Danton Maxton was not merely having a bad day.

He was having the single most catastrophic, soul-flaying, cock-shrivelling day of his entire privileged existence—and given that his existence had once included accidentally sending a poorly lit dick pic to his grandmother's bridge-club WhatsApp complete with the caption "thinking of you", that was a towering achievement in self-inflicted misery.

And that sad so much since it wasn't Derek's little betrayal that made this day so bad.

Brett and Anderson had been prowling the halls ever since like rabid wolves with blue balls, and the rest of the Seven were eyeing each other the way men in lifeboats eye the fattest passenger. Three days, tops, before someone got knifed in the showers.

Manageable.

Traitors could be disappeared. Families had been doing it for centuries.

No, the true apocalypse had arrived in form of love and betrayal!

Danton had been watching Delilah.

He always watched Delilah.

It was like he had watched her since they were foetuses kicking in the same amniotic sac, since the obstetrician had murmured "twins" and something ancient and possessive had uncoiled in his infant chest.

He had watched her through childhood fevers and teenage growth spurts, through every laugh and tear and private midnight confession whispered across the pillow between their beds. Wrong, the world would hiss. Sick. Perverted.

Let them choke on their sanctimony.

Delilah was not his sister in the way the world demanded sisters be. She was the other half of his soul carved out and given breath, the only person whose heartbeat had once synchronised with his own inside their mother's body.

Or so he thought.

She was his mirror, his echo, his most exquisite obsession. He knew the precise cadence of her breath when she lied, the way her left eyebrow twitched when she was aroused, the exact shade her nipples flushed when she thought no one was looking.

And today, fourth period, she had been restless in a way that made his cock ache and his stomach knot.

He had seen it across the classroom: the constant glance at her phone, the restless bounce of her thigh under the desk, the way her tongue kept wetting her lower lip like she was starving.

Then she had bolted—not toward her locker, not toward the parking lot, but outside. Toward the gardens. Toward the secluded fire-pit lounge no one used after fourth period.

Danton had followed.

Of course he had followed. He followed her the way the moon follows the earth—silent, inevitable, slightly deranged.

He had taken up position behind the manicured hedges, close enough to smell her perfume on the breeze, close enough to hear the soft, needy little exhale she gave when she thought she was alone.

He had been about to step out. To play the concerned twin. To let his fingers linger a fraction too long on her wrist while he asked what was wrong. To feel her pulse jump under his thumb the way it always did when he stood too close.

And then he arrived.

Phei fucking Charity Case.

The charity-case scum Danton had spent a decade grinding under his heel for sport. The snivelling little orphan who used to flinch when Danton looked at him.

Except he did not flinch anymore.

Christ, he did not flinch.

Phei moved like a predator poured into human skin—tall, broad-shouldered, every line of him carved with a cruel, effortless perfection that made Danton's own carefully sculpted physique feel suddenly boyish.

That face—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, those obscene violet eyes that caught the light like spilled amethyst—belonged on a Renaissance statue of some war-god mid-orgasm.

Beautiful.

The word curdled on Danton's tongue like venom, but it was true. Phei was beautiful in the way a sharpened blade is beautiful: cold, lethal, impossible to look away from. The beauty that made lesser men like Danton feel hollow.

And Delilah—his Delilah, his perfect, untouched twin—looked at him like he was the answer to every filthy prayer she had ever whispered into her pillow at night.

Danton could not move. Could not breathe. Could only stand rooted behind the hedge like a pathetic voyeur while his entire universe tilted on its axis.

Watched what they talked about, until watched Phei sit.

Watched Delilah lean in, watched her pupils blow wide, watched her bite that plush lower lip until it darkened with blood.

And then—sweet fucking Christ—then like a good little girl, dropped to her knees between his spread thighs, and looked up at him with those wide, worshipful eyes that were supposed to be for Danton alone.

Watched her climb into his lap like she belonged there.

And then—God help him—he watched her kiss him.

Not a chaste sisterly peck. Not a tentative experiment for his twin's first.

A kiss that belonged in a brothel.

