My Taboo Harem!

Chapter 396: The Succubus Goddess Stirs

In the Ashford Madam’s office, the temperature had been dialed down four times in the last hour.

Each drop colder than the last.

Yet none could quell the fire rising within her.

She sat poised behind her desk—back straight, legs crossed at the knee, pen hovering over a contract she’d been staring at for forty-five minutes without truly seeing a single word.

The game had ended two hours ago. She’d watched every second in solitude, on the curved screen hidden in the conference room. Watched the boy she’d lain with on her desk in her home office defy gravity, floating above the basketball court like it was a mere suggestion.

And something inside her stirred.

Something ancient. Something buried deep in the basement of her soul long before Phei had barged in and shattered the lock on whatever had kept it chained.

She set the pen down.

Picked it up.

Set it down again.

The contract blurred. The printed lines twisted into shapes that weren’t words—broad hands gripping her hips, dragging her to the edge of the desk; a voice, rough and young and devastatingly honest: “You’re my goddess.”

Her eyes closed.

The memory unfolded without permission.

His body above hers—not a boy’s body, no matter what the birth certificate said.

Hands that knew their way on her body before she could speak.

He had fucked her—not hesitantly, not with the nervous reverence a teenager might show a woman of her stature, but with fierce, deliberate brutality.

Like someone who saw her hunger and vowed to feed it until it was forgotten.

How he had worshiped her.

“My goddess.”

The raw honesty of a boy who saw through the matriarch, the armor, the woman, and found something worth kneeling for.

“The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

The climate system hissed again—fifteen degrees colder in thirty minutes. Vents whispered icy breaths across the room, cycling faster, sensors scrambling to cool her rising surface temperature.

It was futile.

The heat wasn’t outside. It bloomed inside her—from the place Phei had pried open and left raw. The place she’d sealed tight for decades: through a loveless marriage that had long since lost warmth, through nights in bed vast enough for six that held only her silence.

She knew what she was.

Not the polished matriarch the world saw—businesswoman, mother, wife—but what the bloodline had etched into her cells before birth. The Legacy texts described it in words that made scholars blush and historians debate.

A Succubus.Dormant, until now.

A being forged for desire. A body, a soul, a hunger meant to awaken fully on the Destined Day—the day every Legacy family awaited with bated breath and hidden dread.

She cut the thought off.

Not now. Not here.

But her awakening had come early.

Phei had turned the key a quarter turn too soon. Had reached inside with those hands, that cock, that reckless, honest worship—and cracked the seal.

Just enough.

Enough to let the heat leak through. Enough to make the climate system strain. Enough to make the Ashford Madam—a woman who hadn’t touched herself in years, whose only doctrine was self-control—sit at her desk at eleven p.m. with a trembling hand and a contract she couldn’t read, and a fire between her thighs that was impossible to ignore.

She uncrossed her legs.

Crossed them the other way.

The brief friction sent a sharp pulse straight to her core—unbidden, electric.

A soft, startled sound escaped her lips—out of place in a room so dignified.

Her hand drifted.

To the swell of her chest.

The cream silk blouse, buttoned to the throat and impeccably proper, rose and fell with breaths deepening beyond her control. Beneath, the soft, medium weight of her breasts. Her fingers traced the curve through fabric—light, hesitant, like someone not quite admitting what they were doing—following the line where silk met skin, where blouse gave way to the warm hollow of her throat.

It didn’t fit.

None of this fit.

The Ashford Madam did not trace her own body in her office at night. Did not feel her pulse quicken under her fingertips. Did not allow the memory of a seventeen-year-old boy’s mouth to make her nipples harden against cream silk, sharp points caught and shadowed by amber light.

But here she was.

She pressed lightly once—palm flattening over her left breast, feeling the fullness Phei had called divine. Her nipple strained against palm and lace; the sensation lanced through her like a current finding water.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

She would not fight it.

Whatever Phei had done was not evil. Yes, it left her—search for the clinical term and find only honest ones—desperate. Aching. An arousal that turned intelligent women into something simpler, hungrier, more dangerous.

But she also knew what else it was doing.

It was waking her.

The dormant thing in her blood had opened its eyes after decades of forced sleep and discovered it was not only hungry.

It was alive.

For the first time in years, she felt alive.

Her hand traced lower.

Slowly, following the line of buttons down her blouse, over the flat, disciplined plane of her stomach, to the waist of her pencil skirt.

Fingers walked the hem—tracing where fabric hugged hip, where it met thigh.

Lower.

Over the skirt. Down the outer curve of her thigh, feeling muscle beneath wool, heat radiating through cloth. Then inward—fingers trailing across the top of her thigh to the inner seam, where the skirt was tightest, pinning her thighs together.

She parted them.

Slightly. Just enough. The skirt rode an inch higher; fabric stretched taut across her lap.

Her fingers traced the inner seam upward—

Knock knock.

Her hand snapped away so fast it displaced air.

The door opened—two seconds, perhaps less. She was back to normal.

The only betrayals: a faint flush creeping up her throat, mercifully concealed by amber light, and a pen held upside down.

Her assistant stepped inside—

“Ma’am. Sorry to interrupt.”

“What is it?”

The assistant’s face was wrong. Not panicked—but tight. The look of someone carrying news that burned.

“You should see this.”

She extended a tablet.

The Madam took it. The screen was already playing—shaky footage, clearly shot by someone who shouldn’t have been recording. Crimson Eden Noire. VIP section. Recognizable by the mirrored ceiling and crimson wash that bathed everything in feverish light.

There was Phei.

Standing, facing a girl—Victoria Maxton, instantly recognizable.

She watched the people around them begin to shiver. Breath fogged in a nightclub that should have been sweltering. Glasses frosted over. The crowd recoiled in slow, confused ripples, arms wrapping torsos against a cold with no visible source.

She watched his eyes change.

Amethyst drowning. Void-black swallowing. Glacial blue-white igniting like stars born in the wrong sky.

Barely in frame—wrong angle, crimson light, shaking phone—but she saw it. Darkness swirling in his palm. A black sphere condensing from nothing—small, dense, wrong in a way that made the pixels recoil.

She watched until the video ended.

The Madam sat still.

The heat that had been climbing inside her for the past hour was gone. Snuffed out. Replaced by something colder than any climate system could manufacture—the cold clarity of a woman who understood power and its price and had just watched both manifest in the body of the boy she had allowed inside her.

“This is bad,” she said.

The word was laughably inadequate.

“This is very bad.”