Chapter 8
Kane
I stand near the heavy oak table in the shadowed reference section, arms crossed over my chest as I watch the boy approach.
William.
My shy little academic with the soul of a true submissive. He moves like a deer stepping into a clearing—cautious, every sense on high alert, yet drawn forward by something he can’t resist.
I can read him perfectly: the slight tremble in his shoulders, the way his fingers clutch the strap of his backpack like it’s a lifeline, the flush already rising on his cheeks.
Nerves. Excitement. Fear.
A perfect cocktail that makes my blood run hotter.
William knows exactly what I am. Danger. A man who exists in a world of blood and power plays, nothing like the safe, bookish young men or otherwise who probably orbit his university life.
I represent the sharp edge he’s secretly craved. The contrast makes my cock twitch… his soft, orderly existence colliding with my brutal reality. And still, he came. Not a second late.
William stops two paces away, eyes wide, breath shallow. Smart boy. He senses the shift in the air, the way the quiet library has become my domain tonight.
“Backpack off,” I say, voice low and calm. “Place it on the table.”
William’s hands shake as he slips the straps from his shoulders. The bag lands on the oak surface with a soft thud. He’s trembling now, visible little shivers running through his frame, but he doesn’t run.
“Stand up straight,” I bark. “Shoulders back. Eyes forward.”
He obeys instantly. No hesitation. His posture straightens, wanting to obey me as best he can. The obedience sends a surge of dark satisfaction through me.
This is what I need. Total control.
After the chaos of Viktor, the weight of being pakhan, the ghosts of my brothers… here, with William, I am completely in command.
I step forward and unzip his backpack. My fingers brush against soft fabric—the otter stuffie—and notebooks before I find what I’m looking for. A shiny red apple, clearly part of his packed lunch. Perfect.
“Open your mouth,” I growl. “Wide.”
William’s lips part. I place the apple between his teeth, the smooth skin pressing against his pretty mouth.
“Hold it there with your teeth. Hands on your head. Fingers laced. Do not drop the apple, Daddy commands it.”
William obeys again, raising his arms. The position pushes his sweater up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin above his jeans.
Vulnerable. On display. Mine to play with.
I reach for the button of his jeans. The metal gives way easily under my fingers.
I slide the zipper down slowly, deliberately, letting him feel every inch of exposure.
Then I tug the denim down his thighs, past his knees, all the way to his ankles.
His legs are smooth and toned from cycling.
And there they are—tight, high-cut race-car red briefs that hug the curve of his ass like they were made to be ripped and torn right off his body.
I run my palm over one cheek, then the other.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Three quick, sharp spanks. Not hard enough to make him yelp, but enough to warm him. Muffled moans escape around the apple. His body jolts with each one, the fabric of his briefs shifting and riding deliciously.
“Such a pretty little ass,” I murmur. “Already learning who it belongs to.”
I turn back to his backpack and dig deeper. My hand closes around something wooden and smooth—a ruler. I pull it out, testing its weight. Solid. Perfect for correction.
I swish the ruler through the air once, twice. The sharp whoosh cuts through the silence. William’s eyes widen with genuine fear. That look—pure, unfiltered panic mixed with desperate arousal—delights me more than it should.
The boy is terrified. And rock-hard. I can already see the package at the front of his briefs growing thick and prominent.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of his briefs and drag them down to join his jeans at his ankles. His neatly trimmed pubic hair comes into view, the soft blonde curls glistening with arousal. His cock bounces and stands tall and proud as his cheeks flush red.
“Stay still. Keep that apple in your mouth.”
He does. I tap the ruler against my palm, then bring it down.
Crack.
The first hard swat lands across both cheeks. He bites down on the apple, a choked whimper escaping.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
I deliver all twelve swats with measured precision. Alternating cheeks, building the heat, watching his skin bloom from pink to a deep, angry red. Each impact makes him rise onto his toes. Tears gather in his eyes, but he holds position. William bites harder. Takes it for me.
When the last swat lands, I set the ruler aside and admire my work. The boy’s ass is a masterpiece of red-hot heat. He’s trembling harder now, breathing fast through his nose, but he looks so perfect it’s like the boy is a work of art.
