"You wanted him to watch you being 'assaulted' by a charity chase. Wanted him to see you helpless, vulnerable, tits out and trembling." His voice dripped contempt and dark amusement.

"You thought if he finally saw you as the damsel—scared, violated, needy—he'd step in. Play the hero. Sweep you up and hug the trauma away like the knight you've been dripping for all term."

Sierra's breath sobbed out, wet and broken. Her thighs pressed together, a tiny, desperate clench as shame and unwanted arousal crashed through her in equal measure.

"You staged the whole thing," Phei whispered, lips almost brushing hers now, "just to get his hard chest over you. Hugging you while you fake sob in trauma."

Her eyes spilled over—silent tears tracking down flawless cheeks.

"And now look at you," he crooned, voice pure sin, "pinned to the wall, tits pressed to the charity boy you tried to destroy, cunt soaking through those expensive panties because the wrong man finally put you in your place."

"You wanted him to save you," Phei whispered, lips grazing the shell of her ear, voice a dark, velvet blade that slid straight between her ribs and twisted. "And when he doesn't—because we both know that spineless fuck never would—you'd settle for his pity. His guilt. Any pathetic scrap from a boy who's never once seen you the way you're dying to be seen.

"The way you deserve to be seen."

"Stop," she whispered, the word cracking like thin ice. "Please—"

She tried to fight then—one last desperate flare of the queen bitch who'd ruled this school like a goddess. Her body twisted against his iron grip, shoulders straining, hips bucking to create space, palms shoving weakly at his chest.

But Phei was ready.

The Dragon was starving.

He caught her flailing wrist mid-shove, fingers closing around it with the effortless precision of a maestro seizing the perfect note.

Then he moved.

A single, breathtaking sequence executed with lethal grace, every motion flowing into the next like water over glass, so fluid, so perfectly timed that the crowded hallway seemed to inhale as one.

He drew her in with a gentle tug, then released her into a spinning arc—her body turning in the air as if weightless, hair fanning out in a glossy black wave, skirt flaring just enough to tease the eye.

For one suspended heartbeat her back met his front, the curve of her ass sliding down the rigid, burning length of his Dragon in a slow, deliberate glide that drew a sharp, involuntary gasp from her lips and a collective hush from every watcher.

His arm swept across her chest like a partner leading a dip, pinning her arms, guiding her, owning the rhythm completely.

Her spine bowed in instinctive surrender, breasts thrust forward, throat exposed in a flawless line of vulnerability.

And then, with a controlled pivot that looked choreographed by gods rather than instinct, he reversed her again—turning her in a final, sweeping arc until her front met the wall with the softest, most devastating impact.

Not a slam. A placement. Precise. Elegant. Irresistible.

Her wrists rose above her head as if lifted by invisible strings, captured once more in his single hand, her body stretched into a long, trembling bow—tits presented, hips tilted, every curve on display like the climax of a performance designed to leave the audience breathless.

The hallway didn't breathe.

They stared, mouths parted, phones forgotten, utterly transfixed by the sheer, impossible beauty of it: the charity boy who had just danced their untouchable queen into helpless submission without ever breaking rhythm, without ever looking anything less than utterly, terrifyingly in control.

He closed in.

Full body contact. No escape.

His chest crushed her pinned arms, his hips ground slow and deliberate against her stomach, letting her feel every throbbing inch of what her submission had awakened.

His mouth hovered a breath from hers, sharing air, stealing it—her frantic exhales feathering across his lips like surrender.

"Tell me, Sierra," he purred, voice dripping black honey and sin, "are you really that fucking desperate for Marcus's attention? So pathetic you'd burn an innocent life to ash, brand me a predator, just so that limp-dicked Marcus might finally glance at the goddess throwing herself at his feet?"

Her mouth opened—some lie, some denial forming on those cock-sucking lips.

Phei pressed one finger to them. Hard. Claiming.

"Shh. I am still talking!"

She froze. Went utterly, perfectly still—like prey finally accepting the claws around its throat.

"Let me tell you exactly who you are, Sierra Montgomery." The Charm Speech wove through every word, golden chains tightening around her mind, her pride, her dripping cunt.

"You're a fucking masterpiece, Sierra, c'mon. That face—those razor cheekbones, those ice-blue eyes that make lesser girls cry, those lips built for screaming my name. That body—tight, toned, tits so perfect they should be illegal. The way you walk like you own every cock in the room."

Her breath stuttered, thighs clenching.

"You're brilliant. Top of every class while pretending you don't try. Sharp enough to cut diamonds. Powerful enough that the world rearranges itself when you enter a room—Legacy blood running hot and entitled in those pretty veins."

He dragged his lips down the column of her throat, not kissing—just breathing her in, letting her feel the threat of teeth.

"So, tell me, princess—can a goddess like you really grovel for a worm like Marcus? A boy without a spine to claim what's offered daily? Too blind to see the queen degrading herself for a crumb of his worthless attention?"

A broken sound escaped her—half whimper, half sob—raw and ruined.

"Are you truly stooping that low or him?" he crooned, voice pure venomous silk. "Like one of those other pathetic sluts who'd destroy lives, debase themselves, spread lies like cum just for a chance at a boy who'll never be man enough to take what he wants, what's offered right before his eyes everyday?"

He pulled back, amethyst eyes spearing into hers, merciless.

"Or do you finally see you deserve a real Dragon? Someone who takes. Who owns. Who'd ruin the world before letting a treasure like you beg for scraps or get hurt by anybody? That is what you deserve, someone who'd take on a whole world for you!"

Tears spilled—hot, silent, carving tracks through her perfect makeup, dripping onto the swollen curves of her tits.

Phei stretched her arms higher, letting her body to arch harder, presenting those braless breasts like a sacrifice. Then he stepped in flush.

His hips pinned hers.

And she felt it again.

His Dragon—fully hard now, monstrous and burning, pressing thick and insistent against her stomach through their uniforms.

No hiding the size. No mistaking the heat. No denying the way it pulsed with every heartbeat, promising to split her open, rewrite her from the inside, brand her as property.

Sierra's eyes flew wide. A soft, involuntary moan slipped from her throat—low, needy, utterly betrayed by her body. Her hips rolled forward once, grinding against that ridged heat like her cunt was already weeping for it.

Phei smiled—slow, cruel, victorious.

"Think about it, Sierra," he whispered, lips brushing her ear, voice a dark promise that sank straight into her soul. "Think about who you really are. What you really need. And how fucking wet it makes you to finally be put in place someone like you really deserves without having to settle for spineless golden trust funds.

"'Cause, that's your place... so high above the likes of Marcus that he'd be your servant. That is your place. Where you deserve to be."

He released her wrists.

Stepped back.

The crowd parted like terrified worshippers as he pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket—prepared earlier, scented faintly with his dominance—and slid it slow and deliberate into the deep V of her shirt, nestling it between the sweat-damp swell of her tits, fingers grazing just enough soft skin to make her gasp.

"When you're ready to stop chasing boys…" he murmured, eyes burning into hers, "…and start knowing how your very existence is so priceless, you'll know where to find me."

Then he turned and walked away.

The hallway split before him—bodies slamming against lockers to clear his path, phones trembling in hands that couldn't look away.

Brett stood petrified, face slack with shock. Anderson and Kyle might as well have been statues.

Phei didn't spare them a glance.

Behind him, Sierra's legs gave out completely. She slid down the wall into a trembling heap on the marble, knees drawn up, face buried in shaking hands as silent sobs wracked her body.

Her friends fluttered around her like useless moths, voices high and panicked.

But Phei didn't look back.

The Dragon had tasted submission.

And it was only getting started.

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