"What?"

Phei's voice cracked somewhere between shock, panic, and something that felt terrifyingly like hope. His fork clattered against the plate. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat.

Divorce? Living together? Full-time?

Was she insane? Was he insane? Had the last twenty-four hours broken both their brains so thoroughly that neither of them could think straight anymore?

The emotions crashed through him like waves—fear, excitement, terror, desire, confusion, more fear—and he couldn't sort through any of them fast enough to form a coherent response.

Melissa watched his face cycle through approximately seventeen different expressions in three seconds.

Then she laughed—bright and genuine and nothing like the cold, calculating woman he'd grown up fearing.

"I'm joking, Phei." She crossed back to him, still chuckling. "Relax. You looked like you were about to have a stroke."

"I—you—that's not—" He couldn't even form words. Just sat there, gaping at her like a fish that had suddenly discovered gravity.

"Breathe." She walked back to his side, picked up his fork, speared a piece of steak, and held it to his lips. "Eat. You need the protein."

Joking.

She is joking about something like that. The relief was so intense it felt like whiplash.

But underneath it, buried deep where he didn't want to look, was a tiny, treacherous part of him that had wanted it to be real.

Dangerous thought. Lock that shit down. He took the bite of steak. Chewed. Swallowed.

"You're evil," he said finally.

Melissa's smile turned wicked.

"You have no idea."

*

He ate. Mostly because his brain was still too scrambled to do anything else.

Melissa fed him another bite, then another, her free hand stroking through his hair in a way that was far too tender for what they were—two people who, by any sane metric, should have been mortal enemies instead of lovers from the same mysterious bloodline, sharing a 3 AM breakfast in a penthouse that cost more than most people's lives.

"To answer your actual question," she said, settling into the chair beside him, "yes, it's okay. I told Harold you'd stayed over at your new part-time job. First day evaluation, I said. They wanted to see how you handled overnight shifts."

Phei swallowed his food. "And he believed that?"

"The motherfucker didn't even question it." Melissa's laugh was bitter now. Sharp-edged, like broken crystal wrapped in velvet. "Didn't ask why a teenager would be doing overnight shifts when he has school tomorrow. Didn't ask which job or where or if you'd be safe. Just grunted and went back to his precious whiskey."

Something cold settled in Phei's stomach.

Harold doesn't care if I sleep in the house or not.

He'd always known that. Had accepted it as just another fact of his miserable existence and never took advantage of that. Harold didn't give a shit about him as long as he stayed in Paradise, stayed out of trouble, stayed invisible.

But now that he thought about it...

It was more than that, wasn't it?

Harold didn't care about Phei. That much was obvious. But he cared intensely about Phei staying a Maxton. About Phei being part of the family, at least on paper. About maintaining that fiction no matter what.

Why?

The question had always hovered in the back of Phei's mind, but he'd never had the luxury of examining it closely. Survival had taken precedence. Not rocking the boat. Keeping his head down.

The memory surfaced unbidden. Sharp and painful.

He'd been fourteen. Stupid. Angry at some slight he couldn't even remember anymore. And in a fit of teenage rebellion, he'd used his real name. His parents' given name. The name he'd been born with before the accident, before the Maxtons, before everything.

He'd said it out loud. In public. To some shopkeeper who'd asked for his name.

Phei— Harold had found out within hours. Of course he had. Paradise had eyes everywhere.

And then... Phei's hand went to his ribs involuntarily. Phantom pain. The ghost of broken bones that had long since healed.

That beating.

He'd been fourteen. Small for his age. Fragile.

Harold had been waiting in the study, whiskey glass in hand, face already flushed with rage and alcohol when he called Phei in.

The door slammed shut.

The first blow came out of nowhere—a heavy backhand that split Phei's lip and sent him crashing into the hallway table, glass shattering around him. Then Harold grabbed him by the hair, dragged him across the floor of the study, boots thudding against Phei's sides as he went.

The kicks started.

