Page 10 of Kane
I grab my towel and wrap it around myself, dripping a trail across the bathroom floor as I hurry to the bedroom where my phone is vibrating on the nightstand. A missed call from the university main line.Great. I tap the voicemail icon and hold the phone to my ear, still trying to catch my breath…
“Hi William, this is Margaret from the department office. Just wanted to let you know that the interlibrary loan book you requested… Victorian Women Writers and the Post Industrial Imagination… has finally arrived. It’s waiting for you at the front desk of the main library. Sorry for the delay, you know how these things go. Come by anytime today!”
I let out a long breath, relief and disappointment mixing in my chest. The book. My shiny new escape hatch. Exactly what I need to bury myself in nineteenth-century prose and forget all about mysterious Russian men with voices that make my knees weak.
I towel off quickly, the cool air raising fresh goosebumps on my still-flushed skin. My body protests the sudden halt, but I ignore it. I pull on a soft oversized sweater and my favorite jeans, comfy enough for a quick campus run but cute enough that I don’t feel like a total mess.
A quick brush through my damp hair, a swipe of lip balm, and I’m ready. Twist gets a final pat on the head before I put him in my backpack.
“Library time, little guy,” I say. “No more naughty thoughts today. Promise.”
I grab my backpack, slip my phone and keys inside, and head out the door before I can second-guess myself.
The walk to campus feels different now, purposeful. The sun is still bright, but the earlier heat in my veins has cooled to a manageable simmer. I focus on the book waiting for me…
On the way the pages will smell like old paper and possibility.
On how I’ll curl up in my favorite corner of the library’s reading room with a notebook and lose myself in scholarly analysis until Kane is nothing but a distant, slightly embarrassing memory.
By the time the grand stone steps of the main library come into view, I’m smiling again. A real one this time. The kind that reaches my eyes. I’ve got this. I’m William Peeters, PhD candidate, Brontë devotee, and owner of the world’s most patient otter stuffie.
One random club encounter isnotgoing to derail me.
I push open the heavy wooden doors, the familiar scent of books and quiet academia wrapping around me like a hug. Margaret waves from behind the circulation desk, already holding up a thick volume with a triumphant grin.
“Perfect timing,” Margaret calls. “It’s all yours.”
I take the book with both hands, feeling its solid weight like an anchor. This is what I need. Real life. My life. Not some fantasyabout a man whose name I only know because he growled it at me in a crowded club.
I find my usual spot by the tall window overlooking the quad, crack open the book, and dive in. The words on the page pull me under almost immediately… gothic shadows, repressed desires, heroines fighting for their voices in a world that wants them silent. It’s perfect. Comforting.Exactlythe distraction I was hoping for.
But even as I scribble notes in the margin, a tiny, traitorous part of my mind whispers his name again. Kane. Just once. Like a secret.
I shove it down deeper, turn the page, and keep reading.
I’ve got a whole afternoon and probably evening ahead of me, and I’m going to use every single second of it to stay firmly, safely, in my own world.
Chapter 4
Kane
“How much longer?” I ask, my voice low, impatient.
“Soon,” Padraig replies, his eyes focused front and center. “Soon.”
The black SUV idles at the curb like a predator pretending to be tame. I grip the steering wheel tighter than I need to, my knuckles white against the leather.
Padraig sits shotgun, still and observant, which tells me he feels the same weight in the air. The diner across the street looks too fucking cheerful for a meeting like this: neon signs buzzing in the midday sun, checkered floors visible through the big windows, and a goddamn chalkboard menu advertising avocado toast and cold brew like it’s trying to win an award for being the most inauthentic shit in the city.
“Hipsters,” I growl.
“Yup,” Padraig says, a hint of a wry laugh in his voice.
My jaw clenches as I scan the parking lot again. No obvious threats. No blacked-out vans. Just a couple of trendy waitstaff and some civilians nursing overpriced coffee.
Still, every instinct I have is screaming.
Two months ago I would’ve laughed at the idea of me, Kane Kamedov, walking into a sit-down like this. Back then I was the Young Menace, the one my brothers sent in when things needed to get messy.
