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Once.

Then again five minutes later.

Then again three minutes after that.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter into the quiet. “He’s fine.”

I drive another mile, take a curve too sharp, and immediately check again. “Yes. Still breathing.”

Excellent. I’ve officially lost it.

John would enjoy this immensely.

We leave the denser Pittsburgh streets behind gradually, crossing into quieter stretches where storefronts give way to dark houses, then trees.

The safe house is forty-three minutes away if traffic cooperates, which it does.

I chose the property years ago for several qualities. Privacy, distance, multiple routes in and out, enough land that neighbors can’t easily see what happens near the house, and a backup generator.

Kamden stirs thirty minutes into the drive, nearly giving me a heart attack thinking the drug wore off way too quickly. His brow furrows, his nose twitches like a rabbit, then his face scrunches up, and he lets out a tiny whimper as though whatever dream he’s landed in isn’t a pleasant one.

“It’s alright. Sleep, sweetheart.”

His breathing catches, then settles, his face softening out again.

In the dark of the car, I watch his reflection in the glass. The streetlights slide over his face every few seconds, orange then gone, orange then gone.

The instinct to soothe him feels alarmingly natural.

“Daddy” has always existed in controlled spaces—the club, in private rooms, occasional weekends in a rented cabin with a suitcase packed with the good rope and a first-aid kit that has never once been needed.

I like structure, I like rules, and I like taking charge.

I like knowing someone has eaten because I made sure they did. Standing in their kitchen while they sit at the table with their knees pulled up, finishing a bowl of pasta to please me.

I like drawing baths after rough scenes and testing the water with my wrist. Folding a towel on the counter so it’s within reach.

I like holding someone against my chest while their nervous system comes back down and telling them they did well. Watching their shoulders drop an inch at a time until they’re heavy against me—because they’re relaxed and feeling safe, not because I’ve just drugged them.

I like punishing those who need it and praising those who’ve earned it.

I enjoy being needed.

Within limits.

That’s the thing. This isn’t a scene where Kamden can go back home afterward.

I’m going to provide him with everything he needs. Meals, safety, money, new clothes, and whatever he needs for school.

The only thing I can’t give him is freedom.

The safe house appears at the end of the gravel drive a little after one-thirty. It’s a single-story home with gray siding, a wide porch, a pond in the back, and trees surrounding three sides.

I installed two motion lights after buying the place, angled to cover the drive and the side entrance. They flick on as the car approaches, throwing long shadows through the trees.

This is the moment where planning becomes reality.

I have kidnapped Kamden Blake.