My Taboo Harem!-Chapter 297: Into the Maws of Chaos

Phei didn’t know what to call this anymore.

First it was Sienna—barging in on him and Delilah when he was literally seconds from sinking balls-deep into her sister’s virgin territory. That scene had been surreal enough on its own: him and Delilah frozen mid-thrust like a paused porno still, Sienna framed in the doorway with her mouth hanging open, eyes glued to his glistening cock like it owed her money.

Ten full seconds of arctic silence. His entire cock on display for the ice-robot Sienna, hard and unapologetic.

Delilah spread beneath him, pussy wet and waiting for a dick Sienna was very sure wouldn’t fit in her big sister’s little pussy.

And then?

Sienna had just... walked away. Muttered "this is gross" like she’d caught them eating cereal with a spoon instead of about to commit family incest.

No demands. No blackmail. No screaming bloody murder.

Just turned on her heel and vanished like she’d seen something mildly inconvenient on the sidewalk.

He’d spent an entire day waiting for the other shoe to drop—braced for the inevitable text, the whispered rumor, the knife in the back. It never came.

Then came the Dean’s office. Another near-miss. Cockblocked by circumstance, not caught, but still—interrupted before he could finish what he started with the most terrifying woman in the Academy.

And now this.

Amber fucking Castellano.

Not only had she cockblocked him—watched through the window while he had Patricia spread on the desk like a banquet, then bolted like prey that suddenly remembered it was edible—she had the sheer, glittering audacity to demand he become her toy?

Boy toy.

The phrase curdled in his brain like milk left out in the sun for a week.

Bitch, he thought, jaw tightening as he stared at the auditorium doors she’d disappeared through. Not only did you cockblock me, but you also think you can collar me? Put a leash on the dragon and call it a pet?

His hands curled into fists so hard the knuckles bleached white.

Fine. You want to play? Let’s play.

When he finally fucked Patricia—and he would finish what he started—he’d channel twice the energy. Twice the hunger. Every thrust would be revenge for this interruption, every moan he pulled from her would be a middle finger aimed straight at Amber’s smug little face... when he fucked Amber?

Oh, princess. Just you wait.

His lips curled into something dark, something that would’ve made a priest cross himself.

And you’re the freaking golden ticket into your mother’s pants.

Calming Patricia took longer than expected.

Which was to be expected, honestly. Her reputation at the academy was sterling—twelve years of professionalism, of being the teacher students respected and feared in equal measure. If this became public, she wouldn’t just lose her job.

She’d lose everything: career, dignity, and whatever scraps of sanity she had left after being publicly branded the slut who fucked a student on school property.

She’d cried.

Trembled.

Nearly hyperventilated twice—chest heaving like she was trying to outrun her own lungs.

But eventually—after he’d held her in a dark corner of the empty classroom, stroking her hair, whispering calm certainties he was entirely sure he would deliver—she’d settled.

They’d kissed for what felt like hours. Soft. Slow. Reassuring rather than hungry. Cuddling in the shadows like teenagers hiding from the world, except these teenagers had just dry-humped their way into felony territory.

And one was a teacher.

He hadn’t pushed for more.

Didn’t need to.

Sometimes the conquest wasn’t about the finish line. Sometimes it was about proving you could stop. That you chose to stop.

That made them trust you more than any orgasm ever could—because orgasms were cheap; restraint was rare as fuck.

They’d exchanged numbers before he left—her hands still shaking slightly as she typed hers into his phone like she was signing her own death warrant.

"I’ll fix this," he’d told her. "Trust me."

She’d looked at him like she wanted to believe it. Like she was terrified to believe it. Like believing him might be the stupidest thing she’d ever done.

He’d kissed her forehead—gentle, tender—and walked away before either of them could ruin the moment by saying something honest.

The taxi wound through streets that got progressively wider, greener, richer—turning into estates, estates turning into kingdoms.

Phei had changed out of his ruined uniform—two buttons missing, fabric torn, smelling like Patricia’s perfume, his own sweat, and the faint metallic tang of interrupted sin. The boutique purchase sat stiff against his skin, new and uncomfortable, but at least he looked presentable.

Like a charity case-turned-god who’d learned how to fake belonging.

His bag rested beside him. Inside: the apology envelope bearing the Maxton Family seal, and a check they’d almost certainly throw in his face like it was radioactive.

Didn’t matter.

This wasn’t about the apology.

The Ashford Estate’s walls appeared first—high, long, ancient stone stretching endlessly along the road like the spine of some sleeping beast that had never truly slept. They drove for what felt like miles before the gate even came into view.

The place was fucking massive.

Old money. Older power.

The kind of wealth that didn’t need to announce itself because everyone already knew, and the ones who didn’t were already dead or broken or both.

The taxi slowed.

Stopped.

Phei paid, grabbed his bag, stepped out onto the immaculate gravel drive.

And the world shifted.

Not gently.

Not gradually.

It tore.

[DING!]

[Emergency Mission Generated!]

[Mission: In the Maws of Chaos and the Supreme Crimson Consort!]

[Objective: Survive and Exit this estate alive tonight!]

[Warning: This mission cannot be stopped.]

[Warning: The Consort has registered your presence!]

[Warning: Turn back and you might die instantly!]

[Rewards: First Superpower (details hidden), Fairy Companion!]

His heart stopped.

Not metaphorically. His heart actually stopped—one sickening lurch in his chest, a half-second of absolute silence inside his own body where the world went black and soundless—before it slammed back to life with a beat so violent he tasted blood in his mouth and felt it echo in his teeth like someone had used his ribcage as a war drum.

An aura enveloped him!

His muscles locked. Every single one. Calves, thighs, core, shoulders, jaw—frozen mid-step like someone had poured molten lead into his veins and hit fast-set.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Could only stand there, one foot still hovering above the gravel, as something noticed him.

Then came the needles.

Thousands.

Tens of thousands.

They started at the back of his neck—tiny, invisible pinpricks pressing into the skin just below his hairline.

Soft at first. Almost gentle.

Like fingertips testing the surface of water before deciding whether to drown you or drink you dry.

Then they spread.

Down his spine like ice water laced with glass shards. Across his shoulders in crawling waves. Along his arms, his ribs, his thighs—every inch of exposed and covered skin suddenly alive with that delicate, probing pressure.

Not painful. Not yet. But present. Insistent. Alive.

Like something was mapping him.

Cataloging him.