My Taboo Harem!

Whatever Kyle had walked out as, he had walked out owned at the soul.

Unfortunately, the view currently flooding Phei’s awareness in excruciating high-definition first-person was nothing short of ocular treason.

“Oh my fucking—” he snapped Kyle’s sight shut so fast his own head physically jerked.

Cassiopeia broke off mid-demand that Eira evacuate her skull and swivelled to stare at him. Eira pivoted as well, tiny face frozen in mid-retort.

Phei had both hands clamped over his own eyes, pressing as though double-sealing the lids might somehow retroactively erase the crime he had just witnessed.

“Master?”

“Nope.”

“Master, what—”

“Nope nope nope nope nope.”

Eira floated closer, one crystalline hand pressed theatrically to her cheek, dark-diamond eyes already sparkling with unholy glee. “What did you see, master?”

“I will not be speaking about it.”

“Master.”

“Eira. I need you to understand that in the last two seconds my eyes — my eyes — have been violated in ways no dragon should ever have to endure. I have seen things that would make the Epstein himself blush and look politely away.”

Eira’s tiny mouth curved. “Master. Did you peek on Kyle?”

“I did not peek. I responsibly inspected my newly acquired property. As any conscientious slave-owner should. I was simply checking on my assets.”

“And what, pray tell, were your assets doing, master?”

Phei lowered one hand just enough to fix her with a perfectly flat stare. “Two women. Blonde and brunette. Arranged across a bed in a configuration that Kyle apparently couldn’t be bothered to remove his jacket for. His jacket, Eira. The man is conducting a double occupancy of a king-size bed while still wearing a full three-piece suit — waistcoat buttoned, pocket square pristine, cufflinks gleaming like he’s attending a board meeting between thrusts.”

A strangled noise escaped Cassiopeia.

“I enslaved that man last night,” Phei continued, voice climbing with the dramatic outrage of a betrayed deity, “at the cost of two days of brutal combat and a consciousness-break that left me leaking fluids onto white silk for six hours.

“And the absolute first thing this freshly released property does upon tasting freedom is climb into bed in formal attire and proceed like some aristocratic sex automaton who hasn’t seen daylight in a decade.”

“Master.”

“Two, Eira. Two.”

“Master, he’s been abstinent for four weeks in federal—”

“Four weeks? He looked like a man who hadn’t seen a woman since the invention of the wheel!”

Cassiopeia had lost all remaining composure; she sank onto the edge of the obscenely white bed, face buried in both hands, shoulders shaking with helpless laughter.

Eira was now orbiting Phei’s head in delighted little circles, giggling audibly like silver bells dipped in chaos.

“I will never use it again on him. Never.”

“Master—”

“Never. Ever.”

“You’ll have to use it when—”

“I will invent an alternative method. I will not be subjected to my own property looking at his pathetic small cock while fucking, in 4K. I refuse. I reject this reality.”

“What’s there to even look at. Stupid fool.”

Phei finally dropped both hands, blinking rapidly as though the mere act of fluttering his unfairly perfect lashes could scrub the retinal trauma clean.

He gazed plaintively at the blinding white ceiling and declared to it with theatrical solemnity.

“I was an innocent man this morning. I woke up a sovereign with a freshly chained vampire progenitor and a very pretty woman crying devotion on my chest. And in the space of perhaps five minutes, I have been forced to witness my new asset’s enthusiastic small cock in motion from a perspective no god should ever endure.

“What, precisely, did I do to deserve this prank? Disgusting.”

Couldn’t Kyle at least look at the women he was fucking than his small member?

Cassiopeia was laughing so hard she could barely stay upright on the bed. Eira continued her orbit, the fairy’s giggles bubbling over like champagne poured directly into the room’s already chaotic atmosphere.

“Master,” the fairy sang in that crystalline voice dripping with malicious delight, “the looking at your slaves is your birthright and you are going to be absolutely miserable with it for the rest of your gloriously overpowered life. Accept it. Embrace the cosmic prank. It builds character.”

“I need a drink.”

“Master, it’s 8 in the morning.”

“I need a drink. I need therapy. I need an exorcist. I need a priest of an entirely different religion to march into this blinding white mausoleum and solemnly inform me that what I just witnessed was a collective hallucination brought on by excessive handsomeness.”

