Phei returned from his exercises to find her awake.

Not moving—fuck no, she couldn't move a single muscle below the neck without fireworks of delicious agony exploding between her thighs—but awake.

Propped against the headboard with a fortress of pillows behind her, phone in those elegant, trembling hands, the white sheets tangled low around her hips, leaving her glorious upper body completely bare in the golden morning light pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She looked like a Renaissance masterpiece titled; Freshly Fucked Goddess Recovering From Being Split Open By A Dragon Cock.

That was the thing about Sierra that the world never saw behind the Hell Bitch Queen armor—the razor tongue, the death-glare that could castrate a man at twenty paces. They missed this: the way she still held herself like royalty even when her cunt was swollen, leaking, and probably bruised in the shape of his name.

Spine perfectly straight, chin tilted in regal defiance, scrolling through her phone with the poise of someone who'd been taught since birth never to let the peasants see you sweat—even when your womb is still fluttering from the eighth orgasm of the night and your thighs are glued together with dried come.

Poised. Elegant.

A queen holding court from her throne of ruined sheets.

Or a very expensive, very bratty princess who'd just discovered her new favorite hobby was getting railed until she forgot her own last name.

She looked up as he entered, still in his soaked workout clothes, sweat carving rivers down the ridges of muscle that were still swelling, still growing monstrous under the Dragon's influence.

Those starry dangerous eyes dragged over him—chest, arms, the obscene bulge in his shorts that hadn't fully gone down even after an hour of deadlifts—and something molten and starving flickered across her face.

"You're disgusting," she announced, voice husky from screaming his name into a pillow at 3 a.m.

"Good morning to you too, princess."

"You smell like a gym full of testosterone and bad decisions."

"That's because I was at one. Lifting heavy things. Thinking about how tight you were when you came on my tongue the fourth time."

"At—" She flicked her gaze to her phone. "Six in the morning? On a Saturday? After you fucked me unconscious?"

Phei shrugged, grabbing a towel and dragging it slowly across his throat, watching her pupils blow wide. "My routine doesn't take days off. Neither does this cock, apparently."

"A routine—" She shook her head, exasperation warring with open lust. "You're insane."

"Certified."

He stalked toward the bed, and she tracked every step like a predator who'd just realized she was actually the prey.

Her gaze kept dropping—to the thick outline straining his shorts, to the veins in his forearms, to the sweat glistening on skin she'd clawed red only hours ago—and her thighs pressed together under the sheet with a faint, wet sound that made his cock twitch.

Phei stopped at the edge of the mattress, towering over her.

"How do you feel?"

Sierra's ice-queen mask fractured. A deep, traitorous flush crawled up her throat and over those perfect tits, nipples still puffy and dark from his teeth, little bruises blooming around the areolas like hickeys from a very enthusiastic vampire.

"Fine," she lied through her teeth.

"Liar."

"I'm fine."

"You haven't moved in two hours."

"I was comfortable."

"You're in the exact same position I left you in—legs splayed like a broken doll, sheets glued to your cunt with my come."

"Maybe I like this position."

Phei arched a brow. Waited.

Sierra lasted exactly four seconds before her shoulders sagged and she let out the most wounded, dramatic sigh known to mankind.

"I can't walk," she confessed, voice tiny and furious. "I tried to get up to pee and my legs just… folded. Everything down there is on strike. My pussy is staging a full rebellion. I'm crippled. You crippled me with that monster dick."

She delivered the accusation with such aristocratic outrage—like her own body had committed high treason—that Phei had to clamp down hard on a laugh.

"Is that funny to you?" she snapped, catching the twitch of his mouth. "I'm paralyzed from the waist down. You turned my legs into jelly and my cunt into a crime scene."

"I was gentle," he said, grinning now.

"You were relentless."

"You came eight times."

"Nine," she corrected instantly, then went scarlet as she realized she'd been keeping count out loud. "That's not the point! The point is I'm a broken, leaking mess and it's entirely your fault and you're standing there looking like the cat who ate the canary and then fucked it to death!"

She was breathtaking when she ranted—all that regal composure splintering, cheeks flushed, tits heaving, nipples hard as diamonds again just from arguing with him. Passionate, dramatic, so fucking alive it made his chest tight.

