My Taboo Harem!-Chapter 317: Blood on Flagstone, Pride on His Lips

"Three weeks ago, you were a charity case. A nobody. Harold Maxton’s unwanted burden. The ghost boy no one noticed, no one cared about, no one would have missed if he’d simply... vanished."

A beat.

"And now look at you. In my presence. Facing down my Consort. Negotiating for your life with threats that actually work. In three weeks, you’ve become someone whose disappearance would cause a stir."

The voice turned thoughtful.

"You’re a Ryujin Tiamat, alright. The blood runs true."

Phei didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t know why his name—his real name—mattered to someone like this apart from the old money but blood... he’d also mentioned Tiamat Bloodline before. But he filed it away. Remembered it. Added it to the growing list of mysteries he needed to solve.

"I never intended to kill you tonight."

The voice was casual now. Conversational. As if they were discussing the weather rather than Phei’s near-execution.

"The construction incident—that was a test. For my useless boys as much as for you. They failed spectacularly. Disappointing. Pathetic. But you..."

A pause.

"You emerged the winner. Intriguing. A nobody who shouldn’t have survived, who shouldn’t have mattered, suddenly becoming very interesting indeed."

The pressure shifted. Changed. Became something that wasn’t crushing anymore—something almost... appraising.

"Tonight, I wanted to see you in person. To take your measure. To understand what exactly has changed in the boy who used to be invisible."

A soft chuckle.

"And I must say, I’m amazed."

The word dripped with something between admiration and hunger.

"Your looks. Your body. That quick mind of yours. The way you didn’t break, didn’t beg, didn’t crumble even when my sword was inches from your throat. I like every inch of you."

Phei laughed—wet, ragged, bloody.

"Ew... dude. Sorry, big guy. I don’t swing that way. But I can put in a good word for you to Butler Aldrich, Brett and Anderson. Ask nicely."

The Consort’s aura flared—a spike of pure rage that cracked the stone beneath her invisible feet, sending fresh fractures racing outward like lightning.

But the One Above laughed—bright, delighted, unbothered.

"It’s nothing like that, little Tiamat."

His voice warmed further—almost affectionate.

"Nice to meet you properly, Phei Ryujin Tiamat."

A beat.

"I’ll send you a gift. Something... fitting. Consider it a welcome to the real game."

****

The void ripped open like torn silk.

One second Phei was kneeling in infinite black, blood dripping from his chin, ribs grinding with every shallow breath.

The next—

SNAP.

Reality folded. Space itself folded. The Consort’s aura lashed out one final time—not killing intent this time, but pure, petty spite—and the world inverted.

Phei’s body was yanked forward, spun, and spat out ass-first through a sudden tear in the night.

He landed hard on cold flagstone right in front of the estate’s massive wrought-iron gates.

Tailbone and ass-first.

The impact jarred up his already-fractured spine like a sledgehammer. Fresh pain exploded through his coccyx, his lower back, his cracked ribs—everything screaming at once in a white-hot symphony of agony.

He’d hit with a meaty thud, legs splayed awkwardly, palms slapping stone, breath punched out of him in a wet grunt that ended in a bloody cough.

For one humiliating heartbeat he just lay there—ass in pain, face mashed against his pride, blood and drool pooling under his cheek—while the night air hit his skin like ice water, stinging every open cut and bruise.

Melissa stood maybe five feet away—long legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded under her chest, leather jacket open over a black crop top, silver rings glinting on every finger. Her dark hair spilled loose tonight, catching the moonlight like spilled ink.

She looked exactly like she always did: dangerous, beautiful, unfairly hot.

And even through the haze of pain—ribs screaming like they were being ground in a blender, spine throbbing with every twitch, vision blurring at the edges from blood loss and whatever internal damage that void bullshit had caused—his brain latched onto the stupidest thing.

Fuck. Not like this.

Fuck... I endured all yesterday pain getting this sinful dragon-incubus-like body right. Sharper jaw. Broader shoulders. Abs you could grate cheese on. That predatory walk that finally felt like mine. Planned to stroll out like a king to her. Hair perfect. Smirk on point. Surprise her. Make her eyes go dark and hungry for my new godly body.