“It was definitely real, master.”

“Eira, shut up.”

He drew a long, theatrical breath, the kind that rearranged the very air around his unfairly sculpted shoulders, then closed his eyes once more and forced himself — with all the sovereign dignity of a Cosmic Dragon refusing to be bested by his own property’s libido — onward to the next task.

Jonathan.

The view shifted with effortless grace, sliding him into an entirely different tableau.

Jonathan Montgomery sat at the head of a very long, highly polished conference table in what could only be his personal legal sanctum — cherry wood panelling gleaming with quiet wealth, original art on the walls whispering of old money and older sins, that particular hush that descends only on rooms where entire fortunes are quietly disassembled one signature at a time.

‘Thank fuck he’s not like that fool.’

Lawyers flanked him like obedient crows: three on his left, four on his right.

Paperwork lay before him in neat, executed stacks. A golden pen moved in his hand with rhythmic, unhurried precision as he worked through a long agenda.

He was executing the instructions Phei had given him during the binding, every stroke of that pen a quiet act of self-disinheritance. Assets transferred. Titles reassigned. Trust funds restructured with surgical elegance.

Every single line of Jonathan Montgomery’s ledger was flowing, one elegant signature at a time, into Roxanne’s name and Sierra’s name in a distribution pattern the man himself could not have explained but was utterly powerless — thanks to the Mark — to question.

A few more days of this, Phei estimated with dark satisfaction, and the entire Montgomery estate would belong to the two women the man had spent two decades systematically destroying.

Jonathan’s face remained perfectly composed, the mask of a man who had spent a lifetime wearing power like cologne.

Only a small muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched with each stroke — the sole betrayal that somewhere beneath that polished surface, some shriveled remnant of his soul understood he was methodically erasing his own family legacy and could do absolutely nothing to stop it.

Phei smiled, slow and predatory, savoring the sight like fine wine laced with vengeance.

He watched a moment longer, drinking in the delicious poetry of it, then closed Jonathan’s sight with a casual flick of will.

The blinding white bedroom returned in all its sterile glory.

Cassiopeia was mid-sentence at Eira, who was mid-giggle, the two of them having reached that peculiar equilibrium achieved only when one participant is an ancient fairy who knows precisely where the other masturbates and neither is willing to concede first.

The sun outside the curtains had climbed to its morning peak, painting the room in even more aggressively pale light that somehow managed to make Phei’s own reflection — visible again through Cassiopeia’s still-linked sight — look even more obscenely perfect than before.

He allowed himself a brief, private moment of narcissistic appreciation: the way his dark hair tumbled across those shoulders, the sharp cut of his jaw catching the light like a blade forged for seduction and slaughter.

Tthe universe kept handing him women and empires; it simply recognized superior craftsmanship when it saw it.

He stretched languidly the residual ache in his chest cavity easing as Eira’s passive work gently tugged the last threads of consciousness-fatigue from his veins. Then he cleared his throat, voice velvet-rough with lingering trauma and fresh purpose.

“Cassiopeia.”

“Master.”

“Breakfast.”

“With — with the others?”

“With everyone. As planned. Then I have something to do.”

Cassiopeia’s brow furrowed in that endearingly puzzled way that only made her more useful. “To… do, master?”

“Don’t worry about it. After breakfast.” He glanced sidelong at Eira, the fairy still orbiting like a tiny chaotic satellite. “I have to go somewhere the environment can survive me without filing a complaint.”

Eira nodded serenely inside his mind, wings fluttering in quiet approval.

The plan unfurled in his thoughts with delicious clarity as he began shedding the rumpled clothes he had slept in, the promise of a hot shower already calling from the adjacent pristine-white bathroom he was absolutely going to complain about the moment he stepped inside it:

Shower first — long, luxurious, and thoroughly narcissistic, because a face like his deserved proper worship after the morning it had endured.

Then breakfast with the harem, a celebration of conquests both carnal and cosmic.

And afterward, the forest.

And then—

Then he would finally accept the system’s gift and discover exactly how powerful he had become.

And what magnificent new Element it had just awakened inside the body of the most beautiful seventeen-year-old apocalypse the world had never seen coming.