Evil MC's NTR Harem

"Why don't we go out and find out, shall we?" Ross said, his voice deceptively calm, yet carrying an undercurrent of sadistic amusement.

He tilted his head slightly as he stared down at the bound man, eyes gleaming like those of a predator toying with its prey.

Cyril's mouth opened, a scream already rising in his throat—but it never made it out.

Ding!

The gag that had fallen from his mouth earlier shot back into place with unnatural precision, sealing his voice in an instant.

Panic surged through him, followed by a gut-wrenching sensation as the ropes binding his limbs suddenly slackened and fell away.

But before he could even feel the relief of freedom, his entire body lifted into the air, hovering a few feet off the ground as if gravity itself had simply… stopped working.

His limbs flailed uselessly in the air, like a puppet cut free of its strings—only to be suspended by some invisible force.

Cyril's eyes widened in pure, primal terror. He didn't know how Ross was doing it. Just Ross standing there, watching, like a man who had already seen the outcome of this play a hundred times before.

What was he?

Cyril's thoughts raced. His mind tried desperately to latch onto something—anything—that could explain what was happening. But the more he thought, the less sense it made.

And then it hit him.

The one detail he had brushed aside before. The one impossibility he had lived through but never questioned until now.

He had survived in this sealed room without food. Without water. No light. No air vents. No explanation. Days had passed—maybe weeks. He had no real sense of time anymore. And yet he hadn't died.

His body had held on, impossibly so.

He had chalked it up to luck.

But now? Now he knew better.

There was no luck.

It had always been Ross.

Ross had kept him alive. Not out of mercy, but because he wanted him alive. Because he could. The same way he could levitate a full-grown man with a glance.

The same way he could control inanimate objects without lifting a finger.

Ross Oakley wasn't just powerful and mysterious. He wasn't just dangerous.

He was something else entirely.

Cyril's breathing grew erratic behind the gag. His chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged bursts. He felt cold sweat pooling at his neck, running down his back. His body trembled uncontrollably, despite the invisible force holding him in place.

His eyes darted to Ross, and in them, there was no longer hate. No longer pride. No more delusions of escape or defiance.

Only fear and fear alone.

Pure, unfiltered fear.

He had made a terrible mistake.

A colossal irreversible mistake.

He had underestimated Ross Oakley. Provoked him. Mocked him. Thought of him as just another arrogant young man with wealth and influence.

But Ross wasn't a man.

He was a nightmare wearing a smile.

And Cyril… Cyril was just the fool who had dared to wake it. It was dumb of him to do so.

He nearly soiled himself as the realization settled in, thick and heavy like a death sentence:

He had fucked up.

He had fucked up badly.

And now… there was no going back. It was all too late to do that now.

Ross had long since shut down any attempts from Cyril to speak. There was no use. No meaning left in conversation. What could Cyril possibly say that would matter now?

He simply looked at him—just once more—with the same flat, unreadable stare he had given countless enemies before they were erased from his life like chalk off a blackboard.

Cyril, gagged and trembling, let out muffled cries that echoed faintly in the quiet room. His mind was racing, thrashing against the bars of invisible logic, desperately trying to break free and understand. How was Ross doing any of this? How was any of this real?

But there were no answers. No mercy. Only that terrifying certainty growing in his chest like an infection: He was done for. Absolutely, irreversibly fucked.

The hours dragged on like a cruel joke. Cyril hung there—suspended midair like some kind of sick modern art piece—completely at Ross's mercy. His legs twitched now and then. His throat made strangled sounds. But Ross didn't even bother to look up most of the time.

He was far too busy enjoying his break.

Seated comfortably on the plush leather couch, legs kicked up, Ross scrolled through streaming apps with a lazy flick of the remote. He chose a cheesy action flick, then changed it halfway through for a psychological thriller, his grin growing wider at the irony.

He munched popcorn, sipped fizzy soda, and occasionally glanced at Cyril with a look that said, "Still there? Good."

Cyril, for all intents and purposes, had become part of the décor and the furniture of the house. A floating, panicked reminder of what happens when someone crosses Ross Oakley.

Then, as the sky outside turned dark and the streetlights began to glow, the sound of keys jingling reached Ross's ears.

The front door opened.

