Do.

The word crystallized in Phei's mind like molten steel cooling into an unbreakable blade.

Sierra's fingers were already brushing her collar, poised to rip it open, to bare those perfect braless tits for a split-second of calculated chaos before the scream that would brand him a predator forever.

But Phei was already moving.

Not away.

Not around.

Straight through her.

His legs launched him forward with predatory certainty, three long strides devouring the space between them like he owned every inch of marble under his feet. His muscles burned from the morning's brutal workout, but the pain only fueled the fire roaring in his veins.

The Dragon was awake—thick, heavy, insistent between his thighs—and it demanded dominance.

The look on Sierra's face as he closed the distance was delicious.

Confusion first. Then dawning uncertainty. Then the first genuine flicker of fear as her perfect trap began to crumble in real time.

She had expected him to freeze. To stammer. To shrink. To be the same broken charity boy who would apologize for existing in her air.

She had not expected him to stalk toward her like the hallway belonged to him. Like she belonged to him.

Main character energy didn't even begin to cover it.

This was apex-predator energy. The kind that made lesser animals go still, made crowds part without a word, made the entire universe lean in to watch what happened when the Dragon finally bared its teeth.

He stopped inches from her. Close. Obscenely close.

Close enough that she had to crane her elegant neck to hold his gaze, those ice-blue eyes forced to look up at him—taller, broader, radiating a heat that made her designer heels feel suddenly inadequate.

Her composure fractured. A hairline crack at first, then a spiderweb spreading across that flawless mask.

Before she could seal it, before her pride could rally, Phei moved.

He reached out and took her hand.

Her skin was silk over porcelain—soft, pampered, untouched by anything rougher than a champagne flute. The hand of a girl who'd spent her life being served, never serving.

He wrapped his fingers around hers with deliberate, unhurried possession. Not asking. Not waiting.

Just claiming.

Then he pulled.

Not violently. Not yet. Just inexorably.

The casual, absolute confidence of a man who already knew she would obey.

Sierra stumbled forward one helpless step, then another, her body surrendering to his pull before her mind could scream protest.

Suddenly she was pressed flush against him—those firm, braless tits crushed to his chest, hard nipples scraping through thin cotton against his school shirt; her flat stomach against the rigid line of his Dragon already straining, thick and unmistakable, against his slacks; her hips trapped by the subtle roll of his.

The entire hallway went dead silent.

Her four minions froze mid-predatory glide, mouths open, eyes wide—pretty statues watching their queen get taken.

Phones hung limp in students' hands. Brett's smirk died on his face. Anderson's recording finger hovered uselessly. Even Danton's cold gray eyes narrowed, the first hint of real unease cracking his smug control.

No one moved.

No one dared breathe.

Just Phei and Sierra locked together in the center of the storm, her perfume drowning in the raw, masculine heat rolling off him.

"W-what—" The word cracked out of her throat, strangled and small. The venom she tried to inject fizzled into something fragile, almost pleading. "What do you think you're doing?"

Her voice shook. The queen bitch of Ashford Elite, reduced to a whisper that trembled against his collarbone.

Phei's smile was slow, dark, predatory. The kind that promised ruin and made slick heat pool between pretty thighs even as fear spiked.

He leaned in, bending until his lips brushed the shell of her ear—close enough that his warm breath sent an involuntary shiver racing down her spine, tightening those traitor nipples even harder against him.

"I'm making your work easy," he growled, voice low and rough, vibrating through her body like a physical touch.

His free hand rose—slow, deliberate—and settled at the base of her throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just resting there, thumb stroking once along the frantic pulse hammering under her jaw. A silent reminder: I could. And you'd let me.

The Charm Speech flowed through his voice like thick, dark honey—slow, warm, laced with venom and velvet, sinking straight into her blood and making her cunt clench whether she wanted it to or not.

He felt it working, felt the way her body melted against his even as her pride screamed for her to fight.

"Isn't this what you came here for?" he continued, voice dropping lower, more intimate, a filthy caress against her ear. "Didn't you come to humiliate me? To shove those pretty, perfect tits—" he let the crude word linger, deliberate and degrading, watching her pupils blow wide— "right up against me, to spread those long legs under that tiny skirt and give yourself the flimsiest excuse to feel something?"

