“Enough,” Ivan growls.
I thrash. My knee comes up. He blocks it with his thigh. My free hand claws at his face—he catches that wrist too. Now both arms are trapped above my head, body pressed flat to the steel door.
Ivan leans in, his breath hot against my cheek, the scent of vodka right there.
“You just made the biggest mistake of your life, boy,” Ivan barks. “Daddy’s not happy. Not happy at all.”
The door’s triple bolts are thrown in rapid succession.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I’m locked down again.
He doesn’t release me yet. His chest rises and falls fast—not from exertion. From anger. From something darker.
“You think you can sneak past me? Steal my boss’s phone? Pull a knife?” Ivan’s voice drops to a lethal whisper. “You’re going to be punished like you’ve never been punished before.”
My stomach plummets.
Not fear, exactly.
Something worse.
Certainty.
I’ve crossed the line he warned me about.
And now I’m going to pay…
Ivan’s hand closes around my throat before I can plead or come up with some bullshit excuse. It’s over. I’m in real trouble now.
I’m not choking—yet—but it’s firm enough that breathing becomes a conscious effort. My back slams against the steel door again, the impact jarring my teeth. The keys and keycard clatter to the floor between us. His body pins mine from chest to knee, immovable as granite.
I look up into his face.
“Boy,” Ivan snarls, full of pure menace. “Your time has come.”
The man who played with toy cars on the rug this afternoon is gone.
What stares back is something darker. Something cold and ancient and furious. Pupils blown wide, irises reduced to thin silver rims. Pure, unfilteredevil. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The look says everything:
You tried to run. You pulled a knife. You betrayed the fragile truce we had built.
I kick—hard, wild—aiming for his groin, his shin,anything.
Ivan doesn’t even flinch. Just tightens his grip enough to make stars burst behind my eyes, then drags me forward by the throat like I weigh nothing.
My feet scramble for purchase. Socks slide uselessly on marble.
He hauls me down the hallway—past the kitchen, past the living room where the infomercial is still cheerfully selling kitchengadgets—straight into the master bedroom I’ve never been allowed to enter.
The door bangs shut behind us.
He releases my throat.
I gasp, sucking air, hands flying to my neck.
No time to recover. Not even close.
