Page 27 of The Oyabun's Boy

Hand on the doorknob, I paused for one last internal pep talk. "Just act normal," I told myself, then laughed at the absurdity. Nothing about this situation was normal, but I'd be damned if I'd let Kenji see me rattled.

With a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped into the corridor, ready to hunt down the dangerous man who'd decided I belonged to him. Whether to thank him for the cashmere or slap him for the presumption, I hadn't quite decided yet.

I wandered through the endless hallways of Kenji's tower like a tourist without a map. Every corridor looked identical—same sleek minimalist design, same subtle lighting, same lack of helpful "Kidnapped Guests This Way" signs.

I was about to start leaving breadcrumbs when I heard it—the low murmur of masculine voices coming from behind a partially open door at the end of the hallway.

One of those voices, deeper than the rest and tinged with unmistakable authority, sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. Kenji.

I approached cautiously, aware that in this building of trained killers, sneaking around probably wasn't the smartest move. But curiosity had always been my fatal flaw—that and an inability to keep my mouth shut in dangerous situations.

The door opened to what could only be described as a war room disguised as a gentleman's study. Rich mahogany paneling lined the walls, interspersed with bookshelves containing leather-bound volumes that looked both ancient and expensive.

A massive desk dominated the center of the room, around which stood a semicircle of men in identical black suits, their postures rigid as soldiers.

And at the center of it all was Kenji, bent over what appeared to be maps and documents spread across the desk's surface. Even in profile, he was heartbreakingly beautiful—all sharp angles and controlled power.

But something was off.

I studied him from the doorway, noticing what his men seemed to be ignoring—the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, and the way his jawline seemed even more pronounced, as if he hadn't eaten.

He looked as if he hadn't slept in days—dangerous and deadly still, but running on fumes.

Before I could reconsider the wisdom of interrupting what was clearly a very important criminal meeting, my mouth made the decision for me. "You look like death warmed over, then refrigerated, then microwaved again."

The room froze. Literally froze, like someone had hit pause on a movie. Six heads snapped in my direction, six pairs of hands moved subtly toward concealed weapons.

But I only cared about one reaction.

Kenji's eyes snapped up, dark and dangerous, finding mine with laser precision. For a split second, I saw something lethal flash across his features—the look of a predator interrupted. Then his gaze registered who I was, and the danger morphed into something equally intimidating but far more intimate.

"Princess," he said, straightening to his full height. "I see you found the clothes."

Every man in the room was staring at me like I'd grown a second head. I could practically hear their thoughts: Did this kid just insult the boss and live? Did the boss just let it slide?

I stepped fully into the room, ignoring the collective intake of breath from Kenji's goon squad. "Yes, thank you for the designer kidnapping outfit, though I'm a little disappointed not to get the traditional orange jumpsuit. It would have really brought out my eyes."

Chen, standing at Kenji's right hand, looked like he was having an internal aneurysm. The vein in his forehead actually throbbed. Another man, broader and scarier than the rest, had his hand firmly on his weapon, as if uncertain whether I represented a threat or just a mental health crisis.

Kenji, however, looked... amused? The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

"I'll keep that in mind for your next wardrobe refresh," he replied, straightening a paper on his desk with long, elegant fingers that I absolutely was not fixating on. "Though I find the current selection suits you better."

"Speaking of suits," I said, crossing my arms over my chest, "how exactly did you know my measurements? I don't recall filling out a 'kidnapping victim size chart' when we met."

A dangerous glint sparked in Kenji's eyes as he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a register that should be illegal in at least forty-seven states. "If I were measuring you, you wouldn't be sleeping through it."

Don't blush. Don't blush. Dammit, blushing.

Heat flooded my face, and from the subtle curve of Kenji's lips, he knew exactly the effect his words had on me. The men around the desk shifted uncomfortably, caught between pretending not to hear and not knowing how to process their boss's blatant flirtation.

"Well," I managed, determined not to let him win this round, "next time at least buy me dinner first before you start taking my inseam."

Chen made a strangled noise that might have been horror or possibly a suppressed laugh. The jury was still out.

"I'll keep that in mind," Kenji replied smoothly, then turned to his men. "We'll continue this discussion later. Leave us."

The speed with which his subordinates cleared the room was almost comical. Within seconds, only Chen remained, hovering uncertainly by the door.