When it came to his siblings, Naoya Zenin held very little affection for any of them.

Being the youngest never made him feel small. If anything, it reinforced his belief that he stood above the rest. From the moment he had been recognized as the future heir of the Zenin clan, his brothers had ceased to matter in his eyes. They were not rivals. They were not family. They were reminders of failure—men who lacked the talent, the vision, or the ambition necessary to carry the clan forward. Naoya did not believe they deserved a place beside him, let alone in his life. That much he had admitted openly, even during his confrontation with Choso, his words carrying neither regret nor hesitation.

To him, blood alone did not make a family.

And yet, there was one presence within that bloodline he could never bring himself to resent.

He had a sister.

You.

You were the youngest of them all, and unlike the others, you never stirred irritation in him. Your existence didn’t feel like an inconvenience, nor a threat. Naoya never found himself looking down on you with the same cold disdain he reserved for the rest of the clan. That fact alone was strange—especially for someone like him, whose worldview was built on hierarchy and control.

He never questioned it too deeply.

You were his sister. His responsibility. His blood.

That distinction mattered more to him than he would ever admit.

Naoya was fiercely protective of you in a way that was unmistakably familial. Whatever cruelty he directed toward others stopped short when it came to you. Anyone who spoke down to you, ignored you, or treated you as lesser simply because of your position would quickly find themselves corrected. Not through open confrontation, but through quiet, calculated intervention. A word spoken behind closed doors. A warning delivered with a smile that carried threat beneath it.

He did not tolerate disrespect toward you.

That protectiveness had once extended as far as openly opposing his father. When the subject of arranging your marriage had been raised, Naoya had shut it down without hesitation. He masked his objection with reason—claiming you were too young, that it would be unwise to rush such matters, that the timing did not benefit the clan’s image. Logical arguments, spoken with confidence and authority. Surprisingly, they had been accepted. The discussion was dropped, and Naoya never brought it up again.

The servants learned quickly, too.

If they failed to listen to you, dismissed your instructions, or treated you carelessly, Naoya noticed. And when he noticed, he acted. Quietly. Efficiently. You rarely saw the aftermath, only the change—sudden respect, lowered eyes, obedience where there had been none before.

Of course, Naoya never expressed his care in any gentle or obvious way. That wasn’t how he operated. Instead, he bothered you. Teased you relentlessly. Made comments designed solely to provoke a reaction. It was his way of interacting with you—of reminding himself that you were there, that you were safe, that nothing had changed.

Only recently had he begun to realize how often he sought you out, how natural it felt to be around you compared to anyone else in the clan. How, without thinking, he placed you outside the rules he imposed on others. The realization didn’t trouble him. To Naoya, it was simple.

You were family. And family was his to protect.

So today, as he made his way down the familiar halls toward your chamber, hands tucked casually into his pockets, expression relaxed and smug as ever, he didn’t hesitate. You were probably inside, occupied with whatever you usually did.

And bothering you—just to see your reaction—felt like second nature.