“Stay exactly like this,” I command. “Do not move. Do not drop the apple. Hands on your head.”
I walk around the table and sit in the chair behind it, leaning back like a king on his throne.
For two minutes I simply watch him. The exposed, punished boy holding perfect position in a quiet corner of the library. William’s eyes are downcast at first, ashamed, overwhelmed. Then slowly, bravely, they lift to meet mine.
What I see there nearly breaks my control.
Pure, raw ecstasy. He’s flying. The boy is loving every second of his submission. The fear has melted into trust and desperate hunger. My little academic is all hard and horny for the monster who just ruled his ass with a wooden ruler.
But I am the master here. I cannot lose control. Not yet.
I stand abruptly. “I’m leaving now. You will remain exactly in this position until I text you. Understood?”
A tiny nod around the apple.
I pick up his phone from the backpack, unlock it with his trembling fingers when he offers it, and send myself a message from his number. Now I have the boy. Completely.
As I walk past him toward the exit, I stop. My hand reaches out. I trace two fingers slowly over his neatly trimmed pubic area, brushing it before tracing my fingers up his stiff cock.
William’s eyes flutter. Pure ecstasy yet again as a soft, desperate moan vibrates around the apple.
I lean in close to his ear. “Good boy. Such a very good boy for me.”
Then I pull away and walk out without looking back. My footsteps echo down the stairs, through the marble lobby, and out into the night air.
The city swallows me again—horns, lights, shadows—but my mind stays in that quiet corner with him.
Exposed.
Punished.
Waiting for my text like the obedient Little he was born to be.
I light a cigarette on the sidewalk and smile into the darkness.
William Peeters is mine now. And I’m only getting started.
* * *
The night air around me, I allow myself a wicked smile.
William is still up there in that secluded corner of the library… jeans and sweet skimpy briefs around his ankles, hands laced on his head, that red apple clenched between his teeth, his freshly ruled ass glowing hot and red as his stiff cock bobs and bounces.
I can still feel the heat of his skin, the way his cock fluttered when I traced his pubic hair. He was aching for it. Craving the torment. My perfect, conflicted little academic.
My black SUV waits at the curb, engine idling low. Padraig is behind the wheel, exactly where I left him. I open the passenger door and slide in, the leather creaking under my weight.
“Drive,” I tell him, voice still carrying that edge of command.
Padraig doesn’t ask questions. He pulls smoothly into traffic, the city lights washing over the windshield in streaks of neon and gold. I pull out my phone, William’s number already saved from the message I sent myself, and type quickly.
KANE: You’re free to move now. Fix your clothes. Go home. I’ll be in touch soon. Be a good boy for me.
I hit send and lean back, a dark smile tugging at my lips. The thought of the boy scrambling to obey, cheeks flushed, ass stinging with every step as he gathers his things… it’s delicious.
William loved it. The fear in his eyes when that ruler swished through the air, the way he bit down harder on the apple with every crack, the pure ecstasy when I finally touched him. He’s a natural. A sweet, bookish Little who’s been starving for a real Daddy—one who doesn’t play pretend.
A Daddy who takes what he wants and leaves him aching for more.
I pocket the phone and exhale slowly, letting the satisfaction linger for another moment. But reality always creeps back in. The high from dominating William fades as my mind shifts gears, back to the weight that never really leaves me.
Padraig glances over. “Where to, pakhan?”
“Anywhere,” I mutter. “Just drive. I need to think.”
Padraig nods and turns toward the river district, the streets growing wider and the buildings taller as we cut through downtown.
The silence between us is comfortable. Padraig has been with me long enough to know when to speak and when to shut the fuck up. I stare out the window, watching the city blur past, but my thoughts are on Viktor Volkov.
That second meeting at Shotgun Corner changed things.
He wasn’t playing games. No muscle, no power plays.
Just two men talking real shit. His stories about Eddie, about how being a Daddy forced him to reassess the endless cycle of violence…
it hit closer than I want to admit. There might be something to this coalition idea…
Less blood in the streets.
More money flowing cleanly.
Stability I could use while I consolidate power and figure out who killed my brothers.
But Viktor isn’t the only piece on the board. Ivan Zorin and Kirill Antonov are the wild cards. I’ve only met them in passing. Cold eyes, hard reputations, but something about them doesn’t sit right. Too quiet. Too calculating.
