Chapter 379: Princesses Arrive

Phei should have been wrecked.

By every law of biology, physics, and the basic cruelty of human exhaustion, Phei should have been a smoking crater of a teenager—muscles screaming, lungs scorched, supernatural battery drained to zero after a full street-ball massacre against five Legacy princes, plus the small matter of

walking on literal air

in front of twenty thousand people who were still losing their minds online.

He wasn’t even close to tired but instead seemed to want more.

Could go for a

few rounds of sex

before he called it a day. Like ten rounds.

Give or take.

The dragon in his blood wasn’t humming anymore—it was

purring

alive and in hunger too, smug, wide awake, already sniffing the air for the next thing to devour. Every cell felt overclocked, electric, like someone had swapped his mitochondria for jet fuel and told them to party.

Phei knew that his hunger wasn’t for food but for sex, lust... to fuck and wreck havoc in all marriages in all of Main Paradise families.

Not the point for now though, will be soon but wait,

horny dog... dragon.

Landon and Brian flanked him like mismatched bodyguards trying very hard to look like they belonged in the most expensive nightclub on earth and only half-succeeding.

Brian pulled it off better—quiet, newly minted spine straight, the cool of a boy who’d just discovered he had one and liked how it felt when he used it.

Landon, on the other hand, kept touching things: the velvet rope, the black marble wall, the edge of a crimson-lit banquette—like he expected a security guard to materialise and yell

imposter

at any second.

David Lockwood brought up the rear, phone in both hands, thumbs blurring at a speed that suggested he’d sold his soul to autocorrect years ago.

"Where the

fuck

are Markl and Jonathan?" he hissed without looking up. "I texted them

twenty minutes

ago. Twenty! That’s two geological eras in gossip time. History is being

made

. And those absolute muppets are—"

(A/N:

I have made some changes from

Marcus

to

Mark

to not confuse David’s friend with Marcus Heavenchild)

He finally glanced up.

Took in the interior of the Crimson Eden Noire—the dripping crimson chandeliers that looked like frozen blood, the black-glass dance floor pulsing with bodies, the private balconies floating above like VIP thrones—and for the first time in recorded human history, David Lockwood was

speechless

.

Three whole seconds.

Then:

"Right. Okay. Never mind. They can take their sweet time. I’m moving in. Someone tell my mother I love her and that

she can keep the

dog."

****

Outside, the night was just getting feral.

A Rolls purred to a stop across the street—sleek, black, so understated it screamed

I cost more than your country

louder than any neon Lambo ever could.

Inside:

Aiden, Zack Preston, Anderson Price.

Three Legacy princes who’d spent the last hour watching their entire social hierarchy get curb-stomped on live television.

They sat in perfect silence, staring at the club entrance like soldiers waiting for the order to charge a machine-gun nest.

"Ready?"

Aiden asked. Voice flat. Clinical. The tone of a boy whose family owned half the hospitals on the continent and who’d been taught since birth to treat emotions like hazardous waste.

Zack nodded. Jaw locked so tight you could hear his molars grinding.

Anderson nodded once. Face blank slate. Whatever war was raging behind those eyes, he’d buried it so deep it might never see daylight again.

They did not come here to celebrate they were here for a certain boy and girl. What they didn’t know were the

twists to fate

they were about to help turn!

Fool, right?

The driver opened the door.

Three boys who’d grown up thinking they were untouchable stepped out of a quarter-million-dollar car and walked toward a club where the boy who’d just publicly executed their pride was already inside, celebrating.

The irony was so thick it could’ve been weaponised.

Then a white stretch

limousine

glided up right behind them, windshield blacked out like it was hiding war crimes.

Door opened before the driver even moved.

Victoria Maxton

stepped out first—fast, heels stabbing pavement like ice picks, dark hair swinging like a weapon.

Eldest Maxton daughter

. College girl. Beautiful in the way venom is beautiful:

you

admire

it right up until it

bites

you.

Gianna Romano

followed. Mafia youngest princess energy on full blast—nails lethal, eyes glittering, radiating the exact vibe of a girl who’d watched Phei walk on air and had already drafted three very loud opinions she planned to scream directly into his face.

Delilah Maxton

came next. Slower. Face doing

Olympic-level

gymnastics: joy, guilt, something raw and aching underneath.

She’d spent the last three hours watching her step-cousin annihilate her twin brother in front of twenty thousand people.

Every emotion she owned was currently fighting for the wheel.

Sienna Maxton

emerged last—face blank.

Mechanical.

That

eerie, perfect robot

mask she wore everywhere, the one that cost her soul to maintain and fooled exactly nobody who mattered.

Nastya Romano

.

Amber Castellano

.

Yuki Tanaka

.

More poured out in a glittering avalanche of designer silk, perfume clouds thick enough to choke, and the combined gravitational pull of sixteen dynasties that could tank economies over mimosas.

A Bugatti Chiron

drifted

around the corner.

Not pulled up.

Drifted

. Tyres howling, engine snarling bass that vibrated the asphalt, sliding into the gap between limo and kerb with the casual arrogance of someone who’d learned to drive in cars worth more than small islands and had never heard the word

"no"

without laughing.

Butterfly doors

scissored upward—because of

course

they did.

Danton

Maxton stepped out of the driver’s side.

Brett

Castellano climbed out the passenger side.

Two boys who’d been publicly vivisected on a basketball court an hour ago, now walking into the after-party of the boy who’d done the vivisecting.

Faces carefully arranged into

we’re here because we want to be, not we’re here because our sisters are about to throw themselves at our rival to fuck them and our egos won’t let us hide and let it happen.

Danton’s eyes swept the limo area. Landed on Victoria. Then Delilah. Then Sienna.

All

three sisters

. Here. Already. Moving

fast

. Eager. Like they’d been counting seconds.

Brett’s jaw ticked when he saw

Amber

step out of the limo—his own sister, dressed like sin and walking like she had a reservation in Phei’s lap.

They’d expected their sisters to show eventually. That was Legacy politics:

you went where the social gravity pulled, even if it pulled you straight into the mouth of the wolf who’d just eaten your lunch.

But

this

soon?

This

eager

?

Like

heat-seeking

missiles

locked on?

Or worse—the thought sank into Danton’s gut like broken glass, into Brett’s like battery acid—like

pussies in heat,

drawn by something primal they couldn’t name, didn’t want to resist, and refused to apologise for.