Kidnapped by the Werewolf Mafioso

Chapter Ten

AKIKO

The silk sheets whisper against my skin with each restless turn, their texture alien after seventeen years of coarse convent linens. My body thrums with an electricity I can't name—every nerve ending alive and seeking something just out of reach. The penthouse air tastes different at night, tinged with leather and gunpowder from Giancarlo's office two floors above. Through the bond, I feel him working, his focus sharp as a blade edge while he reviews contracts that probably detail someone's death.

Three hours. Three hours of staring at shadows that dance across the ceiling in patterns that remind me of his hands.

Aki-chan is restless. Yui materializes on the dresser, her shadow-form more solid in the darkness. She tilts her head at an unnatural angle, studying me with eyes that aren't quite there.

"Aki-chan wants the winter wolf," Rei adds from the mirror, her reflection showing things that don't exist in the room—glimpses of possible futures, maybe, or pasts that never were.

"Shut up." But heat crawls up my neck because they're not wrong. My skin feels too tight, like something inside is pushing to get out. Every breath brings his scent from the shirt I'm still wearing—pine and winter storms and something uniquely him that makes my teeth ache with wanting to bite.

The kitsune should rest. Kazuki's formal tone carries gentle reproach. His oni mask tonight shows a serene demon with too many eyes, all of them knowing. Tomorrow brings new challenges.

But rest feels impossible when I can still feel the ghost of his thumb against my lips, taste the salt of his skin. The way his whole body went rigid with control before he pulled away—giving me choice when he could have taken what we both wanted. The bond would have made it easy, would have sung with rightness as we fell into each other.

No one has ever given me choice before. The weight of it sits strange in my chest.

I abandon the bed, bare feet silent on hardwood floors that didn't creak. The penthouse sprawls across three levels, each one a testament to wealth I can't comprehend. The kitchen occupies half the second floor—marble counters that reflect moonlight, appliances that look like they require engineering degrees to operate.

"Can't sleep?"

Isabella leans against the massive refrigerator, still in her medical scrubs splattered with something that might be blood. Exhaustion lines her face, but her eyes remain alert—the particular weariness of healers who've stitched too many bodies back together.

"Not used to beds that soft." The lie tastes clumsy, but it's easier than explaining how every time I close my eyes, I see Giancarlo's face when I challenged him to prove his claim.

She hums, already moving to pull ingredients from the refrigerator. Her movements carry the efficiency of someone who finds comfort in routine tasks. "Sandwich? I make a mean grilled cheese."

"I don't—" The words stick. At the convent, we ate twice daily. Nutrition bars that tasted like cardboard and penance. Protein mash that kept us functional but never satisfied. I've never had a grilled cheese sandwich. The admission feels like revealing a weakness. "Yes. Please."

Butter hits the pan with a hiss that makes my enhanced hearing prickle. The scent blooms through the kitchen—rich and warm and nothing like the austere meals of my childhood. She layers cheese between bread with practiced movements, each gesture precise and caring.

Aki-chan, look! Hanzo crackles into existence near the wall-mounted television that dominates one side of the room. Electricity arcs between his fingers, making the screen flicker to life. The lightning box has stories inside!

"It's called Netflix." Isabella's voice carries amusement as she follows my bewildered gaze. "Gianni had it installed for the residents. Thousands of shows and movies on demand. Though the were-raccoons keep hacking it to add their Korean drama collection."

"Korean dramas?" The words feel foreign on my tongue.

"Romance stories. Very dramatic. Lots of yearning looks and rain kisses." She flips the sandwich with a spatula that could double as a weapon in the right hands. "Want to try? Fair warning—they're addictive."

Television exists in my memory as a single ancient set in Mother Superior's office, used only to monitor news about targets that needed eliminating. But the yokai cluster around me with excitement that sparks through our shared connection. Noriko breathes frost patterns on the coffee table. The twins vibrate with anticipation.

"Show me."

Isabella plates the sandwich—golden bread oozing cheese that makes my stomach clench with want—and guides me to the couch, handing me a glass of cold milk to accompany my sandwich. The remote feels like alien technology in my hands. She navigates with patience, explaining each button while I try not to feel stupid for not knowing these basic things.

"Here. 'Romance is a Bonus Book.' The were-raccoons are obsessed." She settles beside me, close enough that I catch her scent—herbs and magic and the faint copper of blood that never quite washes off healers. "The leads have incredible chemistry."

The screen fills with color so vivid it makes my eyes water. A woman runs through rain in heels that defy physics. Her hair streams behind her, each drop of water caught in perfect detail. A man watches from under an umbrella, and his expression—

I know that look. Longing mixed with restraint. Want tempered by control. It's the same expression Giancarlo wore when he pulled his hand away from my face.

