Page 13 of The Oyabun's Boy

The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute. I expected fear, perhaps tears or pleading. What I got was steel.

Annie's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "If you hurt him," she said, voice soft but edged with razor promise, "I will poison your tea."

I blinked, caught off guard for the first time in years.

"Mother!" Joy gasped, looking as shocked as I felt.

But I recognized the look in Annie's eyes—the same look I'd seen in the mirror countless times. The look of someone who would burn the world to protect what they loved.

I respected that.

"Fair enough," I conceded with a slight incline of my head.

Joy looked between us, bewilderment replacing shock. "Wait, that's it? She threatens to poison you and you just... accept it?"

I shrugged one shoulder. "Your mother made a reasonable counteroffer. I would expect nothing less from the woman who raised you."

For a moment, something like amusement flickered across Annie's face before she schooled her expression back to wariness. "How long do we have to pack?"

"Three minutes," I replied. "Take only essentials. Identification, medication, anything irreplaceable. Everything else can be purchased or retrieved later."

She nodded once, then stood, smoothing her rumpled vibrant blue blouse with dignity that would have impressed royalty. "Joy, get our passports from the safe. And grab that photo album from under my bed."

He hesitated, clearly torn between obeying his mother and continuing to challenge me. Annie gave him a gentle push. "Go. I'll be right behind you."

Once Joy was up the stairs, Annie turned to face me fully. "I don't know who you are or what you want with my son, but I'm not naive enough to think this is just about protection."

I said nothing.

"He's special," she continued, steel still in her voice. "He sees light where others see only darkness. If you extinguish that light..." Her hand moved subtly to her pocket, and I noticed the outline of a knife. Not a kitchen knife. A switchblade. "Well, let's just say my threats aren't empty."

"I don't doubt that," I replied. "But you should know—I have no intention of extinguishing anything about your son. Quite the opposite."

Footsteps on the stairs announced Joy's return. He clutched a small duffel bag in one hand and a leather-bound album in the other. His eyes darted between us, sensing the tension.

"All set?" Annie asked, as if we were preparing for a vacation instead of fleeing a murder scene.

Joy nodded, his gaze finding mine. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe," I answered, stepping closer to him.

I positioned myself at his side, placing a firm hand on the small of his back. The heat of him burned through the thin fabric of his shirt, sending an electric current up my arm. I felt him tense, then relax—not in surrender, but in recognition of the inevitable.

My thumb brushed across his knuckles, a casual gesture that was anything but. Joy's breath caught, just slightly, but enough for me to notice. Enough to stoke the possessive heat rising in me.

"Chen," I called, not taking my eyes off Joy's profile. "Prepare the second vehicle for Ms. Carmichael. She'll ride with Lin."

"I want to stay with my mother," Joy protested.

"You'll see her when we arrive," I replied. The hand on his back pressed more firmly, guiding him toward the door. "For now, you ride with me."

Annie gave her son a reassuring nod. "It's okay, honey. I'll be right behind you."

The trust between them was palpable—a bond forged through years of being all the other had. I felt a twinge of something unfamiliar. Not jealousy, exactly. Something closer to longing.

I dismissed it immediately.

As we stepped outside into the cool night air, Joy glanced back at his childhood home one last time. The vulnerability in his expression sparked something primitive in my chest, a need to shelter and possess in equal measure.