For a moment, the eternally composed man just stood there, the corner of his lips tightening as though he himself had just said something improper without realizing it.
Finally, with a swift tug, he pulled the blanket away. Cassandra Bolton peeked out, her face bright red, eyes glistening like a cornered rabbit. Her tiny hands clutched the hem of the oversized shirt, knuckles white.
"Are you trying to suffocate yourself to death under there?" His voice was low, a trace rougher than usual. "You'll… grow faster if you eat more food. Drink more milk. You're still just a kid."
Though the words came out cold and clinical, there was a strange stiffness in his tone—a faint awkwardness that flickered across his expression before vanishing, hidden behind his usual mask of indifference. He hadn't expected his casual remark to fluster her so deeply.
With a practiced motion, Theodore Bolton bundled her tightly in the blanket until she resembled a little sushi roll, only her flushed face peeking out.
"Be good. Sleep. Your fever will go away soon," he muttered, almost too gruffly, as though embarrassed by his own attempt at comfort.
Cassandra Bolton wriggled helplessly, her red face peeking out of the blanket cocoon. Despite herself, her heavy eyelids began to droop. Her small pout remained even as sleep claimed her, making her look pitifully cute.
And Theodore Bolton, standing stiffly beside the bed, realized for the first time that he had absolutely no idea how to take care of a sick little sister.
The thirst dragged Cassandra Bolton out of her dreams, tearing her from the peaceful mountains where bamboo swayed and a flute's song echoed like a prayer as the tall immortal like figure in white robes stood in the bamboo pavilion. She woke with a start, her heart thudding violently. The ceiling above her was familiar, but the phantom sound of the flute clung stubbornly to her ears.
Swinging her legs from the bed, Cassandra Bolton reached for the glass of water at her bedside. But then—her blood ran cold.
A dark, unmoving figure lay sprawled across her bed.
Her small fingers instantly curled around the dagger hidden under her pillow. The room was drenched in shadow, lit only by a pale wash of moonlight seeping through the curtains. She crept closer, her heart hammering, ready to strike.
Then, recognition.
"…Big brother," she breathed in relief, though her chest was still tight with unease.
It was Theodore Bolton.
Her eyes softened despite herself. Seeing his half-bare chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, Cassandra frowned at how cold the air was. She hesitated, then bent down, reaching for the warm blanket she had earlier kicked aside. She only wanted to place it over him, a small kindness she barely understood herself.
But the instant her hand neared him—
A lightning-fast grip closed around her throat.
Her breath caught, stolen from her lungs as his iron hand squeezed. Panic shot through her veins like fire. Cassandra Bolton's dagger clattered uselessly to the floor as she clawed weakly at his wrist, her small nails scraping against unyielding flesh.
Tears blurred her vision as his eyes snapped open.
They were icy cold. Deadly. Filled with a sharp killing intent so raw it made her blood run ice. In that moment, she wasn't his sister. She was an enemy intruder.
Theodore Bolton released her suddenly, and she collapsed in a heap against his lap, coughing and choking, tears streaming down her flushed face.
"What were you doing?" His deep low voice cut like a blade. He reached for her fallen dagger, his hand steady, his aura sharp as death itself as he flicked the blade.
The cold edge pressed against her trembling cheek.
Cassandra Bolton's breath hitched violently. Her instincts screamed that one wrong word, one slip of her tongue, and her life would end here. She forced her lips into a trembling smile, her voice meek, submissive, desperate to appease him.
"I-I thought there was an assassin, Big Brother. I-I didn't know it was you. I only… I only wanted to cover you with the blanket after I realized it…it was you. You looked cold and…" Her words faltered into a whisper, her body trembling as she knelt pitifully at his side.
Theodore Bolton's eyes bore into her, unreadable, merciless. She lowered her head quickly, biting her lip to keep from sobbing, presenting herself small, harmless, obedient—anything that would soothe the beast in him.
The silence stretched like a noose tightening around her neck.
Then—clang.