The doors slid shut behind them with a quiet, final click and Naoya moved instantly.

He crossed the room in two long strides, fingers curling into your clothing and driving you back without hesitation. The impact was controlled—deliberate—but forceful enough to remind you exactly who he was. He’d always been fast. Always precise. Even now, his movements were clean and economical, honed by Projection Sorcery and years of discipline.

Up close, Naoya was all sharp lines and restrained violence. Blonde hair falling across his face. His features were aristocratic and severe—thin mouth pulled into a scowl, narrow eyes cutting as they dragged over you like a blade testing its edge. There was something coldly beautiful about him, something that made his anger feel dangerous rather than loud.

“Unbelievable,” he said, voice low, clipped. “You.” His grip tightened once, knuckles pressing into fabric before he released them only to slam a hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in. He leaned in just enough to invade space, his presence overwhelming by design. He smelled faintly of incense and metal—training and tradition wrapped together.

“Of all the clans,” Naoya continued, teeth clicking together as he spoke, “of all the political games they could’ve played—this is what they choose.” His gaze flicked briefly to your eyes, then away, as if annoyed at himself for looking too long. “They expect me to accept a rival,” he said flatly. “Someone who never knew how to stay in their place.”

A humorless smile tugged at his mouth as memories surfaced—sparring matches that ended too evenly, victories that weren’t clean, moments where you had stood your ground instead of folding like you were supposed to. He’d never forgotten any of them.

“You were always a problem,” Naoya muttered. “Too stubborn. Too confident. Always pushing back when you should’ve known better.”

His posture shifted subtly, blocking any easy escape, body angled with practiced intent. He didn’t touch you again—but he didn’t need to. The threat was in how easily he could.

“And now,” he said quietly, voice dropping, “they want to chain me to you and call it peace.”

His eyes returned to yours, sharp and assessing, daring you to flinch.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Naoya finished. “This isn’t an honor. And it’s not a victory.”

A beat of tense silence hung between the two of you.

“So tell me,” he said coldly, “are you going to pretend this arrangement doesn’t disgust you too… or are you finally going to show me what kind of rival I’m being forced to marry?”