethan okay.
The boy is sharp. Funny when he wants to be. Brave in small, stubborn ways. And right now, asleep against my side with his little bear clutched tight, he looks impossibly innocent. Impossibly fragile.
My mind flashes to Viktor.
What would he say if he could see this? His loyal assassin letting the Galkin prince nap on his chest like he belongs there?
He’d probably put a bullet in my skull and call it housekeeping.
I know the rules. Emotional involvement is a death sentence. Not just for me—for him, too. If Viktor thinks I’ve gone soft, if he thinks I won’t pull the trigger when the order comes down… he’ll replace me.
And I know exactly what that means. I’ve seen it happen to others.
Whoever comes after me won’t bother with juice boxes and toy cars. They’ll treat the boy like leverage.Disposableleverage.
I can’t afford to care.
Not really.
But keeping him content—maintain his calm, ensuring he is cooperative—reduces the odds of him doing something reckless. Reduces the odds of me having to hurt him. It’s tactical. Strategic.
That’s what I tell myself.
That’s what I have to believe.
The quarter ends. The network cuts to commercial.
I don’t move.
Instead I tilt my head down, brush my lips against his forehead—soft, barely there. A whisper of contact. He doesn’t stir.
“Goodnight, trouble,” I murmur.
Then I scoop him up, Claw still clutched in his arms. He mumbles something incoherent, nestles closer to my chest, and goes right back to snoring.
I carry him down the hall to the his bedroom. Lay him on the mattress. Pull the covers up to his chin. Set Claw beside his cheek.
