Page 14 of Kane
People are still coming and going even at this hour: students with backpacks, older types in coats clutching books, a few couples whispering as they exit.
I stop across the street and watch for a minute. The building looks out of place in this concrete jungle—elegant, timeless, almost defiant. Light spills out onto the sidewalk like an invitation.
“Huh,” I mutter to myself, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “Maybe I should find a book to read.”
Half joke. Half serious. When was the last time I picked up anything that wasn’t a ledger, a report, or a weapon schematic?
My brothers used to tease me about it, calling me the brute who only reads bloodstains.
But tonight, with the weight of leadership pressing down and Viktor’s words still echoing, the idea doesn’t sound half bad. Something to quiet the noise in my head. Even if it’s just for an hour.
I cross the street and climb the steps. The doors swing open with a low creak that feels almost welcoming. Inside, the air is cooler, scented with old paper, polished wood, and that indefinable library hush. High vaulted ceilings, rows of dark shelves stretching into shadowed aisles, green banker’s lamps glowing on long reading tables.
A few heads turn my way, curious glances at the man in the black suit who clearly doesn’t belong, but most people return to their books.
I wander deeper without purpose, shoes quiet on the marble floor. My fingers trail along spines as I pass: history, philosophy, literature. Names I vaguely recognize from school but never cared about.Brontë. Twist. Gothic tales.The irony isn’t lost on me. A pakhan in a house of stories. I could certainly tell a few stories based on my life.
I pick up a thick volume on Russian history—something about the old empires—and flip through it idly. The words blur, it’s not holding my attention.
I shelve the history book and keep moving, deeper into the stacks. The lighting grows softer, the aisles narrower. Myshoulders loosen fractionally. For the first time all day, the constant vigilance eases just a notch.
No one here wants my territory. No one here is plotting against the Kamedov name.
I round a corner and pause near a tall window overlooking the dark street. The city lights twinkle below. Somewhere out there, Viktor is probably already moving pieces on his chessboard. Padraig’s waiting for direction. My soldiers need a strong hand.
But right now, in this quiet gothic sanctuary, I let myself breathe.
I don’t know how long I stand there. Long enough for the restlessness to settle into something like resolve. I’ll honor my brothers by building something unbreakable. No coalitions. No compromises that taste like surrender.
And just as I turn to leave, I’m stopped dead in my tracks.
Over by the ornate window, crossed legged and with a look of adorable focus as he reads a big dusty book.
Surely not.
It can’t be…
Chapter 5
William
“Hey, Twist, this is the life, isn’t it,” I say, my voice as quiet as a mouse.
I’m curled up in the most perfect little nook on the third floor of the old gothic library, my back pressed snug against the warm old radiator pipe that runs along the wall. The heat seeps through my oversized cream sweater, the one with the slightly frayed cuffs that I’ve had since undergrad, and it makes me feel like I’m wrapped in a cozy hug.
Twist is tucked securely under my left arm, his soft otter fur brushing my cheek every time I shift. The heavy interlibrary loan book rests open on my lap, its pages smelling like aged paper and secrets.
I’m completely lost in it.
And that’s just how I like it.
Victorian writers and their gothic worlds have me hooked. The repressed desires, the shadows lurking behind every corner, the way the heroines fight for air in corseted lives… it feels so alive tonight.
Any thought of heading home for an early night disappeared about two hours ago.
The library lights are low and golden, the building mostly quiet except for the occasional soft footsteps or page turn.
This is my happy place.
