Evil MC's NTR Harem

The party was long over. What remained was silence—thick and undisturbed, like a veil drawn across the house.

Bottles lay tipped over, half-filled glasses abandoned, glitter and confetti scattered like forgotten memories of laughter.

Everyone had disappeared into their rooms, into dreams, or drunken stupor.

Heaven, Tianna, and Lily had curled up in the girls' room without a word.

They had no questions, no accusations.

They simply slipped into sleep, their minds quiet, unaware that another story was still unfolding in the dim hours of the night.

Down the hall, a shadow moved.

Joan's steps were light, uncertain, like a woman wading through fog.

Every movement felt surreal, like she was watching herself from outside her body.

Her pulse raced, her breath shallow.

The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, each step echoing in her ears like a drumbeat of doubt.

She reached the boys' room door and stopped.

Her hand hovered above the doorknob.

Her mind screamed at her to turn around, to go back, to lock herself in her room and pretend none of this had ever happened.

That Ross hadn't seen through her. That he hadn't touched a part of her she'd spent years keeping buried under poise, pride, and practiced indifference.

But she didn't turn back.

Because even now—especially now—she knew that nothing had ever unraveled her like this.

And so… she pushed the door open.

The room was dim, the only light coming from a soft lamp on the far table.

Shadows danced lazily across the walls, and in that haze stood Ross—waiting.

He hadn't sat down, hadn't fallen asleep. He was simply there. Like he knew.

Like he'd always known.

Joan's breath hitched as their eyes met.

He said nothing at first. He didn't have to.

"Did you ever doubt I'd come?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ross smiled faintly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Not once."

That answer pierced her. Not just because of its confidence—but because it was true.

He hadn't doubted her. Not for a moment.

Even when she'd been drowning in indecision, in shame, in self-denial—he had known.

She hadn't even known herself.

"How did you know?" she asked again, quieter this time, the weight of the question settling heavy between them.

She needed to understand. She needed to know how he'd peeled back layers she hadn't even known were there.

Ross took a slow step toward her, then another. He didn't rush.

He was never in a rush.

"Because I'm good at reading people," he said. "And with you… the signs were all there."

Joan stood frozen, staring up at him, her voice dry. "What signs?"

"You hide behind control," Ross said. "Behind sharp words and distance. But I could see it. The way you stiffen when someone gets too close. The way you pretend to be unaffected… but your eyes betray you."

Joan opened her mouth to speak, to deny it, but he cut her off—gently, with his tone.

"You don't want to be in control," he said, voice like velvet. "You want someone to take it from you. To strip you bare and see the real you—the messy, trembling, wild part you're terrified to let out."

His words wrapped around her like a noose made of silk.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to scream that he was wrong. That he didn't know her.

That she wasn't like that.

But she couldn't.

Because he was right.

He was terrifyingly right.

"I hate how right you are," she breathed.

Ross took another step forward. Now they were inches apart.

He looked down at her—not with arrogance, but with the quiet authority of a man who had already won.

"You don't hate it," he murmured. "You hate that you love it."

Joan's chest rose and fell, her breathing unsteady, the war inside her raging louder than ever.

But with every second, her walls were crumbling. Not with force—but with truth.

"Say it," Ross said softly. "Say what you want."

Her lips trembled. "I don't know how."

"Yes, you do."

She shook her head. "I've never said it before."

He reached out, slowly, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were gentle.

Warm. Grounding.

"You don't have to be perfect here," he said. "You just have to be honest."

Joan's eyes welled, just a little, from the pressure of it all. Of being seen. Truly seen.

It felt like standing naked under a spotlight—exposed and fragile.

"I want…" she whispered, her voice cracking. "I want to let go."

Ross leaned in closer, his voice deep and steady. "And you want me to take it from you."

She nodded.

That was all he needed.

Ross stepped behind her slowly, wrapping one arm gently around her waist, the other brushing down her arm.

His touch wasn't rushed. It wasn't harsh. It was deliberate—commanding, yet patient.

He wasn't claiming her like a conquest.

He was accepting her surrender.

"You're mine tonight," he whispered, lips near her ear. "And I'll take care of everything."

Joan closed her eyes and nodded again, this time with more certainty.

Her body relaxed, the weight of decision finally lifted.

She wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring. Or how she'd feel in the daylight.

But for now… she didn't care.

She had found something intoxicating in the storm that was Ross—not just desire, but freedom.

And tonight, she would drown in it willingly.

"Mmm…" Ross kissed her, his lips firm and commanding.

Joan responded instinctively, almost desperately, her body pressing into his as if drawn by gravity itself.

It was her first kiss—and it was nothing like she imagined. It wasn't gentle or timid.

It was intense, consuming, and utterly electrifying.

A rush of heat flooded through her, curling in her stomach, lighting every nerve on fire.

So many men had tried to win her over before. Some had begged, others had bragged.

All of them failed. They were boys playing at being men—soft, uncertain, and far too easy to dismiss.

She'd always sensed they couldn't handle her, couldn't tame her, couldn't command the hidden part of her she guarded so carefully.