But he didn't say it. Because arguing with Maddie was like arguing with a golden retriever on Viagra—she'd just keep bouncing back, tail wagging, humping your leg harder, tongue lolling, teeth bared in that manic grin completely unaffected by logic, consequences, or the word "no."

Except—hold the fuck up.

He didn't live in the Maxton mausoleum anymore. Hadn't for a week. Penthouse paradise, Melissa's black-card magic, Harold clueless as a trust-fund toddler.

So why the hell was he still jumping when that old bastard snapped?

So why the fuck was he still jumping through Harold's hoops like a trained circus animal?

Because you're broken in, that exhausted voice in his head sneered. Ten years of getting whipped into shape doesn't vanish overnight. Because if you flip him off now, he'll start digging—and he'll find the leash Melissa's got wrapped around your balls.

His phone buzzed again. Melissa.

Maddie's eyes snapped to his pocket, sharpening like knives, and her grip clamped down harder on his remaining wrist, nails biting in as if she could crush the phone—and whatever slut was on the other end—through sheer spite.

"Ignore it."

"I can't—"

"Ignore. It." She seized his jaw with her free hand, fingers gouging into his cheeks hard enough to bruise, yanking his face to hers. No teasing caress. No flirty bullshit.

Pure, raw command. "I'm standing right here, dripping for you, hot as fucking sin—and we both know you'd kill to bury yourself balls-deep in me, pussy throbbing like a second heartbeat—and you're stressing swan fanfic

Those Caribbean-blue eyes raked his face, confidence cracking just enough to show the frantic hunger underneath—like a spoiled princess realizing her throne might be slipping.

"What does she have that I don't? Sierra. What makes that prissy little virgin so goddamn special that you'd drop everything to run to her, but you won't spare ten minutes to bend me over this lab table and fuck me senseless?"

Submission, Phei thought, cock twitching traitorously at the memory. She gives me total, filthy submission. She drops to her knees the second I snap my fingers. She begs—actually begs—to be mine. She hands over every ounce of control because she craves someone strong enough to rip it away.

You? You'd claw and bite and ride me like you're trying to win a goddamn wrestling match. And fuck yes, I'd love breaking you eventually—pinning you down, making you scream my name until you forget how to fight—but right now? I won't be playing some games you're in with Sierra since young.

The Competition

Still, something in her face hooked him.

Not just the raw lust blazing in those eyes—though Christ, it was scorching. But deeper, buried under the bravado: desperation. A wild, cornered-animal panic. Like a woman thrashing in deep water, lungs burning, who'd just spotted a jagged piece of driftwood and was willing to bleed to reach it.

"Why?"

The question slipped out before he could cage it.

Maddie blinked, thrown. "Why what?"

"Why me?" He leaned back against the lab table, arms folded, studying her like prey. "Seven days ago I was invisible. Wallpaper. The pathetic scholarship rat your clique used for homework answers and locker-shoving entertainment."

He waved a hand down his body—the new, sculpted frame, the face that now turned heads instead of stomachs.

"Sure, I look like walking sex now. But inside? Still the same loser who scrubbed your friends' puke off toilets and took bullying like a good little bitch, right? So, level with me, Maddie. What's the real play here? Trying to bag the upgraded charity case for bragging rights?"

She stared, lips parted. Then—unexpectedly—she laughed.

Not her usual hallway cackle, all volume and performance. This was low, bitter, edged with something dark and delicious.

"You seriously don't get it, do you?"

"Try me."

Maddie sauntered to a lab stool, perched on it, and crossed those long, toned legs—skirt hiking up high enough to flash lace and smooth thigh. She didn't adjust it. Definitely wanted his eyes there.

He looked. Dragon, not saint. His gaze dragged over her like hands.

"Sierra and I go back to finger paints and juice boxes. Since five." she started, inspecting her nails—flawless, obscene-money pink, matching the gloss on her cock-sucking lips.

"Same galas, same country clubs, same everything. And we've been at war since day one. Better dress, higher score, more broken hearts at the dance. It was... fun. Having a worthy opponent. Someone who actually bled when you cut her."

