My Taboo Harem!

The waiting lounge overlooked a garden that had cost more in landscaping than most mortals would earn across three lifetimes of honest labor.

Phei stood at the window with his hands buried in his pockets, silhouette carved against the moonlight like a statue of some forgotten god—beautiful and terrible and utterly, devastatingly still.

But his face betrayed nothing… absolutely nothing.

That emptiness wasn’t peace but its cruel opposite—a tempest held back by will alone, lightning coiled behind glass that hadn’t yet shattered.

Melissa watched him from across the marble floor.

That stillness troubled her more than rage ever could. Rage she understood—rage burned bright and fast, consumed itself in glorious conflagration, and left ash you could sweep into corners and forget.

This silence? This glacial, terrible quiet? This was the patience of something ancient deciding whether the room deserved to survive the next five minutes.

She crossed to him. Her heels clicked against marble with the precision of a heartbeat. She stopped at his back.

“You’re not usually like this.”

He didn’t turn. “He insulted you.”

“Phei—”

“All of you.” The words fell soft as snowflakes and twice as cold. “And if that pathetic sack of outdated morals thinks he can spit on what’s mine and walk away breathing easy, he’s even more deluded than I gave him credit for. I could have painted the walls with his smug fucking face in a heartbeat.”

Melissa wrapped her arms around his waist from behind.

Her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, feeling the coiled tension in his muscles through the expensive fabric of his shirt.

Her fingers traced slow, worshipful paths across the hard plane of his chest—mapping the topography of him through cloth, claiming territory that had belonged to her since the moment she first tasted his lips and decided that sin had never felt so much like salvation.

The touch said what words would have cheapened: I am here. I am yours. Nothing he said changes that. Nothing ever could.

She had felt ashamed tonight.

Not of him—never of him, never of the magnificent blasphemy they’d built together from the ruins of a marriage that had deserved its destruction.

She’d known what their love would look like to Paradise’s glittering hypocrites the moment his lips first found hers, the moment his hands learned the curves of her body like scripture, the moment she spread her thighs for her own nephew and felt more alive than twenty years of marital duty had ever made her feel.

Had known and yet she had chosen him anyway. Would choose him again across a thousand lifetimes without hesitation or regret.

But sometimes—even the hardest hearts bled when struck at precisely the right angle.

Jonathan’s contempt had slipped past her armor like a stiletto between ribs, finding soft tissue she hadn’t known was still vulnerable. “Desperate for attention. Crawled into bed with a child she was supposed to be raising.”

The words had burrowed deep, hooked themselves into something tender, and for one incandescent moment she’d wanted to lunge across that obscenely expensive table and tear his throat out with her manicured nails—paint the Montgomery dining room in the arterial spray of a man who dared judge what he could never understand.

Then she’d breathed.

And his scent had filled her.

That dark, devastating scent of power, lust, obsession and possession that unmade her every single time—musk and winter and something deeper, something that spoke to the ancient parts of her brain that recognized her dragon and responded with helpless, shameless surrender.

And suddenly she remembered what she was. Who she belonged to. His. Completely. Unapologetically.

Let the world choke on its outrage.

She’d lifted her spoon and resumed eating with the serene composure of a queen who had already won and simply hadn’t bothered to inform the peasants yet.

Let her dragon handle it. Let him deliver the blade. Let him walk away before the Void-Ice in his veins turned the entire Montgomery legacy into a cautionary tale whispered at Legacy dinner parties for generations to come.

He’d been so careful. So, controlled. Jonathan was still Sierra’s father—a man she loved despite everything, whose approval she still craved even if pride would burn her tongue before she admitted it.

Phei had remembered that. Had held back devastation that could have left nothing but smoking craters and salted earth, said only what needed saying, and departed before his restraint shattered completely.

She smiled against the warmth of his back.

“You did so well.”

No other words were necessary.

Phei’s lips curved—a ghost of something that didn’t quite reach his eyes but warmed them slightly at the edges.

He wasn’t surprised by tonight’s performance. He’d known Jonathan before this—not face to face, but enough. Eira had confirmed it during the drive over, her crystalline voice delivering intelligence with the casual efficiency of a spy who’d forgotten that espionage was supposed to be difficult.

The dinner was never about welcoming Sierra’s chosen partner into the family fold. It was theater.

