My Taboo Harem!

Later that night, when Sierra and Maddie had finally burned themselves out, reduced to a sweat-sheened knot of limbs and whispered aftershocks on the vast, indulgent sprawl of the giant bed, Phei stood alone at the towering windows.

Paradise unfurled beneath him like a jeweled harlot sprawled across black silk, every light a seductive wink, every tower a proud erection against the sky, every mansion a vault of secrets and inherited sins.

The city shimmered, breathed, pulsed with the heartbeat of the untouchable.

And here he was, high above it all, the former charity rat turned apex predator, gazing down like a dragon perched on the edge of its lair, wings half-spread, smoke curling from its nostrils as it contemplated the glittering hoard waiting below.

Hoard.

The word had lived in his skull for weeks now, feral and possessive. My hoard. My fortress of glass and steel. My system, forged in cosmic fire. My abilities, weapons no mortal should wield. And above all—my women. Their bodies branded with his mark, their souls tethered by soul and pleasure no one else could ever give.

He had savored the taste of it, rolled it across his tongue like aged whiskey, let it warm his blood while he claimed them again and again.

But tonight, for the first time since that fevered dawn when the world cracked open and poured impossible power into his veins, Phei dragged the word out into the merciless light and forced it to kneel.

He bought it a drink.

He stared into its eyes.

He asked it, voice low and dangerous: What the fuck do you really want in life, Phei?

And for the first time since the night, he lost his virginity to his own aunt, since the blue screens ignited in the dark and turned his cock into a god-weapon of ruinous ecstasy, Phei let himself think.

Not the frantic arithmetic of survival.

Not the cold, surgical maps of revenge.

Not even the fevered blueprints of the next conquest, the next princess to break and bind.

Just raw, naked thought.

A reckoning.

Who am I becoming?

Does any of this mean a goddamn thing?

The memory of that first morning struck him like a blade between the ribs.

5:57 AM.

Melissa's taste still coating his tongue, rich and forbidden.

His little dragon heavy, sated, as if the beast inside him refused to believe one night could ever be enough.

Blue system windows hovering in the stale air of his closet-sized room like judgment from some amused, perverted god.

He had whispered to the dark: What's my purpose now?

And the choices had marched past him, each one a siren song laced with poison.

Revenge? Oh, it sang sweetest at first. Burn them. Break them. Make them choke on the ashes of their arrogance. But even then, half-dead from exhaustion and revelation, he had known: revenge is a grave you dig for two. You bury them, then lie down beside the corpse and wait for the dirt to cover you too.

Power for power's sake? A glittering crown with no head beneath it. Empty thrones rot faster than the kings who sit on them.

Freedom? Flee Paradise, vanish into the world, start over with a new name and a clean slate? Coward's gold. Paradise would still own him—the boy who ran. He would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for ghosts that wore his own face.

Control? The unseen emperor, the whisper in every ear, the knife no one sees coming? Tempting. Terrifying. But a life spent counting enemies instead of breaths? A slow death by paranoia.

Redemption? Rise so high they have to crane their necks to look at him, force regret from their throats like bile? Pathetic. Begging for love from the same boots that kicked him into the dirt.

Domination? Build an empire that swallowed theirs whole, own the city, the bloodlines, the future? God-tier ambition. But for a seventeen-year-old who'd just discovered sex eight hours earlier? It felt like trying to swallow the sun.

And then the last option slid forward, grinning, shameless, alive.

Hedonism.

Pure, carnal, unapologetic joy.

Take everything beautiful. Claim every woman worth claiming. Fuck Paradise until the city itself moaned his name in its sleep. Cuck every smug bastard who ever looked down on him—force them to watch while their pristine princesses, their perfect wives, their precious daughters chose the trash over them, again and again, until the word "trash" tasted like worship on their tongues.

That dawn, wrecked and reborn, riding the razor edge of adrenaline and first-time ecstasy, Phei had bared his teeth at the dark and laughed.

Yes.

Fuck yes.

Not noble. Not wise. Not even sane.

But alive.

Honest.

Seventeen years old, armed with a system that made him a walking apocalypse of pleasure, a dragon in the skin of a boy—of course he chose lust.

Of course he chose the harem, the conquest, the endless thrill of breaking the unbreakable and binding them with nothing but his cock and his will.

What else could a lustful young dragon possibly choose?

And if you looked closely, his harem choice will eventually fulfill the other choices he'd not chose.

So, he had worn that choice like armor.

Wielded it like a blade.

Justified every moan torn from royal throats, every tear of overwhelmed surrender, every new set of eyes that looked at him like he was salvation and damnation in one breath.

But standing here now, high above the city that had once tried to bury him alive, with two marked women sleeping off the ruin he'd wrought on their bodies, Phei finally admitted the truth that scorched his throat.

That "decision" at 5:57 AM hadn't been a decision.

It had been a scream wearing clothes.

A reflex.

A desperate, exhausted boy snatching the brightest, loudest answer from the wreckage because anything deeper would have shattered him.

He had never truly sat with it.

Never held it to the fire and watched what remained.

Never asked the questions that mattered:

Is endless pleasure actually enough?

Three weeks had passed since that night of fire and reckoning, three weeks that tasted of silk sheets and broken pride, of whispered names in the dark and the slow, exquisite dismantling of every throne that had ever looked down on him.

Three weeks in which the Dragon inside him had stretched its wings wider, cracked its jaws in a lazy yawn, and begun to truly wake. Sierra's ice had become his inferno. Maddie's sunshine had turned into a corona around him.

Delilah had fallen with a sigh that still echoed in his bones.

Melissa crossed the city nightly now, trading her wedding ring for the collar of his hand around her throat. And there were others that would come, new names, new scents, new trembling lips that would learn how to say please in languages only he could teach them.

And tonight, standing once more at those same windows, the city glittering below like a harlot who already knew whose bed she would warm, Phei finally sat with the truth.

It was simpler than all the grand philosophies he had tortured himself with.

He loved women.

Not as symbols. Not as revenge. Not as steppingstones to some abstract empire.

He loved them the way poets claim to love the moon and liars claim to love God, with the helpless, ferocious devotion of something that had once been starved and now refused to ever go hungry again.

He loved the way they moved, liquid and lethal and soft all at once. Loved the way they smelled after sex, like surrender and expensive perfume and the particular note of his own skin branded into theirs.

Loved the sounds they made when pleasure finally cracked them open, raw, animal, sacred. Loved the way Sierra's icy composure shattered into desperate, filthy begging. Loved the way Maddie's golden laughter turned into breathless, disbelieving sobs when he pushed her past what she thought her body could take. Loved the way Melissa, elegant, untouchable Melissa, looked at him with ten years of silent devotion finally allowed to burn aloud, her eyes saying I loved you even when I was part of your hell, and I will love you until it kills me.

He loved them so much it felt like a wound that refused to close, a hunger that only grew sharper the more he fed it.

And the cucking? Oh, that was real too.

A hot, vicious pulse beneath the devotion. The Dragon's roar when another male's claim was proven paper-thin. The savage satisfaction of watching a Legacy princes realize their princesses and sisters had chosen the charity case, the trash, the boy they used to kick in the hallways.

Petty? Yes. Vindictive?

Undeniably.

But it was also honesty carved in fire: all your money, all your bloodlines, all your inherited gods, and still she crawls to me, still she comes harder on my cock than she ever did in all these years.

He was done pretending either part of himself was shameful.

So, what did that mean, when the masks were stripped away and only truth remained?

It meant the harem was not a detour.

It was the destination.