Boot to the ribs—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Phei felt the first one crack, a sharp snap like dry wood breaking. The second took his breath away. The third made the world go white. He curled into a ball, arms over his head, trying to protect what he could.

Harold pried his arms away, forced him onto his back.

Fists started then. Heavy, drunken swings that landed on his face, his chest, his stomach. One caught him in the mouth, teeth cutting into his lip, blood filling it. Kicks to the stomach when he tried to roll away. Boot to the thigh, the hip, the back when he managed to turn over.

Another rib gave way—fourth, maybe fifth—with a sickening crunch that echoed in his chest.

He stopped moving after that. Just lay there, gasping wet breaths, tasting copper, feeling his body shut down piece by piece.

Harold didn't stop until he was panting, knuckles raw and dripping with Phei's blood.

Phei couldn't walk after. Couldn't breathe without fire in his chest. They took him to the hospital that night—private clinic, no questions asked, "fell down the stairs." Three broken ribs. Cracked sternum. Internal bruising. Concussion.

He spent two weeks in bed alone, unable to move, every breath agony.

Even Delilah had been shaken. Delilah, who'd spent years tormenting him, who'd laughed while Danton used him for paintball practice. She'd watched Harold work him over, and she'd shivered. Nearly cried.

Couldn't look at him for a week afterwards consumed by gilt and fear for what she saw while Danton laughed on the side.

It had taken Phei a month to heal completely. A month of moving like an old man, of hiding the worst of it, of wondering if this was finally the thing that killed him.

All because he'd said a name.

My own names.

Why?

Why would Harold care that much? What was so dangerous about Phei using his birth name that it warranted nearly beating him to death?

There's something there, Phei thought, the certainty settling into his bones like ice. Something Harold's hiding. Something he's desperate to keep buried.

And Melissa probably didn't know. She was Harold's wife, but she wasn't his confidant. Harold kept his secrets close, even from family.

Especially from family.

"You're thinking too hard." Melissa's voice pulled him back. She was watching him with those sharp eyes, seeing too much.

"Sorry." Phei shook his head, pushing the questions aside. For now. "I was just... never mind."

He focused on her instead. On the more immediate problem.

"What about you? You're supposed to be sleeping at the mansion. What if Harold wakes up and you're not there?"

Melissa waved a dismissive hand. "Already handled."

"How?"

"I sent him a message." She smirked. "Told him there was an emergency with your work situation. That I had to come help sort it out personally."

"An emergency?"

"Mmhmm."

"What kind of emergency?"

The smirk widened into something positively evil.

"I told him you got caught jerking off on your boss."

Phei choked on his steak.

"What?!"

"He was drunk when I sent it," Melissa continued, clearly enjoying his reaction. "Won't actually read it until morning. But when he does, he'll call me first thing to ask if the 'situation' has been resolved. I'll tell him yes, everything's fine, you've been thoroughly disciplined and won't be a problem anymore."

"Jerking off on my—" Phei couldn't even finish the sentence. His face was doing something between horror and hysterical laughter. "Couldn't you have come up with a better lie? Literally anything else?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Melissa picked up another piece of steak and offered it to him. "Besides, it fits the narrative. Troubled charity case with impulse control issues causes embarrassing scene at workplace. Harold will believe it because he wants to believe the worst about you."

My life is a fucking circus.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he couldn't help but notice the way Melissa was looking at him. The softness in her expression that didn't match the woman he'd known for a decade. The way she kept finding excuses to touch him—his hand, his arm, his hair.

Her man, she'd called him.

And despite everything—the lies, the manipulation, the decade of torment she'd put him through—part of him liked the sound of that.

The possessive part. The dragon part.

Mine.

He reached out and caught her hand before she could pull away. Brought it to his lips. Kissed her knuckles while maintaining eye contact.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For the food. For... all of this."

Something flickered in Melissa's eyes. Something raw and unguarded.

"Don't thank me yet," she murmured. "We've barely started."

And the way she said it—like a promise, like a threat, like the beginning of something neither of them could take back—made Phei's pulse quicken.

3:17 AM.

The city of Paradise glittered below them.

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