My Taboo Harem!-Chapter 485: Denial: A Witch’s Fantasy Wet Dream

Her cheeks blazed crimson beneath the emerald fury. She drifted closer, the debris of murdered worlds swirling like cosmic confetti between them — shards of crystal continents glinting, wisps of unravelled time coiling like smoke.

Her gaze dropped — defiant still, but sheepish now, vulnerable in a way that made the void feel suddenly intimate.

He floated nearer, horns casting long shadows across her flushed face, voice dropping to a velvet rumble thick with playful promise.

"So... you want me to fuck you until you can’t walk either? Just like I did your sister — legs shaking, pussy ruined, begging for more even when you can’t take it? Is that what this whole cosmic tantrum was about, my fiery little witch?"

She bit her lip hard enough to draw a bead of starlit blood that shimmered like liquid diamonds, then gave one tiny, sheepish nod — emerald eyes lifting to meet his, blazing with equal parts fury, hunger, and aching need.

He threw his head back and laughed in a warm, triumphant sound that stitched a few shattered stars back together, their light flaring brighter in celebration.

"You could’ve just said so, witchling! All that destruction... for a little jealousy? Come here, and let’s make some worlds of our own."

He reached for her —

Eleanor’s eyes flew open.

She sat up so fast the sheets ripped away from her body like she’d been launched from a cannon. Chest heaving.

Heart hammering — not beating, hammering — each pulse a detonation behind her ribs that she could feel in her teeth, her temples, the base of her skull.

Sweat everywhere.

Soaking the pillowcase.

Soaking the shirt she slept in — one of those oversized cotton things she’d packed because they were comfortable and shapeless and had absolutely nothing to do with looking attractive for anyone.

The shirt was plastered to her skin now. Translucent with perspiration, clinging to her breasts, her stomach, the curve of her waist.

Her hair was a disaster — stuck to her forehead, her neck, the damp hollow of her collarbones.

She was panting.

Actually, physically panting — mouth open, lungs burning, like she’d just sprinted a mile instead of lying unconscious in a forty-third-floor hotel room in a city she didn’t belong in.

The dream was still there.

Not fading the way dreams were supposed to and not dissolving into vague impressions and half-remembered colours, either.

It was there. In so much vivid detail.

Every image branded into her visual cortex with the specificity of a photograph. The newborn worlds. The exploding stars. The magical powers. The mandala. The void.

His face.

His face.

Those purple eyes that had been twinkling, having so much fun with her, wanting her and looking at her the way no one had ever looked at her, with the absolute certainty that she would give him everything and the absolute confidence that everything would not be enough.

The horns. The wings of shadow and violet flame.

Come here, and let’s make some worlds of our own.

"Oh, God," Eleanor whispered.

Her hands were shaking as she pressed them flat against the mattress and the sheets that were still damp between her legs.

Not just from sweat.

She became aware — slowly, horribly, with the creeping dread of someone discovering a spider on their pillow — that the dampness was not limited to the sheets.

Between her thighs. Warm. Slick. The unmistakable, mortifying evidence of a body that had been responding to something while her conscious mind was busy destroying galaxies.

"Oh, Gods."

She threw the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Eleanor sat there with bare feet on cool marble, hands braced on her knees, head hanging, breathing.

Just breathing.

The details settled into her like sediment in disturbed water — sinking, layering, arranging themselves into a picture she didn’t want to look at but couldn’t stop assembling.

She’d been the witch.

An all-powerful, galaxy-destroying, reality-bending witch.

And he — the arrogant, purple-eyed, horned, insufferable dragon she’d been chasing across the cosmos — had been him.

The boy from the lobby. The boy from the airport screen.

The boy she’d walked into and stared at like a concussed goldfish while his silver-haired girlfriend smiled at her humiliation.

She’d dreamt about him.

Not a passing cameo... not a vague shape wearing a familiar face.

A starring fucking role. Him. Specifically.

With his exact smile and his exact eyes and his exact infuriating confidence, teasing her across the void while she threw planets at his head.

And at the end — the part that made her want to crawl out of her own skin and leave it in a heap on the floor —

She’d nodded.

He’d asked if she wanted him to — the words were still there, burned into her memory, refusing to decay — and she’d bitten her lip and nodded.

Like a character in one of those awful fantasy novels her roommate at uni used to read. The ones with the shirtless men on the covers and the titles that were always something like The Dragon’s Forbidden Mate or Claimed by the Beast Lord or some equally mortifying combination of words that Eleanor had sworn she would never, under any circumstances, find herself relating to.

And now here she was.

Twenty-three years old. Educated. Composed. A WitchBourne. Here to perform a duty that required every ounce of dignity she possessed.

And I am having wet dreams about a teenage womanizer I’d bumped into in a lobby.

Fantasy wet fucking dreams.

With horns, you absolute psycho.

And wings.

And dialogue.

"How low," she muttered, standing. Her legs were unsteady. Her thighs were sticky. "How absolutely, pathetically, irredeemably low."

She walked to the bathroom. Each step was an exercise in refusing to think about the way dream-her had bitten her lip.

About the violet spark he’d blown toward her. About the way he’d said witchling and something in her stomach had — no. No.

She turned the shower on. Cold. Deliberately, punitively cold.

Stepped under it.

The shock hit her like a slap — every nerve firing at once, skin contracting, the heat of the dream doused in one brutal, gasping moment.

She stood there, arms wrapped around herself, teeth chattering, water streaming down her face and plastering her hair flat against her skull.

This was fine.

This was normal.

People had strange dreams. It didn’t mean anything. It was just her subconscious processing the stress of the past week — the waiting, the isolation, the lobby, the collision — and mashing it together with the leftover imagery of a very attractive man because brains were stupid and hormones were stupider and none of it, none of it, meant she was attracted to him.

She wasn’t.

She wasn’t attracted to a boy she’d spoken four words to.

She wasn’t attracted to a womanizer who probably couldn’t remember her face.

She wasn’t attracted to anyone. She was here to apologise to one man and marry him and survive both experiences without losing what was left of herself.

That was the plan.

The shower ran cold.

Eleanor stood under it until she stopped shaking.

Then kept standing until the dream stopped feeling real.

It took a long time.