"I'm not smug," Phei said mildly.

"You're radiating smug. It's pouring off you like sweat."

"I'm… satisfied."

"That's smug with extra steps!"

He let the grin break free, slow and filthy.

"What do you need help with, princess?"

The fight drained out of her like air from a popped balloon. Her expression softened into something raw and vulnerable that punched him straight in the sternum. She glanced down at her hands—nails chipped from clawing his back, faint finger-shaped bruises on her wrists—then back up at him through thick lashes.

"I want a bath," she said quietly. "I feel… thoroughly used. In the best possible way. But I'm sticky and sore and I can smell you and myself on my thighs and—" She bit her lip. "And I can't get there alone."

"Poor little rich girl," he teased. "Can't walk after one night of decent dick."

Her eyes flashed. "Decent Dick, he says. Try monster. Carry me."

"Say please."

"Carry me now."

"That wasn't please."

"I am Sierra Montgomery," she declared, chin high even as her voice wobbled with need. "I don't say please."

Phei leaned in until his lips brushed her ear, voice dropping to a growl that made her shiver.

"Then I guess you're staying right here, princess. Marinating in my come a little longer. Maybe I'll go make coffee and come back to find you humping the pillow because you're still too empty."

She made a strangled sound—half fury, half desperate moan—and the scent of fresh arousal bloomed in the air like perfume.

Phei set the pillow down on the bed with exaggerated care, like he was handling fragile evidence. Then, very deliberately, he turned on his heel and started sauntering toward the bathroom, letting every step scream I can do this all morning.

"Wait—where the hell are you going?"

"To take a shower. Alone. Since Her Royal Highness doesn't need my peasant hands."

"Phei!"

He didn't even slow down.

"Phei, get your smug ass back here right now!"

He reached the bedroom door, nudged it open with one shoulder, and let the soft blue glow from the hidden LEDs spill out like an invitation to a very exclusive club she wasn't getting into.

"PHEI, MY LOVE, DON'T YOU DARE—"

He paused at the threshold, glanced back with the laziest smirk in his arsenal.

Sierra was half-risen from the bed like a furious mermaid hauled onto land, sheets clutched desperately to those perfect, bruised tits, legs hopelessly tangled in the covers she'd tried—and catastrophically failed—to kick free. Her hair was a wild, sex-mussed halo.

She looked utterly, adorably, furiously wrecked—and so helpless it took every ounce of his control not to laugh out loud.

"Please," she ground out through clenched teeth, like the word was a molar being yanked without anesthesia.

"Please what, princess?"

"Please… carry me. To the bath." Each syllable cost her a year of her life. "You insufferable, arrogant, cocky, infuriating—"

Phei crossed the room in three long strides, ripped the covers away like he was unveiling a masterpiece, and scooped her up before she could finish the insult.

Sierra yelped—an actual, high-pitched, mortified yelp that he was absolutely storing in the vault for future blackmail—and her arms shot around his neck like instinct overrode pride.

"You could have warned me—"

"Where's the fun in that? Besides, you're cute when you squeak."

She was lighter than air in his arms. Or maybe the Dragon Routine had turned him into something superhuman; either way, carrying Sierra felt like holding warm silk and bad decisions.

Her naked body pressed flush to his sweat-damp chest, thighs slick where they brushed his ribs, the sticky remnants of last night's multiple loads still leaking slow and obscene from her swollen cunt onto his forearm.

The scent of sex clung to her like expensive perfume—his come, her arousal, sweat, and that faint cedar note from the sheets.

"I hate you," she muttered into his shoulder, lips brushing skin.

"No you don't."

"I hate you so much."

"You're dripping on me again. You're Welcome."

"I didn't say thank you!"

"You were about to. It was right there on the tip of your tongue—probably next to where my cock was an hour ago."

He carried her through the seamless pocket door into the master bathroom, and even mid-rant Sierra went suddenly, breathlessly quiet.

Morning light flooded the space like liquid gold—pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows and the massive circular skylight, turning white marble into something almost holy. The hidden LEDs had shifted to warm amber, dancing across trailing pothos and bird-of-paradise shadows. Cedar and eucalyptus steamed gently from the diffusers, thick enough to taste.

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