Heavy footsteps.
Relief and panic collide in my chest.
My Daddy is back.
I freeze. Hold perfectly still. My heart is hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it across the room.
Ivan appears in the kitchen doorway. Coat still on. Face hard. Eyes scanning me—not with hunger this time, but with something sharper. Urgent.
He doesn’t speak.
“D-D-D-Daddy?” I whisper, my heart thumping.
But Ivan doesn’t speak. He crosses straight to the bench and kneels. His fingers work the knots at my ankles first—quick, efficient. Then my wrists. Rope falls away.
I push up on shaking arms. My legs wobble when I try to stand and my erection bounces from side to side as I sway.
“Ivan…”
“Get dressed.” His voice is low, clipped. “Now.Quickly.”
No praise. No “good boy.” No wicked smile.
Something is wrong.
Verywrong.
“What happened?” I ask, rubbing my wrists. “Did my father…”
“Move.” The word cracks like a whip. “Dress. Immediately. This isn’t a drill or a game. Do as I say and do it right this second.”
The edge in his tone shocks me into motion. I’ve never heard him shout—not like this. Fear prickles along my spine, cold and sudden. Has my moment arrived? Is Ivan taking me out to kill me? It’s possible. I’m realistic enough to know that. But surely after everything I mean too much to Ivan… right?
I scramble for my clothes—jeans, t-shirt, hoodie—scattered where he stripped me earlier. Fingers fumble buttons, zipper. I yank the jeans up, wincing as denim scrapes over tender skin.
Ivan is already moving. He grabs a black duffel from the closet, stuffs in weapons, cash stacks, burner phones. He’s methodical.Fast.
He tosses my backpack at my feet.
“Pack what you need. Now.”
I blink. “We’re… leaving?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate. “Get your bear.”
My darling Claw.
I dart to the living room window seat where I left him propped against the glass. I scoop him up, hug him tight for one frantic second, then shove him into the backpack alongside the sketchpad and the few notes I still have.
Ivan is at the door already, his jacket zipped, pistol tucked at the small of his back. He looks back at me, eyes dark.
“Let’s go.”
I sling the backpack over both shoulders and follow him out.
The corridor is empty. Silent except for our footsteps. He doesn’t take the elevator—heads straight for the fire exit stairwell at the end of the hall. Ivan pushes the crash bar. Alarm should scream, but it doesn’t. He must have disabled it somehow which tells me that there’s an extra layer to this thing that I’d imagined.
We descend the stairs—fast, quiet, a sense of urgency that feels like everything is on the line right now.
