Page 30 of The Oyabun's Boy

"You have a migraine. Sit," I commanded in a tone that brooked no argument.

The reaction was immediate. The door burst open as if someone had been listening outside—"they probably had—"and three men in suits materialized, hands on weapons, faces contorted in various expressions of alarm and outrage.

Chen was at the front, his normally impassive face showing actual emotion—specifically, the kind of horror reserved for watching someone pet a shark while covered in chum.

"Sir?" he asked, eyes darting between Kenji and me, clearly calculating how quickly he could put a bullet in my head if necessary.

I froze, suddenly remembering exactly where I was and who I was manhandling. Touching the untouchable crime lord probably violated at least seventeen rules in the "How Not to Get Murdered by the Mafia" handbook.

But instead of ordering my immediate execution, Kenji simply raised a hand, stopping his men in their tracks. "Leave us," he said, his voice controlled despite the pain I could see tightening the corners of his eyes.

"But,Oyabun—" Chen started, his gaze fixed on my hands, which were still resting on Kenji's shoulders.

"I said leave us," Kenji repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument despite being quieter than before—another sign of the migraine.

Chen hesitated, then bowed slightly before backing out of the room, taking the other two men with him. The door closed with a soft click that somehow managed to sound disapproving.

"Your staff thinks I'm going to assassinate you with my bare hands," I observed, not moving from my position behind Kenji's chair.

"An amusing thought," he replied, and I could hear the faint note of curiosity in his voice. He was letting this play out to see what I would do next.

"My mother gets migraines," I explained, moving my hands to position them at his temples. "This helps her, if you'll allow it."

I felt him tense beneath my touch, but he nodded once, granting permission. I began with gentle pressure at his temples, using small circular motions with my thumbs while my fingers cradled the back of his head.

"Pressure points," I explained, keeping my voice soft. "There's one here at the temple, and another..." I moved my fingers to the base of his skull where it met his neck. "Here."

Kenji remained perfectly still, allowing me to work. I could feel the coiled tension in him, the tightly controlled power held in check beneath my fingertips. It was like giving a massage to a panther—exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

Through the partially open door, I caught glimpses of his men trying to casually walk by, each doing a double-take at the sight of their fearsome boss allowing himself to be tended to by his captive.

One particularly large guard actually stopped in his tracks, jaw dropping comically before Chen appeared and hustled him away with a sharp word.

"You're causing quite the stir in your organization," I murmured, increasing the pressure slightly as I felt the tight muscles begin to release. "I'm guessing this isn't normal behavior for the big badOyabun."

"No," he admitted, his voice a low rumble that I felt through my palms. "It isn't."

I continued working, moving my fingers in slow, methodical circles, tracing the contours of his skull beneath the silky black hair. When I hit a particularly tight spot at the base of his neck, Kenji let out a small, involuntary groan that sent inappropriate heat cascading through my entire body.

That sound should be illegal… or recorded for scientific research.

I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my focus on the task rather than the way that sound had made my stomach flip and my skin tingle. This was medicinal, not... whatever my body seemed to think it was.

"Is the light bothering you?" I asked, desperate to distract myself from the feel of his hair between my fingers and the warmth of his skin beneath my palms.

"Yes," he admitted, eyes closed now, surrendering incrementally to my ministrations.

I reached over to the desk lamp and switched it off, leaving only the natural light filtering through the partially closed blinds. Then I resumed my position, working my way up from his neck to the base of his skull, applying firm but gentle pressure with my thumbs.

"You know," I said softly, my fingers working their way along his hairline, "for a kidnapper, you're surprisingly decent."

His shoulders, which had begun to relax, tensed again beneath my hands. "Not a kidnapper," he murmured, his voice like velvet in the dimly lit room. "Protector."

"Semantics," I countered, but my voice lacked conviction. It was hard to maintain my righteous indignation when I was voluntarily massaging his temples and he was purring like a contented tiger under my touch.

My fingers continued their circuit, working methodically to ease the pain I could sense was still pulsing behind his eyes.

For several minutes, we remained in companionable silence, the only sounds being our breathing and the occasional soft utterance from Kenji when I found a particularly sensitive spot.