Evil MC's NTR Harem

The insult hung in the air like poison.

One of the men flinched, finger twitching on the trigger. Another shifted uncomfortably.

They'd faced threats before—arrogant men, desperate men, even men with nothing to lose. But Ross Oakley wasn't like any of them.

He was calm. Too calm.

It wasn't just confidence—it was something colder. Like he already knew how this would end, and none of them mattered.

Inside the control room, Thomas watched the live feed in silence. He could feel the tension through the screen. And the worst part?

Ross hadn't even drawn a weapon…

And still, he was the most dangerous man on the field.

A few tense breaths passed in absolute silence. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, heavy and stifling.

On the monitors, Ross Oakley stood still, hands calmly at his sides, eyes unwavering.

Thomas stared at the screen, calculating. Weighing the risks. This wasn't some idiot off the street.

It was Ross—Ross Oakley, the man whose name alone made experienced mercenaries sweat.

Finally, Thomas made the call.

"Cuff him and bring him in."

His voice was steady, but beneath it ran a current of unease.

The men stationed outside heard the command through their earpieces and didn't hesitate.

They moved in with practiced precision, surrounding Ross even tighter.

One of them pulled out a pair of thick black cuffs—custom restraints forged for high-risk targets.

Heavy, unforgiving metal that clamped down like a vice.

"Oh?" Ross said, cocking an eyebrow as the cuffs clicked shut behind his back.

"Brand-new bracelets? Fancy. I didn't expect gifts today. How thoughtful. I'll give some gifts later on."

He chuckled softly, not a trace of fear in his voice. The cold steel bit into his wrists, pinning his arms behind him, but he walked forward like it was just another day.

The guards led him through the halls of the compound, rifles at his back, but it was clear—Ross wasn't intimidated. If anything, he was enjoying the walk.

Thomas watched from the center of the hall as Ross was brought in. The place was designed for intimidation—gray stone walls, flickering lights, a wide, echoing space meant to disorient and unnerve.

Six masked guards stood in place with rifles at the ready.

And then there was Thomas himself—handsome, confident, still wearing that well-groomed arrogance that made people hate him before he even spoke.

Ross stepped into the center of the room, hands bound, and lifted his gaze to meet Thomas's.

"You gonna offer me a drink or just keep pretending this place doesn't smell like cheap metal and fear?" Ross asked casually.

Thomas didn't take the bait. He stared at him for a moment, searching for a weakness, a crack in the armor. He found none.

"What's your plan?" Thomas finally asked. His voice was cool, but his fingers twitched slightly at his side. "You came here alone. No backup. No escape route. That's not like you, Ross."

Ross's smirk deepened.

"You really think I'd walk into a place like this without an ace up my sleeve?"

Thomas's eyes narrowed. He knew Ross too well. This man didn't play fair, and he didn't make empty threats. There was a reason he was here, and there was a reason he was so calm.

Thomas had read his profile from top to bottom.

From the streets of Parkland City to the private military contracts overseas, Ross's record was spotless—and terrifying.

Precision kills. Disappearing acts. Negotiations that ended with blood on the walls.

Although there was no evidence that he did it himself, everyone was convinced that he was the mastermind behind these mysterious killings.

Suicidal? No. Calculated? Always.

"You've got someone here," Ross said smoothly, "someone who doesn't belong to you."

Thomas's face remained unreadable, but Ross could feel the shift in the air.

"I'm here to take her back. And," he added, voice dropping just a notch lower, "to pay you back for your crimes. Don't worry—I came prepared."

"You think this is a rescue mission?" Thomas asked, voice dry. "That girl isn't yours anymore. She's mine now. Mine. She belongs to this house now."

Ross chuckled. "That's cute. Really. But you should've done your homework. Jade's not just a girl. She's my wife. And I'm not the kind of man who lets people touch what's his."

Thomas's gaze flickered, just briefly, to the side. That told Ross everything.

He pressed on. "I tolerated your bullshit. Even let you pretend for a moment that you were worth her time. That maybe, maybe, she might fall for your charm. But you? You couldn't even measure up to the man she forgot on her worst day. Your charm?" He scoffed.

"Trash. Compared to my big cock, you're just a joke with expensive cologne."

The insult cut deeper than any bullet. A couple of the guards stiffened, glancing at each other behind their masks.

They weren't used to seeing their boss get talked down to—especially not by a cuffed man.

Thomas's expression darkened, his lips tightening at the corners.

But Ross wasn't finished.

"You had your fun, Thomas. You tried to play king. But the game's over now."

He stepped forward just slightly, metal cuffs clinking behind him.

"You should've known better than to lay hands on what's mine."

For a moment, no one moved.

The tension in the room was electric—guns raised, fingers twitching, and in the center of it all, Ross Oakley smiling like the devil himself.

Ding!

The soft metallic chime echoed faintly in the tense silence.

A breath later, Ross moved.

The cuffs binding his wrists fell away with a sharp clack, as if they'd never truly held him in the first place. For a split second, no one moved—frozen by disbelief.

Then everything happened at once.

Ross turned to the man closest to him. In a single, fluid motion, his fist rocketed upward in a brutal uppercut.

Crack!

The sound was sickening—bones snapping, flesh tearing. The man's head whipped back violently, and then—boom.

Blood sprayed in a wide arc as Ross's bare fist punched straight through the man's jaw and shattered his skull from beneath the mask.