My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 590 - 590: Reassured Progenitor Plot

The belt came down on her ass like a thunderclap of pure savagery—hard enough to make the soft flesh bounce and jiggle under the brutal impact, hard enough to split the skin wide open through the thin silk of her robe. Roxanne felt the sickening tear, then the immediate hot trickle of blood sliding down the curves of her body in thick, humiliating rivulets that soaked into the carpet beneath her.

Not when the revelation of his true family background—Tiamat with all the monstrous weight that name carried—had already shattered every illusion of control they once held. She thought, still clinging to hopes of Phei protecting Sierra.

This was why Jonathan was scared of doing anything against Phei

She smiled again!

“Mocking me, again?” Jonathan roared, driving his foot into her lower back again and again, hammering the exact same spot with vicious precision, stacking layer after layer of crushing damage deep into her kidneys.

“In my own fucking house! After everything I’ve done for you!”

The belt cracked wildly now—across her calves, her thighs, her back, her shoulders—his arm swinging in blind, animal fury, no longer aiming, just raining down endless blows on whatever bleeding patch of skin he could reach.

Leather split flesh. Blood sprayed. Wet, meaty thwacks filled the room as fresh welts rose instantly over older ones, turning her entire body into a canvas of raw, burning agony.

Roxanne didn’t care what he did, he could only do it to her and that’s it.

He could never touch Sierra! Ever!

And even if it came down to legal rights—even if Jonathan tried to drag his daughter back through the courts he supposedly controlled—the presence of Rune Natsuki had made it devastatingly, humiliatingly clear that the world’s most ruthless law firm stood like an unbreakable wall behind the boy.

With dirt on every Legacy family in Paradise and the power to dismantle Harold Maxton’s empire like a child’s puzzle, what pathetic chance did Jonathan have against that kind of firepower?

His foot slammed into her already bruised elbow, grinding down on the joint until fresh white-hot agony exploded through it like shattered glass. Another savage kick hammered the same thigh, ripping muscle and bruising bone so deeply she knew she’d be limping for weeks—if she could walk at all.

He can’t use the law either. She thought happily.

Another brutal kick smashed into her ribs. The heavy belt buckle connected with sickening force. She heard the sharp crack as the bone gave way. Felt the jagged edge scrape against soft, vital tissue inside her with every desperate breath. Pain swallowed her whole.

He can’t use force.

He can’t use anything.

And Roxanne had rubbed his bleeding, wounded ego raw in that brutal truth.

He dropped into a crouch, fingers digging cruelly into her swollen, bruised cheeks as he wrenched her face up to meet his. His breath was hot and ragged against her torn lips.

“You’re going to tell me exactly what you said to him,” he whispered, voice suddenly calm, spent, almost gentle in its deadliness. “Eventually. When you finally stop being so fucking stubborn.”

He slapped her—almost casual, almost affectionate compared to the storm he had unleashed—and rose to his feet.

The last kick smashed into her hip with devastating power, rolling her violently onto her back. Her arms fell limply away from her midsection. Her broken body was too exhausted, too ruined to even hold its defensive curl anymore.

Jonathan stood over her, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his forehead. His once-immaculate white shirt was splattered with streaks of her blood. The belt dangled from his hand, the thick leather dark and wet with her blood in several places.

He looked at it with vague distaste before tossing it onto the bed like a filthy rag.

Roxanne lay sprawled on the carpet, staring blankly at the ceiling through tear-blurred eyes.

She hadn’t cried during the beating—she had trained herself never to cry—but the tears came anyway, slipping silently from the corners of her eyes and tracing cold paths down her temples into her hair.

Everything hurts.

Her ribs screamed with every shallow, knife-edged breath. Her back was a burning, bleeding lattice of overlapping welts and split skin. Her thighs, calves, shoulders, arms, and face throbbed in relentless, overlapping waves of agony so intense it made thought nearly impossible.

Tomorrow she would piss blood. She knew the signs too well after twenty years of this living hell.

But she was still alive. Still breathing. Still capable of dragging one foot in front of the other when the moment came.

That was all that mattered.

And in a dimension just adjacent to this one, invisible and silent, Eira watched it all unfold with ancient eyes that had witnessed countless horrors across countless millennia—yet still felt something cold and sharp twist violently in her chest at the sight of a woman being systematically broken by the man who had sworn to love and protect her.

Jonathan walked to the nightstand and picked up his phone.

The call connected almost immediately.

“Harold.”

Roxanne could only hear his side of the conversation as she lay curled on the floor, ribs grinding with every breath, jaw throbbing, mouth thick with the taste of her own blood.

“Things have become complicated. Phei just took Sierra. We need to move faster—turn her before he has time to dig any deeper. I have all the necessary materials.”

A pause.

“Good. Yes. When?”

Another pause.

“How about— Oh, yes— Hell’s Paradise Island it is then. Right after the meeting of all Patriarchs.” Jonathan’s voice shifted, dark relief bleeding through the ice. “That works. That gives us—”

Harold cut him off.

“A private jet?” Jonathan’s brow furrowed. “All of them? His entire… collection?”

Whatever Harold said next made Jonathan’s lips curl into a slow, ugly smile. It was not a pleasant expression.

“So, we get Sierra and any other girls who might be with him. Good. Very good.” He nodded. “And Phei himself? How do we—”

Silence as Harold explained.

“Who can be powerful enough to stall him?” Jonathan’s smile widened, cruel and satisfied. “Perfect. How did you family—”

The answer made his eyebrows rise slightly, but he didn’t question it.

“Fine. I’ll be ready. And Harold—thank you. I won’t forget this.”

He hung up.

For a long moment, Jonathan simply stood there, phone still clutched in his hand, staring at the darkened screen with an expression of deep, almost orgasmic satisfaction. The raw frustration that had fueled his savage beating had finally drained away, replaced by something colder and far more dangerous — hope. Sharp, vicious anticipation for the reckoning that was coming.

Then he turned.

Roxanne had used those few precious seconds while he was on the phone to drag herself across the carpet like a broken animal.

Every inch was pure torment — her cracked rib grinding with every movement, torn muscle screaming, blood still trickling from the deep lashes across her ass and thighs.

She had somehow pulled her battered body up onto the mattress and curled into a tight, trembling ball beneath the covers, hiding from head to toe beneath expensive silk now stained with sweat and blood. Her shoulders shook violently with the sobs she had held back the entire beating — deep, guttural, heartbroken sounds that tore out of her now that his eyes were no longer on her.

Jonathan watched the pathetic lump on the bed for a long, silent moment.

A low, disgusted scoff escaped his lips.

Without another word, without even a flicker of remorse, he turned and walked out of the bedroom, leaving his wife alone in the dark to cry herself raw. He didn’t bother closing the door behind him.

She wasn’t even worth that small mercy.

The open doorway gaped like a wound, letting the cold hallway light spill across her broken form as she lay there shaking, bleeding, and sobbing into the silk sheets.