On the first day, it had been weird.

When he'd told Melissa about the living situation—Sierra and Maddie, both of them, crashing in his penthouse while their parents jetted off on some joint "adults-only" cruise that absolutely reeked of midlife-crisis swinger vibes—she'd lost her goddamn mind.

Full-body cackling… she had to clutch her stomach and wipe actual tears from her eyes, her tits bouncing with every hysterical gasp.

"Two of them?" she'd wheezed, collapsing back onto his bed like she'd been shot. "Two Paradise princesses fighting over you under one roof? Like a live-action season of The Bachelor but with trust funds and daddy issues?"

"They're not fighting. Exactly."

"Oh, honey." She'd patted his cheek with mock sympathy, still grinning like a shark. "They're absolutely fighting. Just with hair flips and passive-aggressive smoothie choices instead of claws. And here I thought I'd have you all to myself whenever I felt like a quick hate-fuck. But no—this is actually perfect. You'll be deep in the enemy camp now. The things they'll spill when they think you're just the hot roommate who makes good coffee..."

Phei hadn't asked what she meant by "deep in the enemy camp."

He had a sinking feeling he'd be drowning in it soon enough.

Now, four days later, Phei dropped his training bag in the closet of his penthouse bedroom and let out a long, slow sigh that came from the depths of his exhausted soul.

The bag hit the floor with a defeated thump. His muscles ached in that deeply satisfying way—the burn of progress, the proof that the rust was finally flaking off, that his body was remembering how to be a weapon again.

He needed a shower. Badly. Sweat had dried in salty streaks down his back.

He needed food. Protein. Carbs. Anything that wasn't the chalky shake Kieran had forced on him post-workout.

He needed—

"Welcome home, Darling~"

Oh, for fucking hell.

Phei turned around slowly, every instinct already screaming trap.

Maddie was sprawled in the doorway of his bedroom like a living wet dream engineered specifically to ruin men. His bedroom. In his penthouse.

Wearing nothing but his favorite dark-grey tee—the obscenely soft one he'd dropped serious money on because it felt like sin against his skin—now draped over her lush, dangerous curves like the world's most criminal mini-dress. On him it fell mid-thigh; on her shorter, filthier frame, the hem barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, teasing the promise of bare cunt with every breath.

And underneath?

Absolutely fucking nothing worth mentioning.

He knew it was the thinnest scrap of black lace thong because when she shifted—slow, deliberate, hips rolling like she was already riding something invisible—the shirt rode up just enough to flash that wicked little string vanishing between the most obscene, mouth-watering ass he'd ever tried not to stare at. Two perfect, plump globes, tanned golden and tight enough to bounce a coin off, jiggling faintly with the movement, the lace barely a suggestion as it disappeared into that deep, shadowed cleft. That ass always made him consider very bad decisions each time she flashed it to him.

Her legs were bare, thick thighs brushed with the faint sheen of lotion, curving down into calves that flexed as she balanced on the balls of her feet.

Toenails painted wet, demonic crimson, like she'd dipped them in fresh blood just to watch him imagine it somewhere else.

Her tits—Jesus fucking Christ—strained the soft cotton, heavy and high, nipples already hard as bullets and poking shamelessly through the fabric, dark shadows under the thin material that left nothing to imagination.

The shirt gaped at the neck from her smaller shoulders, flashing the upper swells of those lush, teardrop breasts every time she breathed, the inner curves glistening faintly like she'd rubbed oil there just to make them shine.

Her hair was a tousled, just-fucked mess of dark waves cascading over one shoulder, lips painted the same cock-sucking red as her toes, parted slightly like she was already panting for it.

Eyes heavy-lidded, pupils blown, cheeks flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the room temperature.

Everything about her screamed calculated, dripping chaos—a walking invitation to hell wrapped in his own goddamn shirt.

"Maddie."

"Phei~" She dragged his name out like she was tasting it on her tongue, voice low and syrupy, laced with pure filth.

One hand trailed lazily down her stomach, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt, lifting it just a fraction higher—enough to flash the tiny black triangle of lace barely covering her mound, the fabric already darkened with a telltale wet spot that made his cock twitch traitorously in his pants.

She smirked, slow and victorious, like she could smell his restraint cracking from across the room.

"Miss me, big bad-hot-play-hard-to-get brother?"

He sighed again. Deeper. The sigh of a man who had stared into the abyss of his new living situation and realized the abyss was wearing his clothes and smirking at him.

"What are you doing in my room?"

"Waiting for you, obviously." She pushed off the doorframe, sauntering inside like she owned the place. Which, technically, her family could probably buy ten times over, but that wasn't the point. "Sierra's in the shower. Something about 'needing to wash off the peasant sweat from hot yoga.' Her words, not mine."

She flopped onto his bed… this time more teasingly—his bed—sprawling across it diagonally like a starfish claiming territory. The shirt rode up further. Dangerously further.

Phei averted his eyes to the ceiling. Counted to five. Wondered if ascetic monks had to deal with this level of temptation or if he'd drawn the short straw in the universe's cosmic joke.

"You can't just... camp out in here wearing that."

"Wearing what?" She stretched languidly, arms overhead, back arching in a way that made the shirt strain across her chest. "Your shirt? It smelled like you. I missed you. Sue me."

"You missed me so much you stole my clothes and turned my bedroom into a burlesque stage?"

"Exactly." She propped herself up on her elbows, grinning that sharp, wicked grin that promised trouble and delivered it gift-wrapped.

"Also, fair warning—Sierra's been stress-cleaning the kitchen for an hour. Something about 'someone left oat milk out again' and 'if I have to smell Maddie's kale smoothie one more time I'm committing homicide.'"

Phei pinched the bridge of his nose.

Four days.

It had been four days.

And his penthouse had already become a glittering war zone of perfume, passive aggression, and lingerie that definitely wasn't his.

He was living in a harem rom-com directed by a sadistic demon.

And the worst part?

His traitorous soul and cock of him were enjoying the chaos.

God help him.

"You're really not going back to your mansion, are you?"

She laughed—bright, musical, the kind of laugh that had probably launched a thousand therapy bills and ruined countless lesser men—and skipped forward with that playful, hyperactive energy that should come with a government warning label.

Before Phei could even twitch, she was behind him, arms snaking around his torso, body molding to his back like she was custom-made to fit there.

Her full, heavy breasts crushed against him—warm, soft, and impossibly plush—pressing into his sweat-damp shirt with deliberate weight. The thin fabric of his stolen tee did nothing to hide how perfectly they squished against his shoulder blades, nipples already hard little points dragging slowly across his back as she shifted closer, sending a bolt of pure heat straight to his groin.

His dragon surged awake instantly, thick and heavy, straining against his gym shorts like it had been starving for exactly this.

Traitorous, greedy bastard.

"Not until my parents come back from their trip," she murmured against his shoulder blade, breath hot and damp through the soaked fabric of his workout shirt. "And physically drag me home kicking and screaming. Until then..."

Her fingers danced across his chest, light and teasing, tracing the ridges of muscle like she was reading braille written in sweat and effort. "I'm all yours, honey-bean."

Phei stood very, very still.

He was rank. He knew it. Hours of grinding on cracked concrete, sprinting drills, shirt plastered to him with the kind of sweat that smelled like hard work and mild desperation. He reeked of gym and exertion and guys who still called him "Ringer and Pretty Boy."

Maddie didn't care.

In fact—

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