"Plus, you're mine. My people don't do half-measures. We burn down industries and build better ones or we stay home and fuck."

"But I'm only twenty-six!" she protested. "No one's going to take a twenty-six-year-old seriously as—"

"Baby." I cut her off with a look. "Charlotte's twenty-six and running a twelve-billion-dollar tech monster. Vivienne's about to turn the restaurant world into her personal empire. Madison's redesigning half of Los Angeles while still technically in high school.

"You think age matters when you pull up with tech that makes their million-dollar machines look like medieval barber tools?"

She went quiet, chewing her lip—the same lip that used to be innocent before the collective corruption harem squad got their hands on her.

Then, softer: "We'd need licenses. Regulatory approval. Insurance. Credentialing. It's a nightmare."

"ARIA?"

"Already in progress, Master," the voice chimed in like she'd been waiting for her cue. "She'll get everything I prepared when she's ready, when we're ready to start launching our companies."

Luna's jaw dropped. "She's… already…?"

"ARIA's always listening, baby. She probably started drafting the articles of incorporation the second your heart rate spiked talking about saving lives."

"Correction," ARIA interjected smoothly. "Planning initiated 4.3 seconds prior to verbalization, upon detection of elevated passion biomarkers during medical discourse."

Luna burst out laughing. "Creepy. Efficient. Terrifying like always. I love it."

Then she sobered, eyes shining again. "Peter… this could actually save lives. Real ones. Not just making people prettier or richer or hornier. Actual human lives."

"Then we do it. When you're ready... a year maybe?" I kept it simple. "Starting budget: five hundred million. Mobile units, staff recruitment, tech integration, the works."

"Five hundred million?" she squeaked.

"To start. If you burn through it in six months and need more, you ask. No questions. Luna, you're not just one of my women. You're one of the first. You were there when this was a fever dream instead of an empire. That earns you more than money."

Happy tears. The kind that make your chest ache because they're so pure.

She sniffled, wiping at her cheeks. "I told my mom I was staying with my man."

The non-sequitur almost gave me whiplash. "Yeah?"

"She wanted to meet you." A watery laugh. "I said no. Can you imagine? 'Hi Mom, this is Peter. He's seventeen, has literal supernatural sex powers, runs a secret global empire, and oh yeah—I share him with twenty-seven other women who are all hotter, smarter, and more dangerous than me. Pass the mashed potatoes?'"

I barked a laugh, pulling her in tighter as the room filled with the soft glow of fairy lights and the weight of something bigger than both of us.

Here's the dark punchline of the whole night: the most dangerous thing I've built isn't the empire, the tech, or the harem.

It's giving a soft-hearted, still-blushing twenty-six-year-old the keys to revolutionizing emergency medicine.

Because when she succeeds—and she will—people are going to live who were supposed to die.

And the world will never know the apocalypse-level chaos started because a girl in an oversized hoodie wanted to make sure no one else ever died alone in a hallway.

"By the you will be twenty-seven once we officially add Margret" I corrected, because accuracy matters when you're cataloging your own personal apocalypse.

"Oh my God, you're impossible." But she was grinning, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling like the fairy lights had migrated into her irises.

"She thinks I've joined a cult, you know."

I swept an arm around the room like a game-show host presenting the grand prize. "I mean... Charismatic teenage leader with mind-bending sex powers. Devoted followers living in a sprawling compound. Suspicious rivers of money. Group activities that would make most therapists retire early. Luna, baby, we're not just a cult—we're a premium subscription cult with excellent dental."

"Shut up!" She swatted my chest, laughing. "We're not a cult."

"We're absolutely a cult. Just the kind where the Kool-Aid is artisanal, calorie-free, and comes with multiple superior orgasms. She'll beg to join."

She kissed me again, softer this time, the kind of kiss that sneaks past your defenses and camps out in your ribcage.

"Thank you," she whispered against my lips. "For remembering me. For coming here just to talk. For the whole Liberation Medical thing. For… everything."

"Luna, you don't thank me for the bare minimum I should've been doing all along. You're mine. Taking care of what's mine isn't charity—it's basic maintenance. Like oil changes, but for feelings."

"Very romantic," she deadpanned. Look, the corruption had officially taken root; that sarcasm was pure Victoria vintage.

