My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 407: The House That Eats Its Own
Chapter 407: The House That Eats Its Own
Melissa sat on the edge of Phei’s old bed in the dim, dust-moted bedroom that still smelled faintly of him — cold pine, black frost, and something ancient no one could name.
The walls were bare now, stripped of the few things he’d once kept here — a second-hand paperback with the spine cracked, a charger cable coiled in the corner, the indent in the mattress where a boy too thin for his height had slept for ten years.
Gone. All of it.
But the silence felt heavier than when he’d lived in it, as if the room had been holding its breath since he left and hadn’t figured out how to exhale.
Downstairs the house was alive with violence.
Harold’s voice boomed through the floors — slams of fists on tables, shattering glass, guttural shouts that rattled the old chandeliers and made the crystal drops chatter against each other in tiny, terrified percussion.
The house absorbed it the way Legacy Mansions absorb everything — into the wood, into the plaster, into the bones of the structure — adding tonight’s fury to the catalogue of every other fury that had shaken these walls.
Three girls sat huddled in the rest room below: Victoria, Delilah, and Sienna. One boy — Danton — leaned against the wall saying nothing, arms crossed, face blank as marble. Harold paced in front of them like a caged wolf, roaring accusations they had no power to answer.
But the real venom was reserved for Victoria.
Melissa knew why.
It had nothing to do with how Victoria had behaved. Harold’s rage wasn’t about teenage rebellion or poor judgment or a girl making a scene at a nightclub.
It was because Victoria was the reason Phei’s awakening had been exposed to the other Legacy families. Harold had watched Phei change over the months before the real changed happened three weeks ago — had recognized the signs of a dragon rally long before anyone else — and had been waiting for the moment the boy finally woke.
He’d had plans. Quiet ones. Patient ones.
The kind that lived in locked drawers and encrypted files and conversations held in rooms with the elders of the Maxton family.
Now those plans had almost gone ash because Victoria — reckless, mouthy, fearless Victoria — had let the secret slip in the worst possible company.
The slaps and kicks had been for Delilah.
When Harold learned she and Phei were lovers — properly lovers, not just rumours — he had lost what thin control remained. Melissa had heard the first crack of palm on cheek from upstairs, then the thud of a body hitting the floor.
A specific sound.
The sound of a girl’s weight collapsing — different from a stumble, different from a fall.
The sound of a body that had been struck hard enough that the legs stopped working.
She had lunged for the door, nails gouging wood, screaming Harold’s name like a curse. Sienna had dragged her back by the waist, arms locked around her mother’s ribs with unbreakable strength in her grip, whispering urgently, “Not now. Not like this.”
Before Melissa could break free, the door had slammed shut and the lock had clicked.
Now she could only listen.
Delilah’s muffled sobs — wet, hiccupping, the kind that came from a girl trying to be quiet and failing because the body doesn’t care about dignity when it’s been hit. Victoria talking back in sharp, furious bursts at how dare he touch her sister — each one a lit match thrown at gasoline, because Victoria would rather burn the house down than stay silent while her sister bled.
Harold barking questions at Danton — who answered nothing, no matter how loudly he was screamed at.
Not defiance. Not courage. Just absence.
The hollow practised nothing of a boy who’d learned years ago that Harold’s storms blew past him untouched the way wind blows past a lamppost.
The silence that eventually fell was worse than the shouting.
Silence in this house meant someone had given up. Or someone was about to do something they couldn’t take back.
The lock clicked.
Sienna stood in the doorway.
Her face was blank — perfect porcelain mask, the way it always was when the world turned ugly. Seventeen years old and already better at composure than women twice her age.
But Melissa knew her daughter. Beneath that stillness burned something lethal: anger so cold it could freeze blood. She didn’t know yet who it was aimed at — Harold, Victoria, the entire Legacy system, or something deeper, something that had roots in soil Melissa hadn’t dug up yet — but whoever earned it would die if Sienna ever decided killing was worth the cost.
The frightening thing was that Sienna was getting closer to that decisionevery year.
“Attend to Victoria first,” Sienna said quietly. “She’s more explosive right now.”
As if summoned, a crash echoed from upstairs — glass shattering, wood splintering, Victoria’s roar of pure fury ripping through the house like a blade. Something heavy hit a wall. Then another crash.
Then the specific, percussive sound of a mirror being punched.
Melissa sighed.
Her oldest had inherited Melissa’s big sister’s rage, not her own calm. The wildfire, not the frost.
Victoria felt things the way forest fires felt oxygen — totally, destructively, without the slightest interest in what survived the burning.
Right now, she was upstairs destroying her own room because she couldn’t destroy Harold, and if no one intervened, she’d cut her hands to ribbons on the glass and then blame everyone else for the blood.
She wanted — ached — to go to Delilah first. Her second-born had taken real blows tonight. Harold had dared lay hands on her daughter, split her lip, bruised her cheek, knocked her to the floor.
Melissa had heard every impact.
Had catalogued each one the way a woman catalogues evidence — not for courts, for the private ledger she kept in the back of her skull where Harold’s debts were recorded in a currency he didn’t know existed.
She wanted to storm downstairs and remind him what happened to men who touched her girls.
But shouting at Harold now would change nothing.
He would pay.Later. Quietly. Permanently.
She gathered the long skirt of her nightdress in both hands and ran upstairs, bare feet slapping cold wood, hair coming loose from its knot. The house was cold — it was always cold now, as if Phei’s absence had taken whatever warmth the building once possessed and carried it out the front door with him.
Sienna watched her go, then turned the other way — slow, deliberate — toward Delilah’s room.
Her footsteps were silent. They were always silent. The girl moved through this house like a ghost who’d been haunting it so long she’d forgotten she was alive.
She was the help. That was what she was to this family — the housekeeper, the invisible woman who changed sheets and polished silver and pretended the stains she scrubbed out of carpets were always wine.
Fourteen years in this house. Fourteen years of lowered eyes and yes sir and a uniform that made her furniture.
She had watched it all.
The slaps. The kicks. The way Delilah curled into herself — foetal, arms over her head, exactly the way Phei used to curl when he was small and Harold’s boots found him in the hallway.
The same position. The same house. The same man.
A different child on the floor, that was all.
The way Harold’s rage had skipped Danton entirely — had always skipped Danton. The boy leaned against the wall like a spectator at a sport he found mildly interesting, and Harold’s eyes slid off him the way water slides off glass.
Never a raised hand. Never a raised voice that wasn’t just an act of being a partial father.
Never even a direct question that expected an honest answer. Danton existed in a pocket of immunity that no one in this house acknowledged, and everyone understood.
The way Melissa and Harold’s son were the only two people in this house immune to the storm. Melissa by force of will and her background he wouldn’t dare to harm physically. Danton by something else — something Maria couldn’t name but could feel, the way you feel a draught from a door you can’t see.
Maria’s hand trembled as she reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and typed a single message. Her fingers were clumsy on the screen — adrenaline making the letters swim — but she got the words right.
She’d been composing them in her head for twenty minutes, waiting for the moment no one was watching.
She hit send.
Then hid the phone again, heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her teeth.
Melissa hadn’t seen.
She’d only heard.
But Maria had seen everything.
And she was afraid.
Not of Harold — she’d stopped being afraid of Harold years ago, the way you stop being afraid of weather. You just dressed for it and waited for it to pass.
She was afraid of what she’d just done. Of the message she’d sent. Of whom would read it. Of what would happen when the information in that message reached the person it was meant for.
The nightmare was only beginning.
The next storm was already breaking.
