My Taboo Harem!

Not revenge. Not empire. Not some lofty shadow-rule or world-burning domination scheme.

Women. His women. Every last one he wanted.

Every beauty in Paradise who turned her head when he walked by and felt her pulse stutter. Every milf whose eyes lingered too long at parent-teacher nights. Every ice-cold heiress who thought no one could touch her until he decided otherwise.

Every neglected wife, every curious daughter, every widow who had forgotten what it felt like to be devoured.

He wanted them all, not as faceless conquests, not the way Danton collected trophies because his soul was a department store mannequin, but as something sacred and profane at once.

Women who were beautiful, yes, in every form the word could take: the lush, dangerous curves of a woman who had birthed empires in boardrooms and bedrooms alike; the taut, eager lines of a girl just discovering her own power; the refined, lethal elegance of a queen who had forgotten how to kneel until he reminded her it could feel like ascension.

But beauty alone was not enough.

Interesting.

He wanted women who fascinated him. Who challenged him. Who carried fire or steel or chaos in their veins.

Women who would argue with him at 3 a.m. about philosophy and then ride him until dawn just to prove a point.

Women whose minds were as sharp as their cheekbones, whose ambitions could burn cities, whose laughter could start wars or end them. Women who, when they finally surrendered, did it with their eyes wide open and their claws still out, because they had chosen him the same way he had chosen them, freely, fiercely, forever.

He wanted to build a family.

Not the brittle, blood-bound kind that had abandoned him, betrayed him, tried to bury him alive.

His kind of family.

Bound by choice, by devotion, by the unbreakable knowledge that they belonged to each other and the rest of the world could choke on its disapproval. A constellation of brilliant, dangerous, breathtaking women orbiting the same Dragon, each one a jewel in a hoard so magnificent that anyone who dared look upon it would fall to their knees, not in fear, but in awe.

That was the decision.

Not the frantic, lust-drunk reaction of a boy at 5:57 a.m.

But the clear-eyed, full-hearted vow of a Dragon who had tasted power, tasted pleasure, tasted love in its rawest form, and decided that the only empire worth building was one made of living treasures who chose him back.

Beautiful. Interesting. His.

The criteria sang in his blood like war drums.

Paradise glittered below, unaware that its king had finally named his crown.

And high above it all, Phei smiled, slow, feral, and utterly certain.

This was the filter that separated dragons from dogs. Boring women need not apply—let lesser men collect those. Phei wanted fire, intelligence, spark. Women who would challenge him, complement him, keep him sharp. Women who brought something to his hoard besides just another warm body.

Good.

Not perfect. Not innocent. God knew Phei wasn't either of those things.

But good at the core. Capable of kindness, loyalty, genuine connection. The world was full of beautiful, interesting women who were also irredeemable cunts. He had no interest in those. Let them rot in their trust funds.

Willing.

This mattered most.

His harem would be built on choice. On women who looked at everything he was—the power, the darkness, the hunger—and said yes. Not because they were afraid. Not because they were manipulated. Because they wanted him.

That was the only devotion worth having.

And within those parameters?

Everyone was fair game.

The mothers of Paradise. Those elegant cougars prowling charity galas, kept fresh by expensive treatments and existential hunger. The ones whose husbands had stopped seeing them years ago. The ones who looked at Phei and felt parts of themselves wake up that they'd thought were dead.

Fair game.

The daughters. Bright young things just discovering their power. Growing up with everything except genuine passion. Seeing something in Phei that all their trust fund boyfriends lacked.

Fair game.

The sisters. Overlooked middle children and spoiled babies and responsible eldest. Wanting something—someone—of their own.

Fair game.

The widows. Tragic beauties told their wanting years were over. Looking at Phei and remembering what it felt like to burn.

Fair game.

The CEOs. The executives. The self-made queens. Commanding boardrooms but going home to empty penthouses. Wanting a man who wasn't intimidated by their power.

Fair game.

Age didn't matter. Status didn't matter. Marriage? If her husband had failed her so completely she was looking elsewhere, he'd already lost.

And family connections?

If Phei wanted the mother and the daughter both—why shouldn't he have them?

If he wanted sisters, plural—what was stopping him?

The old rules were made by weak men protecting themselves from competition. Phei was not a weak man.

Everyone was fair game.

My Taboo Harem!

Behind him, Sierra murmured in her sleep and curled closer to Maddie.

His first two princesses.

His foundation.

Phei looked at them—really looked. The way Sierra's face softened in sleep, all the ice queen armor stripped away. The way Maddie's hair spread across the pillow like spilled gold. The marks on their skin. His marks. Permanent. Forever.

Mine, something purred in his chest.

Mine, mine, mine.

And then, unbidden, another thought:

Would Mom and Dad be proud?

The question hit him like a fist to the solar plexus.

He thought about the drawer in his room. The one he never opened. The photo inside—him at seven, grinning gap-toothed, perched on his father's shoulders while his mother laughed. Beach trip. Last good memory.

Would those people—the ones who'd loved him unconditionally, who'd believed the world was good, who'd trusted that family meant safety—look at what he'd become and understand?

Or would they see a monster?

A boy who fucked his aunt for power at the start. Who made women beg for his cock. Who planned to seduce every hot thing in Paradise because he could, because he wanted to, because no one was going to tell him no ever again.

Phei's throat tightened.

"I don't know if you'd be proud," he whispered to the glass, to the city, to ghosts who couldn't answer. "I don't know if this is who you'd want me to be."

His reflection stared back—purple eyes, sharp features, the face of something that wasn't quite human anymore.

"But I'm alive. I'm not the victim anymore. And I'm building something."

He touched the glass with two fingers.

"Maybe it's not noble. Like... at all. Maybe it's just... me and my greedy. Being honest about what I want for the first time in my life."

A pause.

"I hope that's enough for you too Mom, Dad...your son's happiness!"

The moment passed.

The vulnerability receded, not vanished but stored, tucked away in the same drawer where he kept his parents' photo and his capacity for tears.

Phei turned from the window.

Looked at his women.

Smiled—that slow, devastating smile that made knees weak and hearts race and underwear become a distant memory.

Paradise had no idea what was coming.

But they would.

Soon enough.

They all would.