"You want romance? Fine." I cupped her face, thumbs brushing those still-impossible-to-resist cheeks. "Luna Valentina, you brilliant, beautiful, accidentally-filthy angel of mercy—you were my third, but you're first in the 'deserves better than my distracted ass' category. You balance wide-eyed sweetness with a growing edge that makes my brain blue-screen.

"You still blush like a Victorian maiden when I stare too long, yet you can deep-throat like you studied under Janet for a PhD in applied debauchery.

"You're about to save actual lives while looking like you stepped off a runway in designer scrubs, making every paramedic in LA question their life choices. You're perfect, and I'm sorry I haven't been screaming that from the rooftops lately."

Her face went nuclear red. Success.

"Okay," she mumbled, "that was significantly better."

"Damn right. Godly intelligence comes with upgraded poetry DLC."

"Your romance game was already lethal," she said, then hit me with the dangerous eyes—the ones that used to be pure innocence and now carried a warranty-voiding mischief warranty. "But since you're here… feeling all guilty… wanting to make amends…"

"Luna."

"I'm just observing facts! Isabella's been getting her sunrise devotionals. Madison basically has you on permanent sleepover. Even Lila got that heavy emotional download earlier today."

"I came here to talk."

"We talked! We talked revolutions, trauma bays, my mother's impending cardiac event if she ever meets you—record-breaking conversation levels!"

I laughed despite myself. These women were going to be the death of me. Slow, giggling, blissful death.

"What new trick did Victoria and Janet cram into that beautiful head?" I asked, already accepting defeat.

Her smile turned wicked—alien on her face, yet somehow hotter because of the contrast. "So many. But tonight? Tonight, I want a reminder of why I was number three. Why I torched my normal life for this glorious madness. Why I told my mom I was 'staying with my man' when the full truth would send her straight to the ER."

"And how exactly do you want that reminder delivered?"

She stood, slow and deliberate, letting the oversized hoodie slide off her shoulders and pool on the floor.

Nothing underneath. Just miles of soft skin glowing under fairy lights and a newfound confidence that hadn't existed a month ago.

Fuck. Me.

"Gently," she said quietly. "Everyone else gets Dark Lord Eros tonight. Can I just have Peter? The nervous kid who asked permission before our first kiss because he thought I was too pure to corrupt? The one who apologized after making me come the first time because he was worried he'd gone too far?"

My heart performed an unscheduled gymnastics routine.

"You sure? No ropes, no commands, no supernatural dominance bullshit?"

"Just you. Just us. Just… gentle."

I stood, pulling her into me until there wasn't room for air between us. "Gentle I can absolutely do."

"Recording emotional intimacy parameters for future reference," ARIA announced like a smug butler.

"ARIA, I will brick you into a toaster, I swear to—"

"Disconnecting local room monitoring. Enjoy your evening, Master. Luna." A pause. "Try not to cry too loudly; soundproofing is excellent but not perfect if I get bored."

Luna dissolved into giggles against my chest. "She's learning boundaries!"

"Barely," I muttered, tilting Luna's chin up. "You sure about gentle? Your corruption meter is pegged in the red these days—"

"My corruption meter," she cut in, "includes advanced emotional needs. Victoria didn't just teach me positions, Peter. She taught me that sometimes the filthiest thing you can do to someone is look them in the eyes and mean it."

Goddamn Victoria and her terrifying emotional intelligence.

I brushed my lips against Luna's forehead. "Then gentle it is, baby. Just Peter and Luna. No powers. No empire. No audience."

"Just us," she echoed, tugging me toward the bed and its plushie-strewn, fairy-light wonderland. Then, with a sly grin: "Though if you could keep, like, ten percent of the endless stamina on standby… a girl does have standards."

I laughed, letting her pull me down into the soft chaos of blankets and stuffed animals and the faint scent of strawberry shampoo. 10% my Peter Carter form was level 4, 10% is nothing.

These women—my women—were absolutely going to kill me one day.

But honestly?

What a glorious way to die.

Sometimes being a teenage god-king meant juggling billions, dodging assassins, and rewriting industries before breakfast.

And sometimes it just meant remembering that all the power in the universe is worthless if you forget to be gentle with the people who chose you when you were still figuring out how to be human.

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