Page 54 of The Oyabun's Boy

The knife pressed harder, breaking skin. I felt a warm trickle of blood down my throat, staining my collar. Another ruined shirt. Joy had liked this one, had run his fingers down the silk with appreciation in those expressive eyes.

That thought—Joy's hands on my chest, Joy's concern over a damaged garment, Joy waiting for me—crystallized my resolve into something sharp and lethal.

I rolled my wrists against the rope again, feeling the amateur knots begin to give. Just a little more time. Just a little more distraction.

"You know," I said to the man holding the knife, "my associate once removed a man's fingernails with a similar blade. Started with the pinkies. Less nerve endings, you see. Builds tolerance before moving to the more sensitive digits."

The knife faltered slightly. I continued, voice casual.

"I prefer more elegant methods myself. Did you know the Chinese developed techniques that leave no external marks? The pain is exquisite, I'm told, yet the subject remains presentable for public appearance."

The man exchanged glances with his colleagues. Fear beginning to take root. Good.

"Of course," I added, feeling the rope loosen further, "that requires skill. Patience. Attention to detail. Qualities you gentlemen clearly lack."

The leader backhanded me across the face, splitting my lip further. A reaction born of insecurity rather than strategy.

Predictable.

"You think you're getting out of here?" he snarled. "No one knows where you are. No one's coming for you."

I smiled, feeling blood coat my teeth, giving my expression the feral quality that had made hardened criminals soil themselves.

"That," I said softly, "is where you're wrong."

I wasn't thinking of Chen or my men. I was thinking of Joy—of returning to him, of ensuring these men never threatened what was mine. The rope gave another fraction of an inch. Almost there.

Joy was waiting. And I had never been a man who kept his possessions waiting.

The blade traced my collarbone with almost sensual precision, leaving a thin line of fire in its wake. More blood to join the gallery of stains on my shirt.

I watched the man's eyes as he worked, noting the slight tremor in his hand, the sweat beading at his temple. Fear disguised as control.

Amusing.

"Whoever sent you is already dead," I said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. "They just don't know it yet."

The knife paused in its exploration of my flesh. Behind their masks, my captors exchanged glances—the silent communication of men beginning to question their choices. Their leader tried to recover, pressing the blade harder against my skin.

"Big talk from a man tied to a chair," he sneered, but the bravado rang hollow.

I smiled, letting silence stretch between us. Nothing unnerves the weak quite like silence from the strong.

"You misunderstand," I finally replied. "It's not a threat. It's an inevitability."

Another exchange of glances. The smallest one shifted his weight from foot to foot—a prey animal sensing predators nearby. Smart man. Doomed, but smart.

I closed my eyes, ignoring the blade still pressed against my skin. Behind my eyelids, an image formed with perfect clarity: Joy curled in my library's window seat, Chairman Meow nestled in his lap, book forgotten in his hand as he gazed out at the city below. Sunlight catching the copper in his hair, turning each strand to fire. Those green eyes soft with contentment.

Mine. My sanctuary in human form.

The visualization centered me, transformed the rage coursing through my veins into something cold, precise, and infinitely more useful. Rage was a blunt instrument. What I needed now was a scalpel.

I inhaled deeply, cataloging the sensory information around me. The metallic scent of my own blood, sharp and accusatory. The mustiness hanging in the air, suggesting an older building, likely industrial. The rasp of rope against my raw skin, each fiber a reminder of coming retribution. The steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness behind me—one drop every 3.2 seconds, approximately.

All data. All useful.

When I returned to Joy—not if, when—I would hold him until his trembling subsided. His whole body would shake with relief, those expressive eyes swimming with tears he'd try to hide. I would kiss them away, one by one, whispering promises against his skin, into his hair, against his lips.