The instructor returned not even half an hour after the morning caning.
He didn't knock.
Didn't announce himself.
He simply entered, as if the space belonged to him—and maybe, in a way, it did.
I felt Nine tense before I even saw him.
The moment the door clicked open, Nine's shoulders tightened, and he shifted his weight slightly, curling in just a little tighter against me. I hadn't moved him since the last session. He was still in my lap, soft and silent, one cheek resting on my thigh. I hadn't dared break the spell of calm we'd barely managed to summon.
"Time for ointment," the instructor said flatly.
He stepped closer, and something about his voice told me this wasn't about medical treatment.
"Nine," he said. "Come here."
Nine blinked slowly. Then started to rise—only to be stopped with a gesture.
"No," the man said, smirking. "On all fours."
I opened my mouth, a protest half-formed.
But Nine was already moving.
He slid off my lap like water, kneeling, then lowering himself to his hands. His back arched slightly as he settled onto the floor.
And then he crawled.
One slow, measured step after another.
Toward the man who waited.
Boots gleaming. Smile sharper than glass.
The sound of Nine's hands and knees against the smooth floor was too loud in the silence.
When he reached the instructor, the man didn't reach for the ointment.
Didn't offer help.
Didn't move at all.
Instead, he kicked the cane off to the side—casual, sharp.
"Lick my boots," he said.
Nine blinked.
He didn't speak.
Didn't resist.
Just leaned forward.
And pressed his lips to the man's boot.
Then again.
And again.
Slow. Careful. Almost reverent.
Each kiss was softer than the last, like he was trying not to make a mistake.
I couldn't breathe.
Stop this, Nyx growled. Say something. Fight.
I gripped the edge of the chair I sat in.
Tight enough to leave marks.
But I didn't move.
Couldn't.
Because Nine had looked at me first—just a flicker—and I'd seen the flicker of pleading there.
Let me do this.
Let me survive this.
"Tell me what you are," the instructor said.
Nine hesitated.
"I—" he stammered.
A pause.
Then softer.
"I'm a pretty omega."
"Louder."
"I'm a pretty omega."
"And what are pretty omegas for?"
"…to be bred."
The man laughed.
"Good boy."
Finally, he stepped back and tossed the ointment tube toward the floor.
"Clean yourself up. Don't bruise too much. The boss wants you looking perfect."
Nine reached for the tube with shaking fingers.
He crawled toward it, slowly, his hand stretching out.
Just as his fingertips brushed the edge—
The instructor kicked it.
Casual. Cruel.
It skittered across the floor.
Nine paused.
Then turned and crawled after it again.
Another stretch.
Another kick.
This time, harder. The tube rolled halfway across the room.
Nine hesitated.
But didn't stop.
Didn't protest.
He just crawled.
Again.
And again.
Each time he got close, the man's boot nudged the tube further away.
I watched, frozen, as humiliation layered itself on top of obedience.
Until finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the instructor let the tube stay where it was.
Nine reached it with trembling fingers, curling his hand around it like a prize.
I expected him to go to the far corner of the room.
To turn his back.
Instead, he crawled back to me.
Slow.
Determined.
And climbed into my lap.
Curling there.
Clutching the tube with both hands like it was a tether.
The instructor snorted. "Oh, he's trained well. Look at him—already crawling to you for comfort. Or maybe he just knows who's in charge of him now."
I didn't reply.
Couldn't.
I ran a hand down Nine's back as gently as I could, fingers avoiding every swollen mark.
He trembled.
But didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Just held on tighter.
Like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.