"Touching. Get to me."

She shot him a glare. "Patience is a virtue, asshole."

"I've got apology letters to fake."

"Fuck your letters." She flicked the words away like cigarette ash. "This matters more."

Phei arched a brow but shut up. He was hooked now, dick half-hard and curiosity fully engaged.

"A years ago," she went on, "Sierra lost her mind over Marcus. You know the type—old money, jawline carved by God, charm that makes panties evaporate."

Phei grunted. Everyone knew Marcus. Walking wet dream for all girls in boat shoes.

"She was obsessed. Giggling over hallway smiles like a twelve-year-old. And—get this—she was saving herself for him. Ice-queen Sierra Montgomery, legs welded shut for goddamn years, waiting for Prince Charming to propose before he'd even finger her."

A cruel little laugh. "Pathetic, right? All that buildup for a fairy-tale cock that never came."

Phei stayed quiet. He'd popped that cherry himself, but the backstory? New. Poor Sierra—building a cathedral for a ghost.

"So naturally," Maddie said, smile turning razor-sharp, "I did what any best friend would do. I got my own boyfriend. Had to keep pace, you know?"

"To one-up her."

"Duh." She shrugged, unashamed. "If she was landing Paradise's golden boy, I needed arm candy too. Someone hot enough to sting, but not elite enough for direct comparison."

"Downtown import. Renard, right?"

Her eyes flashed—surprised he knew. "Eavesdropping already?"

"I hear screams."

More like his network did. Renard Ashworth—decent looks, newer money, completely pussy-whipped.

"Renard's... adequate," she said, voice flat as cardboard. "Sweet. Obedient. Drops to his knees the second I snap." A beat. "But he couldn't find my friend's clit even with GPS and a flashlight. She faked more orgasms with him than I have fingers. Toys, dirty talk, every position in the Kama Sutra—and nothing. Like she was fucking a very eager golden retriever. All slobber, no spark."

Phei smirked. "Sounds like operator error."

"It's not." She leaned in, eyes blazing, voice dropping to a husky growl. "I know exactly what gets me off. Rough hands. Teeth on my throat. Someone who'll shove me against a wall and rail me until I forget my own name. I want to be broken."

Christ.

His cock stirred harder, imagining doing just that—flipping her over this stool, yanking that skirt up, spanking her ass red before pounding into her until she sobbed for mercy.

"Still waiting for the part where I star in this tragedy drama."

"I'm there, drama queen." She shot to her feet, pacing like a caged panther, all restless, sexual energy. "I was biding my time with boring Renard, waiting for Sierra to seal the deal with Marcus so I could dump his ass and upgrade. Then Marcus started ghosting her—plans crumbling, princess in free fall. I thought: freedom at last. I wanted him to break her heart and we'd be single again; together!"

She stopped dead. Pinned him with a stare like accusation.

"But then you showed up."

Like he'd personally cockblocked her entire existence. Like his sudden, impossible hotness was a crime against her libido.

And honestly? He was starting to enjoy the prosecution.

"One day you're nobody," Maddie spat, voice cracking like a whip made of pure envy. "The charity case. The invisible little worm we all forgot was even breathing. And the next day you're... this."

She raked her gaze over him—slow, filthy, like she was already stripping him naked in her head. Up and down, lingering on his chest, his abs, the bulge in his pants that hadn't quite settled since she'd started grinding this conversation into pure sin.

"Strutting around like you own the hallways. Looking at everyone like they're ants under your shoe. And Sierra—"

Her voice snagged, raw and ugly, like jealousy had teeth and was chewing her throat from the inside.

"Sierra started vanishing. Lunch. After school. Between classes—like a fucking ghost with a dick appointment. I grilled our girls—we share everything, you know—and they spilled. The music room. The sounds leaking under the door. Her little whimpers turning into screams."

She quit pacing. Planted herself right in his space, close enough he could smell her—expensive perfume mixed with the sharp, unmistakable tang of her wet pussy.

"And then I saw the video."

There it is.

The kill shot.

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