Oh! Noriko's excitement sends ice crystals dancing across the table. She loves him but doesn't know it yet!

I bite into the sandwich and a sound escapes me—part surprise, part pleasure. Butter and cheese and crispy bread combine into something that makes my enhanced senses sing. Flavors layer and blend in ways the convent's nutrition bars never could. On screen, the woman slips on wet pavement. The man catches her, pulls her against him. They stare at each other while rain soaks through their clothes, and I feel their tension in my chest.

"Why doesn't he just tell her?" The question comes out around another bite of sandwich that tastes like freedom.

"Because then we'd only have one episode instead of sixteen." Isabella's smile carries knowing warmth. "The yearning is the point. The delicious agony of almost but not quite."

Like Aki-chan and the winter wolf! Yui claps her shadow hands, the sound like whispers in an empty room.

"We are nothing like that." But heat crawls up my neck again, betraying me.

"Mhmm." Isabella's tone suggests she's not buying it. "That's why you're down here at 3 AM watching romance stories instead of in his bed."

The words hit like cold water. My face burns. "He said when I'm ready. Not before."

"And are you? Ready?"

On screen, the man gives the woman his umbrella and walks away in the rain. She watches him go, and her face—god, her face shows everything. Want and fear and confusion all at war. My chest tightens with recognition.

"I don't know how to be ready." The admission scrapes my throat raw. "The convent... we weren't allowed. Touch was punishment or medical necessity. Nothing gentle. Nothing wanted. I don't know how to want correctly."

Isabella's expression softens, and she shifts closer. Not touching, but offering presence. "Seventeen years of conditioning doesn't disappear overnight. But the way you two look at each other..." She shakes her head, dark curls catching the light. "I've never seen Gianni show such restraint. Usually when he wants something, he takes it."

"Why doesn't he now?"

"Because he's not his father. Not his uncle." She stands, gathering her plate with movements that speak of old pain. "He saw what happened to women treated as property in this family. He wants you to choose him. Not the bond pulling you together. Not the protection he offers. Him, specifically."

The words settle into my chest like stones in deep water. On screen, the woman runs after the man. Stops. Turns back. The camera lingers on her face as indecision tears her apart, and I understand that feeling down to my bones.

"Get some rest," Isabella says gently, squeezing my shoulder. "Episode two gets even better. They almost kiss in a library."

She leaves me with the remote and thoughts that won't stop spinning. The yokai press closer, absorbed by the drama unfolding on screen. Tetsu produces a leather ledger from his briefcase, taking detailed notes in characters that look like kanji but.... seemingly foreign at the same time.

"One more episode," I tell myself, curling deeper into the couch that smells faintly of Giancarlo.

Aki-chan lies. Hanzo's laughter crackles like static. We will watch until dawn paints the sky.

He's right, of course. I pull a cashmere blanket over my legs—soft as clouds, nothing like the rough wool of convent bedding—and let the story pull me under. The woman discovers the man has been protecting her all along, working in shadows to keep her safe. He discovers she's been lying about her identity, hiding pain under false smiles. They circle each other in a dance I recognize in my bones—want and mistrust braided together, need and fear so tangled they become the same thing.

By episode three, I'm yelling at the screen. "Just kiss him! He's right there!"

Yes! The twins shriek in harmony that makes the windows vibrate. Kiss in the rain! In the library! Against that conveniently placed wall!

"You're all terrible." But I'm already clicking play on episode four, sandwich forgotten as the story hooks deeper into my chest.

The yearning Isabella mentioned—I understand it now. Every scene where they almost touch sends electricity through my spine. Every loaded glance makes my skin prickle with sense memory of Giancarlo's eyes on me. When the male lead puts his hand on the wall beside her head, caging her in without touching, I think of Giancarlo's careful distance. The way he maintains space between us like it costs him something.

The winter wolf watches, Noriko mentions during episode five, her voice carrying the casual tone of devastating observations.

I feel it too, thrumming through the bond. He's in his office but his attention drifts to me, probably wondering why I'm flooding with secondhand emotions at 5 AM. I try to shield, to hide my investment in fictional characters' romantic troubles. His amusement bleeds through anyway, warm and knowing.

He knows. Kazuki's mask shifts to show a grinning demon. The kitsune watches love stories and thinks of his hands.

"I think of nothing." But my protest sounds weak even to my own ears.

