Page 23 of The Oyabun's Boy

I reached the elevator that would take me to the residential level, pressing my palm against the scanner. As the doors closed, sealing me in momentary solitude, I allowed myself a single, cynical smile at my own expense.

The fearedOyabun, terror of New York's underworld, rushing to check on a mouthy barista who thought defiance was a lifestyle choice rather than a death sentence.

If my enemies could see me now.

The elevator ascended smoothly, and with each floor, I shed one layer of the monster I had carefully cultivated. By the time the doors opened again, I was still dangerous—I would always be dangerous—but I was something else too.

Something I hadn't been in a very long time.

Human.

I pushed Joy's door open silently, careful not to disturb the stillness within. The guards posted outside straightened as I passed, but I barely registered their presence.

My focus narrowed to the figure on the bed, sprawled across sheets that glowed silver in the moonlight. He slept like someone without enemies—limbs loose, face unguarded, vulnerable in a way that made my teeth clench.

Stupid. Dangerous. Beautiful.

Joy lay curled around a pillow, one arm wrapped possessively around it as if it might try to escape. The moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows I'd designed for security rather than how they looked, casting his pale skin inan ethereal glow that made him look even more unreal than he already was.

I stood in the doorway longer than necessary, cataloging details with the same precision I used to evaluate threats. The gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath the thin t-shirt he'd chosen to sleep in. The scatter of freckles across his nose and cheeks, more visible now than in the harsh light of day. The way his eyelashes cast feathered shadows on his skin.

If my enemies could see me now, watching a boy sleep as if he were some priceless artwork. Pathetic.

I moved closer, irritated by my own fascination. He hadn't even bothered to pull the covers up properly. One leg was completely exposed, bent at the knee and hanging slightly off the edge of the mattress. His position left him completely defenseless—throat exposed, vital organs unprotected.

He had no survival instincts whatsoever.

"Ridiculous," I muttered, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed.

Joy didn't stir. His breathing remained deep and even, trusting sleep to protect him in a world that would devour the unwary, my world, a world I had dragged him into without permission.

Before I could question the impulse, my fingers reached out to trace the sharp line of his cheekbone. A touch so light it was barely physical—the kind of gentleness that would shock anyone who knew me asOyabun. My hand moved of its own volition, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

These same hands had ordered deaths hours ago. These same fingers had signed contracts that ruined lives, had pulled triggers, had wrapped around throats until the light faded from eyes.

Blood and violence clung to them like invisible stains that no amount of expensive soap could wash away.

And yet, here they were, gentle as they had never been, trailing down the side of Joy's face as if he were made of something far more precious than flesh.

What was happening to me?

This slip of a man had infiltrated my defenses without firing a single shot. He'd walked into my life with his defiance and his laughter and his absolute refusal to cower, and somehow bypassed every wall I'd built around myself since childhood.

I pulled my hand back, studying Joy’s face in the half-light. He looked younger asleep, the sharp edges of his wit and defiance softened by unconsciousness. More like his name—pure, uncomplicated joy. A concept so foreign to my existence it might as well have been from another language altogether.

The blanket had slid down to his waist, leaving his upper body vulnerable to the room's carefully controlled temperature. I tugged it up, covering him with mechanical precision—a foreign gesture my hands barely recognized. The softness of the fabric beneath my fingers felt wrong, at odds with the calluses born of violence.

Something in my chest tightened as Joy shifted slightly in his sleep, turning instinctively toward my body heat. His lips parted on a small, contented sigh that hit me like a physical blow.

I leaned down, acting on instinct rather than reason, and pressed my lips to his temple. Just once. Just lightly. A claiming that wasn't a claiming.

Warmth spread through my chest, unwelcome and unfamiliar. I hadn't felt anything like it since... I couldn't remember. Perhaps never.

His breath fanned against my neck as I hovered above him, caught in a moment of indecision that was entirely alien to me. Kenji Zisheng Hú did not hesitate. He acted. He took. He claimed.

And God, did I want to claim.

Joy's lips parted slightly in sleep, pink and soft and utterly kissable. I imagined covering them with my own, swallowing whatever smart remark would inevitably follow. I imagined those clever lips forming my name—not in defiance or fear, but in pleasure, in surrender.