Sierra's breath hitched hard, a sharp little gasp that betrayed her. Her ice-blue eyes went huge, lips parting on a sound she couldn't quite swallow.

"Didn't you plan to scream? To cry assault? To play the trembling little victim so you could finally get what you really wanted?"

She tried to jerk back, pure instinct overriding everything, but the cold wall met her spine with a soft thump. Nowhere to run. Phei still held her hand in an iron grip, his body caging hers, his heat and scent and sheer presence swallowing her whole.

"How—" The single word cracked out of her, fragile and lost, dying in the air between them.

Her clique finally snapped out of their stupor. The blonde—over-made-up, under-brained—stormed forward with righteous fury blazing in her eyes.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're—"

Phei turned only his head.

Just his head. His body stayed pinned to Sierra's, chest to those straining tits, the thick ridge of his Dragon grinding slow and deliberate against her lower belly.

But his amethyst eyes locked onto the blonde and the Dominance Aura exploded outward like a physical force, a silent roar that slammed into her chest and stole her breath.

"I'm talking to your boss," he said, voice flat and cold, absolute authority dripping from every syllable. "Back. The. Fuck. Off."

The blonde's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. Her charge halted as if she'd hit a brick wall. She actually staggered back a step, face draining of color, thighs pressing together involuntarily as the aura rolled over her like a command to kneel.

The other three didn't even try. They stood rooted, eyes wide, nipples visibly peaking under their uniforms, bodies betraying them with the same helpless heat now flooding Sierra.

Down the hall, Brett's fists were white-knuckled, jaw clenched so tight it looked ready to crack—but he didn't move. Didn't dare. The aura reached even him, a distant thunder that made his balls draw up and his bravado shrivel.

Phei turned back to Sierra.

She was plastered against the wall now, burgundy scarf twisted and hanging loose, that perfect ice-queen mask shattered into glittering shards.

Her chest heaved with frantic, shallow breaths, dragging those braless tits against his torso with every inhale, nipples so hard they ached through the thin cotton.

He took the hand he still controlled and raised it slowly—deliberately—above her head. Then the other, capturing both her slender wrists in one hand and pinning them high against the wall.

The stretch arched her back, thrusting her chest forward like an offering. Her perfect breasts strained obscenely against the half-open shirt, fabric pulling so tight he could see the shadowed outline of areolas, the stiff peaks begging for teeth.

And then they made contact—full, deliberate contact.

Her pushed-up tits crushed against his chest. He might not have bulk muscle yet, but he had height, heat, and raw presence.

The thin layers between them did nothing to hide the electric friction of her nipples dragging across him, nothing to mask the way her body shuddered violently at the pressure.

Sierra trembled—a full, helpless ripple from throat to thighs, her hips rolling forward once, involuntarily, seeking friction against the iron bar of his cock.

"Cat got your tongue?" Phei murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear, voice pitched for her alone in a dark, intimate growl. "The great Sierra Montgomery, speechless? That's not like you, princess."

"I—you can't—this isn't—"

"What was the plan, Sierra?" He cut her off smoothly, tone almost conversational even as he ground his hips forward once—slow, claiming—letting her feel exactly how hard dominating her had made him.

"Surround me. Get close. Rip that shirt open and scream that the dirty charity boy groped you. Your little puppets would swear to every lie. The whole school would watch me get dragged away for daring to touch the untouchable Sierra Montgomery."

Her face went ashen, lips bloodless.

"And then what? Bathroom duty? Suspension? Expulsion?" He leaned closer, breath hot against her throat, lips grazing the frantic pulse there. "That was never the real point, was it? Punishment was just the excuse. You didn't give a fuck what happened to me. No Sierra!"

He pulled back just enough to spear her with his gaze, amethyst eyes burning.

"You wanted Marcus to see."

The name landed like a slap. Her whole body jerked, pinned wrists twisting uselessly in his grip, eyes flooding with humiliated tears she couldn't blink away.

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