My intel says they like to unwind at a Daddy’s-only bar across town called The Den. Private. Exclusive. The kind of place where powerful men let their guards down and talk too much.
“Take us to The Den,” I say suddenly. “Across town. You know the one.”
Padraig’s hands tighten on the wheel. “That a good idea? Zorin and Antonov hang there. If they spot you—”
“That’s the point. I need to figure them out. I’ll observe from a distance,” I cut in. “Stay in the car. I just want a handle on them. See how they move when they think no one’s watching.”
Padraig exhales, clearly unhappy but loyal enough not to argue outright. “Fine. But if shit goes sideways, I’m pulling you out. Pakhan or not.”
We drive in silence for twenty minutes. The city changes around us. Glittering high-rises giving way to older, grittier blocks lined with discreet entrances and bouncers who know how to keep secrets.
My mind churns.
Working with Viktor could give me the breathing room I need to hunt my brothers’ killers without a war on every front. But if Zorin and Antonov are snakes, I need to know before I tie my family’s future to theirs. One wrong alliance and the Kamedov name ends with me.
The Den comes into view soon enough. A nondescript brick building with a single red door and no sign. Just like the intel said. Padraig parks across the street in the shadows, engine running low.
“I’ll go in,” Padraig says before I can speak. “They might recognize you. I’m just another face. I’ll listen, observe, get a read on the vibe. You know I’m right on this, pakhan. You stay here.”
I study him for a second.
Fuck. Padraig is right. My face has been making the rounds more since I became pakhan. And even then, with my reputation on the streets, it’s not like I’m an unknown face either way.
“Alright,” I concede. “Eyes open. Don’t engage unless you have to. Text me if anything feels off.”
Padraig nods, checks the concealed piece under his jacket, and steps out. I watch him cross the street with that easy, unassuming stride he’s perfected over the years. The bouncer gives him a once-over and lets him through. The red door swallows him.
Now it’s just me in the SUV, the city humming around the vehicle. Tension coils tight in my shoulders. This is risky—sitting here in the open, even in shadows—but necessary.
This is due diligence. I can’t afford blind trust, not with everything at stake. My brothers trusted the wrong people once. I won’t make the same mistake.
The days of going in all guns blazing are over for me. I have to accept that as frustrating as it might feel.
Minutes stretch.
I check my phone—no messages from William yet. Good. He’s probably still processing, ass throbbing, mind spinning. I smile again at the memory of him standing there so perfectly displayed, tears in his eyes but pure submission in his body. He’ll text back eventually.
Or better—he’ll wait for my next command like the good boy he’s becoming.
Then, the bar door opens. A couple of men exit, laughing, but no sign of Padraig yet. I drum my fingers on the console, eyes scanning the street.
Every passing car, every shadow makes me tense.
This life never lets you relax. Not fully. Not even after claiming a sweet Little in a library and leaving him quivering in his obedience.
But that’s the point, isn’t it? William is the softness I never thought I’d allow myself. A bright spot in the blood and shadows. He represents everything my world isn’t: innocent, intellectual, tender. And the way he melts under my dominance… fuck.
It’s addictive and I don’t want a detox.
Padraig emerges after fifteen minutes. He walks casually back to the SUV, slides in, and pulls the door shut.
“Well?” I ask.
“They’re in there,” Padraig begins. “Both of them. Drinking, talking low. Zorin’s loud when he wants to be, bragging about a recent shipment.
Antonov is quieter, but his eyes never stop moving.
They mentioned Viktor once. Sounded respectful, but there was an edge.
Like they’re waiting to see which way the wind blows. Honestly, I couldn’t say for sure.”
I nod slowly, digesting it. “Anything that screams trouble?”
“Nothing concrete. But they don’t trust easily. Feels like they’re playing their own angles.” Padraig starts the engine. “We good to roll?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Take us back toward the warehouse district. I’ve got calls to make.”
As we pull away, I lean back and close my eyes for a second but open them before my brain runs away with itself.
The city lights streak past again.
I smile in the dark.
William has no idea yet about who I truly am—and the same can be said for the city’s other pakhans.
But he will soon, and so will they…