Episode six brings a fake dating plot that makes me groan. They have to pretend to be together for his family, and watching them navigate false intimacy while wanting real connection—it's torture of the sweetest kind. When she fixes his tie, fingers lingering on the silk, I think of Giancarlo straightening his own tie after the FBI left. The controlled violence in his movements, the careful way he leashes himself.

Does the kitsune want such things? Rei asks during episode seven, as the leads slow dance at a family wedding. The touching and the yearning and the rain kisses?

I don't know how to answer. My body says yes—skin too sensitive, pulse jumping at the thought of his hands on me. But my mind catalogues seventeen years of lessons about touch being weakness, want being vulnerability. Sister Evangeline's voice whispers warnings about men who take, who claim, who own.

Except Giancarlo doesn't take. He waits. He offers. He retreats when he could advance.

By the time sunlight spills through the windows in honey-gold streams, I've devoured eight episodes. The yokai debate plot points with academic fervor. My eyes burn and my chest aches with investment in fictional love. Empty mugs litter the coffee table—sometime during episode six I figured out the coffee machine, though Tetsu had to help with the more complex buttons.

"You look terrible."

Giancarlo stands in the doorway, already dressed for whatever violence the day will bring. His charcoal suit fits like liquid shadow, emphasizing the predator grace he wears like other men wear cologne. But I catch the shadows under his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders that speaks of a sleepless night.

"Korean dramas are emotional terrorism." I pull the blanket higher, suddenly hyperaware that I'm wearing only his shirt. The hem barely covers my thighs, and his eyes track the movement with an intensity that makes heat pool low in my belly.

"Isabella's doing?" His voice carries morning roughness that does things to my equilibrium.

"The were-raccoons, apparently."

"They've converted half the building. We had to institute a support group." He moves into the room with that particular walk that makes reality reorganize around him. Not quite human, not quite wolf, something between that speaks of controlled violence. "What masterpiece of yearning are you watching?"

"'Romance is a Bonus Book.'" The title sounds ridiculous spoken aloud, but he doesn't mock. "They're in love but won't admit it. She thinks he sees her as a sister. He thinks she'll reject him if he confesses. It's agony."

"Ah." He sits on the couch arm, close enough that I catch his scent—pine and winter storms and gun oil. Close enough to touch but maintaining that careful distance that makes my teeth ache. "Art imitating life."

The parallel hangs between us like a blade. On screen, the leads share a charged moment over manuscripts, hands almost touching as they reach for the same pen. In reality, we share charged air over Korean subtitles, the space between us humming with possibility.

Tell him, Yui whispers, suddenly at my shoulder.

Tell him you dreamed of his hands, Rei adds from my other side. Tell him you woke wanting.

I grab a throw pillow, swinging it through their insubstantial forms. They dissolve into giggles and shadow, reforming by the television with unrepentant grins. Giancarlo watches with interest he doesn't bother to hide, a slight smile playing at his lips.

"Your yokai approve of romantic fiction?"

"They're terrible influences." But fondness bleeds through my exasperation. "Tetsu's taking notes on proper courtship rituals. He has three pages already."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Probably." I risk meeting his eyes, finding them darker than usual. "He's very thorough. And he has access to centuries of Japanese romantic traditions."

"Noted." He shifts slightly, and suddenly he's closer without seeming to move. "Though I prefer a more direct approach than ancient poetry and cherry blossom viewings."

"What kind of approach?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

He reaches out, fingers almost touching my hair before redirecting to adjust a pillow instead. The aborted gesture makes my chest tight. "The kind where I wait until you're ready. Where I give you choice. Where touching you is something you ask for, not something taken."

My breath catches. On screen, the leads finally, finally kiss in the rain, and I can't look away from Giancarlo's face. The control it's costing him shows in the tension of his jaw, the careful stillness of his hands.

"When you're ready," he murmurs, voice dropping to registers that vibrate through my bones. "I can wait. I'm very good at waiting for things worth having."

He stands in one fluid motion, leaving me drowning in blankets and want and the ghost of almost-touches. Before he goes, he pauses at the doorway.

"Akiko?"

"Yes?"

"Next time you can't sleep, you can watch in the media room. Bigger screen. Better sound." A smile ghosts across his lips. "More room for your yokai to spread out."

He's gone before I can respond, leaving me with fictional love and real yearning and the growing certainty that ready might be closer than I thought. The yokai twitter among themselves, already demanding episode nine.

I hit play, sinking deeper into stories about love that waits, that yearns, that chooses patience over possession. On screen, the couple navigates their new relationship with tender awkwardness. In reality, I navigate the strange territory of being wanted without being consumed.

And maybe, between rain kisses and dramatic confessions, I'm learning what it means to want something for myself.