Page 62 of The Oyabun's Boy

"And my uncle?" I asked, the question deceptively casual.

"Located. Under surveillance. Your Princess insisted we wait for your recovery before..." Chen left the sentence unfinished. The ending was obvious.

I studied Joy's sleeping face—the furrow between his brows that hadn't been there a month ago, the tightness around his mouth that spoke of decisions no innocent should have to make.

My fault. All my fault.

And yet, I couldn't regret it. Not when his hand was warm in mine, not when his breathing synchronized with the rhythm of my damaged heart.

"He loves you," Chen stated simply, not a question but a fact presented for my consideration.

I looked at the man who had thrown himself into my world of blood and power to keep me safe, who had faced down crimelords and coordinated assassins, who had put his entire life on hold to sit beside my broken body for nearly a month.

"Of course he does," I replied, arrogance coating each word. "I'm quite lovable."

Chen's expression didn't change, but his eyes reflected understanding. We both knew it was a lie. I wasn't lovable. I was dangerous, damaged, deadly. And yet, somehow, I'd acquired this impossible treasure who loved me anyway.

Unacceptable. Incomprehensible. And absolutely mine to keep.

Joy's breathing changed subtly, the rhythm of deep sleep giving way to the lighter cadence of waking. I watched the precise moment consciousness returned to him—the flutter of copper lashes, the slight tensing of his shoulders, the small furrow appearing between his brows as reality reasserted itself.

Then those impossible green eyes opened, unfocused at first, then widening as they met mine. "Kenji?" he whispered, voice breaking on the second syllable.

I allowed myself a small smile, ignoring the pull of healing skin. "Were you expecting someone else in my bed, Princess?"

Joy's face transformed, relief breaking across his features like sunrise after the longest night. The naked emotion there sent heat coursing through my veins despite my weakened state. No one had ever looked at me like that—like my existence alone was cause for celebration.

"You're awake," he said, the words barely audible as his voice cracked. His free hand reached toward my face, hesitating just short of touching. Afraid of causing pain. "About time. Your empire's a nightmare to run."

I caught his hovering hand and pressed it to my cheek, unconcerned with the dull ache from healing fractures. "Is that so?"

"Absolute nightmare," he confirmed, a watery laugh escaping him as his thumb gently traced the edge of a healing cut. "Petrov keeps sending vodka. Vinnie wants to renegotiate shipping routes. Your financial advisor almost had a stroke when I suggested laundering money through cat cafés. And your uncle—" He stopped abruptly, something dangerous flashing behind those green eyes.

Interesting. My innocent princess had developed teeth in my absence.

I tugged him closer until he was perched on the edge of my bed, his weight a welcome pressure against my side. "Perhaps you should focus on more important matters."

"Like what?" he challenged, that familiar spark of defiance glinting through his relief.

"Like this," I murmured, sliding my hand to the nape of his neck and pulling him down to me. The kiss was gentler than I would have preferred—a necessity given my current limitations—but it burned with promise. I tasted salt on his lips. Tears. His relief given physical form.

When I released him, his eyes were glassy with desire, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of green remained. The effect was gratifying, especially considering my diminished state.

"The doctor said no strenuous activity," Joy protested weakly, even as he leaned closer, his body betraying his words. "Chen made me promise not to 'exacerbate your condition' when you woke up."

"Did he now?" My hand slid possessively up his thigh, savoring the shiver that ran through him at my touch. Despite a month of unconsciousness, my body recognized its prize. Claimed territory. "Since when do you follow rules, Princess?"

Chen cleared his throat discreetly from his position by the door, reminding us of his presence. I hadn't forgotten—I neverforgot who was in the room with me—but I'd deemed his discomfort irrelevant.

"Leave us," I ordered without looking away from Joy's flushed face. "And ensure we're not disturbed."

"Sir," Chen acknowledged, his tone neutral despite what must have been significant relief at my recovery. The door closed silently behind him, leaving us in privacy.

I shifted carefully, ignoring the protest from healing ribs, and pulled Joy fully onto the bed. He started to resist, mumbling something about my injuries, but I silenced him with a look.

"I'm not made of glass," I said, arranging him against my less damaged side.

"No, you're made of stubbornness and poor life choices," Joy retorted, but settled carefully against me, his head finding the spot on my shoulder that seemed designed specifically for him.