Her nostrils flared.

Her eyes went half-lidded, unfocused, pupils blown wide like she'd been slipped something strong and illegal. A soft, involuntary shudder rolled through her body.

She inhaled again.

Deep. Greedy. Desperate.

Her chest lifted sharply, those heavy tits straining the cashmere to its absolute limit, nipples dragging visibly against the fabric as she pulled his scent into her lungs like it was pure oxygen and she'd been drowning for years.

Another inhale—longer, hungrier, her throat working visibly, lips parting on a silent gasp as the smell hit her bloodstream.

Her thighs clenched hard together under the tiny skirt, a faint tremor running through her legs, the lace stocking tops pulling taut.

Phei had never understood this reaction.

He didn't wear cologne—never had the money before, never bothered after. Just plain soap, plain shampoo, whatever was stocked in Sovereign Tower. No scented bullshit.

But every woman who got this close did the same thing.

Sierra buried her face in his neck and breathed him in like addiction, moaning into his skin. Maddie had pressed her nose to his chest their first night and whispered "what the fuck is that?" with glazed, worshipful eyes. Even Melissa—his own aunt—had lingered too long, nostrils flaring when he hugged her.

Only Maya fought it, but he'd caught her leaning in, twitching, before pulling back with flushed cheeks.

Now Delilah was lost to it.

Her eyes glazed over completely, lashes fluttering as another deep inhale made her sway on her feet. A soft, broken whimper escaped her throat—raw, needy. Her chest heaved faster, tits rising and falling in hypnotic rhythm, nipples so hard they looked painful under the sweater.

A fresh flush crawled down her throat and disappeared into her cleavage.

Whatever invisible pheromone he had, it was working overtime on her.

"You want something from me," Phei said quietly, voice low and steady, watching her unravel. "But you came here thinking you could still run the show. Set the stage. Play princess and make me perform."

Her breath was coming in shaky pants now—each inhale dragging more of him into her lungs, each exhale trembling out like she was barely holding together. Her thighs squeezed tighter, skirt riding higher, the faint scent of her arousal mixing with the fire's smoke.

"I didn't—" Her voice cracked, breathy and wrecked. She swallowed hard, tried again. "I wasn't—"

"You were." He reached up slowly.

She went completely still—frozen, not even breathing—as his fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear with deliberate care.

The touch was light. Barely there.

Her reaction was anything but.

A full-body shudder ripped through her—violent, visible, starting at his fingertips and exploding down her spine. Her eyes fluttered shut, a desperate, filthy sound escaping her throat—half-moan, half-whimper, raw and involuntary.

Her knees buckled slightly; she swayed toward him like gravity had shifted. Her chest heaved harder, tits straining the sweater with every ragged breath, nipples dragging against lace beneath the cashmere in tortured friction.

"I'm not the charity case anymore, Delilah," he said, voice calm, almost gentle, as he watched the storm, he'd created rage inside her. "I don't take orders from Maxtons. I don't sit when told. I don't accept scraps."

His hand settled on the side of her neck—warm, possessive, thumb pressing lightly over her hammering pulse. She leaned into the touch instantly, a soft, broken sound vibrating under his palm.

"If you want something from me," he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of her ear, "you ask. Beg, if you have to. Be honest about how fucking desperate you are. And maybe—if you're a good girl—I'll give it to you."

Her lips parted—eyes hazy, drugged, lost. She was intoxicated on him—his scent, his touch, his presence—abilities working her without mercy.

"And Delilah?"

"…Yes? Yes, Phei?" Barely a whisper, trembling.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

"If you ever treat me like that boy again—if you summon me, command me, try to put me in my place—I walk. And I don't come back. No matter how many times you finger that pretty cunt thinking about me."

A desperate, needy sound tore from her throat—raw, pleading.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," she breathed, tears glistening. "I understand… please—"

He released her.

Stepped back.

Watched her sway, body leaning forward like it physically hurt to lose his touch.

And then she shattered.

"No—" The word ripped out of her, raw and panicked. "No, please—don't go—I'm sorry—I didn't mean it—I won't do it again, I swear—just please—"

She lunged—both hands grabbing his arm, fingers digging in like claws, nails biting through his shirt as she clung desperately.

"Please don't leave," she begged, voice cracking, tears spilling now—real tears, mascara starting to run in black streaks. "I'll ask—I'm asking—I'm begging, Phei, please—"

"What are you begging for?"

"I don't—" She shook her head frantically, tears flying. "I don't know—I just need—please stay. I'll do anything. I'll be good. I won't command you ever again, I—just please—"

She was babbling, unraveling completely—the perfect Maxton princess reduced to a desperate, clinging mess.

"Please stay," she whispered, pulling harder on his arm, body pressing close again. "I can't think when you're gone and I can't stop when you're here and I'm going insane and please, please, please—"

Phei looked down at her—this girl who'd tormented him for years, now broken and begging, clinging to him like he was her lifeline.

Revenge should have tasted sweet.

Instead, it did not.

"Sit down," he said, voice softer now.

She flinched. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to order you before—"

"I'm not mad at you," he cut in gently. "I'm telling you to sit, Delilah. Because I'm going to sit too."

Her eyes widened—confusion cutting through the desperation.

"You're… staying?"

"I'm staying."

Delilah stood there, uncertain, still clutching his arm like a lifeline. Phei expected her to sit beside him—close but composed, maybe across to keep some illusion of control.

She did neither.

Instead, she looked at him—really looked, something raw and irreversible shifting behind those wide cognac eyes—and sank slowly to her knees.

Phei went completely still.

He hadn't thought or commanded it. Hadn't even suggested it. But there she was: the untouchable Maxton princess on the cold stone ground, skirt riding high enough to expose the lace tops of her stockings and the trembling pale skin above, her manicured hands sliding down to grip his calves like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go.

"Is this okay?" she whispered, voice small and shaking, looking up at him through wet lashes.

Gods, the sight of her—Delilah Maxton on her knees, mascara already smudged into faint black streaks, eyes glistening with unshed tears, full lips parted and trembling, the firelight painting gold across her flushed cheeks and the deep cleavage straining her cashmere sweater.

Right between his spread legs.

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