Deep, wet, ravenous—her mouth opening under Phei's like she was begging to be devoured, her fingers twisting viciously in his hair to drag him closer. She made a sound—a soft, desperate, cock-hungry little moan—that Danton had never heard from her lips, not once in eighteen years of obsessive cataloguing.

His heart stopped.

Actually stopped.

For one endless, agonising moment he was certain he had suffered an aneurysm, because no living organism could survive witnessing this.

But he did survive.

He survived long enough to watch Delilah's manicured hands shove Phei's blazer off his shoulders with impatient greed.

Survived long enough to watch her tear at his tie, pop the buttons of his shirt one by one like she was unwrapping the only gift she had ever truly wanted.

Survived long enough to see the bare, bronzed expanse of Phei's chest revealed—muscle shifting under skin like living marble—and to watch Delilah's palms spread over it with reverent, shaking hunger.

Survived long enough to hear her whisper—voice husky, broken, dripping with raw lust—"I need to..."

And Phei—smug, beautiful bastard—had only smiled, slow and dark, and slid one large hand up her thigh beneath her pleated skirt.

Phei had sat there with that infuriating calm, that quiet, predatory confidence, letting Delilah strip him down while his hands roamed her body—her back, her hips, her arse—like he had every goddamn right to it, like she was already his personal property to fondle and ruin.

She wasn't.

She bloody well wasn't.

She belonged to Danton.

But then Phei's hands had found the hem of her sweater, and Delilah—his fierce, untouchable Delilah—had lifted her arms like an obedient little slut, helping him peel it over her head. And there she was, straddling the orphan's lap in nothing but a scrap of lace bralette that barely contained her perfect tits, nipples already hard and straining against the sheer fabric like they were begging to be sucked.

And she was grinding on him.

Christ, the way she rolled her hips—slow, filthy circles, pressing her hot little cunt against the bulge in Phei's trousers like a bitch in heat desperate to be bred.

Danton had bitten clean through his lower lip trying not to scream.

Copper flooded his mouth as he watched his twin—his mirror, his obsession, the girl whose body he had memorised in fevered, forbidden dreams since puberty—hump the charity case like a cheap whore chasing her next fix.

He could hear her now. God help him, he could still hear her.

Those soft, broken moans spilling from her throat—sounds he had never been privileged to hear, sounds he had wanked to in the dark a thousand times imagining they were for him—now offered up freely to Phei fucking Maxton.

"Phei—"

His name.

She had moaned his name like a prayer, like a plea, like the sweetest filth.

Not Danton's.

Never Danton's.

And Phei had simply taken it—taken her—his big hands gripping her arse cheeks, spreading them, guiding her shameless in the direction Danton couldn't have the pleasure to see, saw her grinding with lazy authority while his hips rolled up to meet her, giving her exactly the hard ridge she was so desperately chasing.

Danton could imagine the words growled low against her ear, the ones he couldn't quite catch but knew in his bones:

Good girl.

Just like that.

You're mine now.

The way she had melted.

That was the knife in the gut. Not the kissing, not the shameless dry-humping, not even the obscene wet patch darkening the front of Phei's trousers where Delilah's greedy cunt had soaked through. No—it was the way proud, untouchable Delilah had gone pliant and submissive, arching into his touch like she'd been waiting her entire life for someone strong enough to own her.

She had never submitted to anyone.

Not to their father's iron rule. Not to their mother's icy expectations. Not to the parade of drooling Legacy boys who'd tried to collar her over the years.

But she submitted to him.

To the scholarship scum.

To the boy Danton had spent a decade trying to break.

He couldn't think about what came next.

He literally could not allow his mind to replay it without risking permanent psychological damage.

But the images came anyway—vivid, obscene, high-definition.

Delilah's delicate fingers tracing the outline of Phei's cock through his boxers. Her soft, shocked gasp when she felt the size of it. The way she had leaned in and nuzzled it like a kitten with a new toy, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the length, inhaling his scent like it was the finest drug.

And when she had finally—finally—freed that monstrous cock…

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