And here I am. Sprawled on my ass like a drunk freshman tossed out of a frat party.

He’d spent ten minutes practicing how he’ll meet her, turning himself in the bathroom mirror practicing how he’ll present this; something dangerous, something worthy of the way Melissa looked at him—like she wanted to devour him whole.

He’d planned this exit down to the last detail: hair swept back, smirking like he owned the night. Surprise her. Make her eyes darken. Make her want.

Instead he was sprawled on his ass like a drunk freshman who’d just been thrown out of a club.

"Fuckin’... Consort," he snarled under his breath, voice hoarse and ragged. He pushed up on shaking arms, every muscle trembling violently. "You’ll pay when I rail that bitchy pussy of yours into next week..."

The words came out as a vicious whisper—half growl, half promise—meant for no one but himself.

"Phei?!"

Melissa’s voice—usually low, teasing, dangerous—cracked on his name.

He tried to lift his head, tried to give her the cocky grin he’d rehearsed in the mirror a hundred times.

His arms gave out.

He collapsed forward again, cheek smacking stone, fresh blood leaking from his nose and mouth. The world tilted violently. Black spots bloomed at the edges of his vision.

Footsteps—fast, frantic—heels clicking, then the scrape of leather as she dropped to her knees beside him.

"Phei—oh my god—Phei!"

Her hands were on him instantly—gentle in a way he’d never heard her be gentle before. One palm cupped the back of his head, fingers sliding into sweat-matted hair. The other roamed his back, his sides, searching for wounds, flinching every time she felt the unnatural give of broken ribs or the wet heat of blood soaking through his torn shirt.

"Baby—talk to me—hey—look at me—"

Her voice trembled. Actually trembled.

Phei tried to speak. Managed only a wet rasp.

"S’fine... jus’... landed funny..."

Melissa made a sound—half laugh, half sob.

"You idiot," she whispered, voice thick. "You absolute fucking idiot."

She slid one arm under his shoulders, the other under his knees—lifting him with surprising ease despite his size. His head lolled against her chest. He could hear her heart hammering—fast, erratic, terrified.

"Stay with me, okay? Stay awake. You don’t get to pass out on me after pulling this shit."

She started walking—half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the waiting SUV. Every step jolted fresh pain through his body. He felt ribs grate against each other. Felt blood trickle down his side, warm and sticky.

Melissa’s breathing hitched every time she looked down at him—really looked. At the swelling purple bruises blooming across his face. At the unnatural angle of his nose. At the way his left arm hung limp, probably dislocated. At the blood soaking through his shirt in dark, spreading patches.

"Jesus, Phei... who did this to you... what did they do to you?"

Her voice cracked again—raw, motherly worry bleeding through the usual armor of sarcasm and control. Tears—actual tears—glinted in her eyes when the moonlight hit them.

She reached the SUV, kicked the back door open with one heel, and carefully—so carefully—laid him across the leather seat.

"Hold on, baby. Just hold on."

She climbed in beside him, cradling his head in her lap. One hand pressed a folded jacket against the worst of the bleeding on his side. The other stroked his hair back from his forehead—gentle, trembling fingers.

"You’re gonna be okay," she whispered, voice shaking. "You hear me? You’re too fucking pretty to die on me like this."

Phei tried to smirk. Managed only a weak twitch of his lips.

"Was... s’posed to... look cool..." he mumbled, words slurring as darkness crept in again.

Melissa laughed—wet, broken, tearful.

"You looked like a sack of potatoes getting yeeted out of hell. Still the hottest sack of potatoes I’ve ever seen."

She leaned down, pressed her lips to his forehead—soft, lingering.

"Don’t you dare pass out yet, Phei Ryujin Tiamat. I need you awake so I can yell at you properly later."

His eyelids fluttered.

The last thing he felt was her fingers tightening in his hair, her voice dropping to a fierce, tear-choked whisper:

"I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just stay with me."

Then everything went soft and black.