A stage constructed for Jonathan to demonstrate dominance, to parade Phei’s inadequacies before his daughter like a prosecutor presenting evidence of inevitable doom.

Phei had walked into the trap with eyes wide open and a smile on his beautiful face.

He could even understand it, from a certain poisoned angle. Jonathan was protecting his child—the only way he knew how, with blunt force and cruel words and the desperate hope that humiliation might accomplish what logic could not.

Trying to shield her from the collision that was coming, the war between Phei and the Legacy families that would arrive whether anyone wished it or not, a war that would consume anyone foolish enough to stand too close when the dragon finally stopped pretending to be a boy.

From that perspective, the hatred made a twisted kind of sense.

At least Phei thought that was Jonathan’s intentions.

But those insults to his women—

“Phei! Melissa!”

Sierra’s voice shattered the quiet like crystal striking marble.

They turned. She was crossing the lounge toward them with the particular urgency of a woman who had made a decision and intended to see it through before common sense could intervene.

The transformation was immediate, visceral—the conservative gown her mother had selected was gone, discarded somewhere in the house like a shed skin she’d finally outgrown. In its place: fitted jeans that embraced the swell of her hips like a lover’s hands, a soft sweater that had slipped off one alabaster shoulder to reveal the delicate architecture of her collarbone, sneakers meant for running.

And in her hand, clutched with white-knuckled determination—an overnight bag.

Melissa’s eyes sharpened with immediate understanding. She knew that expression. The defiant set of that jaw. The particular fire burning behind those ice-blue eyes like winter lightning.

“You’re running away from home!”

Sierra’s gaze dropped to the floor. She nodded once.

Melissa stared at her for a long, weighted moment—the silence stretching taut as a bowstring.

Then she laughed. Bright. Genuine. Surprised out of her like a confession she hadn’t meant to make.

“Well. The rebellious phase finally arrives.” She shook her head slowly, dark hair swaying with the motion. “About damn time, darling. I was starting to worry you’d stay a perfect little puppet forever.”

“If this were any other circumstance, I’d be delivering a lecture on consequences and responsibility and the thousand ways this decision could destroy you. But this time?” Her eyes slid to Phei with knowing warmth. “It’s him, after all.”

“Biased much?”

“Absolutely not.” Melissa’s smile turned sharp as a blade’s edge. “I’m simply confident you can handle whatever consequences arise. And if you dare refuse her—” her voice dropped to velvet menace “—I will personally ensure you regret it in ways you haven’t yet imagined. I’ll make your nights very long and very creative, nephew dear.”

Phei laughed.

Actually laughed—warm and genuine and alive, the terrible stillness cracking apart to let light spill through like dawn breaking over frozen mountains.

“You know, it’s always been a fantasy of mine. Running away with someone’s daughter. Stealing her into the night.” He grinned. “Terribly romantic, really. Especially when the father’s the sort of pompous windbag who deserves to wake up to an empty house and a bruised ego.”

There he was. The seventeen-year-old boy and his ridiculous, magnificent, absolutely certifiable dreams.

Melissa rolled her eyes with theatrical exhaustion. “Doesn’t he realize he’s already fulfilled that particular fantasy? The boy’s got a body count higher than most warlords and still plays the innocent romantic. Adorable.”

Sierra’s lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “After all—he beat a man bloody and absconded with his wife and all three daughters. Quite thoroughly accomplished, I’d say. Dad’s probably still crying into his scotch about it.”

Fake realization bloomed across Phei’s face—eyes widening, mouth dropping in exaggerated shock, the picture of a man who had somehow forgotten his own conquests.

“Oh.” He blinked. “Right.” The grin returned, sharper now, edged with something predatory and ancient. “Well then—let’s make this a second. Third time’s the charm when you’re collecting Legacy Princesses like trophies.”

Sierra grabbed his hand. Her fingers interlaced with his like they had always belonged there, like the spaces between his knuckles had been designed specifically to cradle her touch.

“Come to my room. I need to collect a few things.”

They followed her toward the stairs.

Only Eira knew that Sierra’s room was destined to become an altar tonight—the silken sheets a sacrificial cloth, the moonlight through the windows a benediction for what was to come.

And the sacrificial lamb was—