Ashley stepped in, brushing hair out of her face as she entered with a tired sigh. Her heels clicked softly on the tile floor, and she set her purse down with a thud.

Work had been brutal, but the thought of coming home to her husband—to the surprise he mentioned earlier—had kept her in high spirits.

He'd messaged her that morning.

"No work for me today. Just waiting at home with a surprise. You're gonna love it."

Ashley smiled, warmth blooming in her chest. Ross rarely took days off. And when he did, it was never just for fun. It meant something. Maybe it was a fancy dinner.

A weekend trip. Maybe… something more romantic?

But as she turned the corner into the living room, her smile faded like mist under a rising sun.

She froze.

Two men stood before her. And both of them… both of them had her husband's exact face.

She blinked, staggered back a step, heart suddenly slamming against her ribs.

"What… what is this?" she whispered, voice trembling. "Honey?"

Her eyes flicked from one to the other, struggling to process what she was seeing.

It was impossible.

They were the same.

Same chiseled jawline. Same dark hair. Same piercing eyes. One of them was relaxed, confident, almost smug. The other stood with eyes wide with unspoken horror and uncertainty.

Ashley's breath caught in her throat.

One of them smiled at her—the confident one. He stepped forward slowly, casually, as if this were all completely normal.

"Surprise," he said with a wink, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth. "Welcome home, honey."

Ashley didn't speak.

She couldn't.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Her fingers trembled.

"What... what is going on?" she finally whispered.

Ross only chuckled. "You always say I'm full of surprises, right? Well, let me tell you, your husband Cyril has a truly twisted sense of pleasure – perhaps the worst of anyone I know."

She didn't laugh. She didn't move.

Because somewhere deep inside her, a cold realization began to crawl up her spine like ice.

One of them was her true husband Cyril.

But which one?

And more terrifyingly…

What the hell had he done?

Cyril stood there paralyzed in more ways than one.

He had no idea how to explain this to Ashley. Not that he could, even if given the chance. His mind was in complete disarray.

The surreal events of the past hours—or days?—had shattered his sense of time, of control, of reality itself. He opened his mouth to speak, to call out to her, but nothing came.

What could he possibly say to her now and how could he explain all this mess to her?

Ross—smiling, calm, terrifying Ross—stood next to him like a ringmaster in the final act of a circus show, basking in the confusion he had orchestrated with surgical precision.

He glanced at Ashley, who stood frozen in the doorway, her wide eyes flicking between the two identical faces.

And then Ross dropped the real bomb.

"I'll let my twin brother explain it, Ashley," he said with a casual grin.

For Cyril, it felt like his skull had cracked open. The words echoed in his mind like a gong struck too hard.

Twin brother…?

He knew exactly what Ross was doing.

Cyril was a successful businessman. He was quick on the uptake. Sharp. He had built a reputation on always being one step ahead. But now, for the first time in years, he felt truly, utterly cornered.

Ross wasn't just destroying him physically. He was ripping his identity away. Erasing his place in Ashley's world. Stealing it.

Ashley blinked, as if the sentence hadn't registered right away. "Twin… brother?" she repeated slowly, her voice soft and uncertain.

"No… Cyril doesn't have a twin," she whispered. Her brow furrowed. "I've known him since we were teenagers. I would've known—"

She paused.

Then her expression shifted.

Something clicked.

A crack formed in the dam of her disbelief. Her gaze sharpened as she studied both men more closely. The one hovering in the air looked terrified, helpless… but his eyes—they were familiar.

The same soft, warm eyes that always looked at her when she woke up beside him. The same eyes that had been with her through every hardship.

The one standing… he looked like Cyril, but there was a glint in his gaze she didn't recognize. A glint of cruelty. Of control.

And then it hit her.

Hard.

Her knees nearly gave out as the realization came crashing in like a tidal wave.

Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to fight it—tried to deny what her heart already knew—but the more she resisted, the clearer it became.

Her husband had done something.

Something unspeakable.

And the man who had held her, kissed her, made love to her many many times in the course of one month, called her "honey" just a few seconds ago… wasn't her husband.

"No…" she whispered, her voice cracking. Her hands trembled as she clutched her chest. "Who are you?"

The smile never left Ross's face.

"I told you, you should ask Cyril that, not me." He then added, "And to answer your question, my name is Lyric, by the way. It's good to be properly introduced to you formally, Ashley."