Page 20 of The Oyabun's Boy

His lips curved into that almost-smile that was becoming dangerously familiar. "I am aware."

"You are?"

"I don't want you in my bed out of gratitude or fear, Princess." He reached past me to open a door I hadn't noticed,his arm brushing mine in a touch that felt deliberate. "I want you there because you can't stand to be anywhere else."

The door swung open, revealing not a closet or bathroom as I'd expected, but a library, a magnificent, breathtaking library with floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound volumes. The scent of paper and leather and history washed over me, more intoxicating than any cologne.

"Oh, my god," I whispered reverently, stepping inside without conscious thought.

Warm lighting illuminated rows upon rows of books—classics, first editions, modern works, even what appeared to be rare manuscripts in glass cases. A rolling ladder allowed access to the highest shelves, and comfortable reading nooks were tucked into corners.

The entire room was designed for one purpose: the worship of the written word.

I ran my fingers along the spines, unable to help myself. Some of the titles I recognized, many I didn't. Languages I couldn't read mixed with dog-eared paperbacks that looked well-loved.

"This is..." I struggled to find words adequate to express what I was feeling.

"Yours," Kenji said simply. "To use whenever you wish."

I turned to him, momentarily forgetting all the reasons I should be wary. "Are you serious?"

He nodded once, his expression unreadable. "I noticed the books in your apartment. You care for them."

The fact that he'd noticed, that he'd seen this part of me and responded to it, touched something deep inside that had nothing to do with fear or attraction or the bizarre circumstances that had brought us together.

"I have conditions," I said, suddenly very serious.

Kenji raised an eyebrow, looking almost amused. "Do you?"

"I'll need a window seat, hot chocolate, a throw blanket, and a cat to cuddle with." I ticked the items off on my fingers. "Non-negotiable for proper reading atmosphere."

To my shock, Kenji actually smirked—not the almost-smile I'd glimpsed before, but a full, genuine expression of amusement that transformed his face and sent my heart into uncomfortable acrobatics.

"I believe those can be arranged," he said. "Any preferences regarding the cat?"

I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze directly. "Surprise me."

Our eyes locked in silent battle, the air between us charged with something I couldn't—or wouldn't—name. It wasn't just attraction, though that was certainly part of it. It was recognition, a connection, as if some part of me had been waiting for him without knowing it.

This is Stockholm syndrome waiting to happen. And I'm embarrassingly okay with it.

"You're not what I expected," Kenji said finally, breaking the silence.

"And what did you expect?"

"Fear," he admitted. "Hatred. Tears."

I considered his words. "Oh, don't worry, there's plenty of fear. I just hide it behind sarcasm and inappropriate humor. It's a whole thing." I waved vaguely. "As for hatred... I'm reserving judgment. The jury's still out on whether you're my kidnapper or my protector."

"And the tears?" he asked softly.

"Not my style," I replied, though that wasn't entirely true. I just preferred to do my crying in private, where no one—especially not dangerous, gorgeous mafia bosses—could see.

He studied me for a moment longer, then moved to one of the reading nooks. With efficient movements, he opened a hidden panel and retrieved what appeared to be a cashmere throw ina deep emerald green. He draped it over the cushioned window seat, then turned to me.

"Will this suffice for now?"

The gesture was small, but unexpectedly thoughtful. I nodded, not trusting my voice.