Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs

Chapter 793: Collective Share

Madison my Queen—predatory calculation behind dark eyes. Charlotte—analytical clarity warring with exhaustion. Patricia—decades of grief etched deeper today. Sofia—fear she was trying desperately to hide. Emma—cocky shell cracking at the seams. Sarah—quiet, watchful, missing nothing. Isabella—teacher brain still trying to organize chaos into lesson plans. Luna—wide-eyed, too innocent for this war.

My family. My responsibility.

"Master," ARIA’s voice returned through the earpiece, low and urgent. "I strongly recommend immediate escalation of defensive protocols. Entities with this level of capability constitute an existential-grade threat."

"Agreed. Implement Protocol Fortress immediately."

"Confirmed. Increasing drone patrol density, activating additional Militarybot positions, enhancing perimeter scanners to maximum sensitivity. Estate security elevated to Threat Level Alpha."

The invisible drones above us were already patrolling. The Militarybots hidden throughout the property were already active. The intent-scanning borders were already operational. This estate was already the most secure location in Los Angeles.

"Already on it."

Madison’s hand found mine under the table, fingers tightening. "What about you? What’s your move today?"

"First, Mom’s place. Then Tommy’s— Tonight..." I let the sentence hang a beat. "Tonight I’m checking out that mansion. The one with the undocumented sub-levels and full off-grid capability."

"I’m in," Madison said instantly.

Soo-Jin materialized in the doorway—silent as always, posture relaxed yet coiled. "Me too."

Ava was already moving toward the hall, phone in hand. "I’ll reach out to Langley. See if any of my old contacts have chatter on this."

I nodded. My queen and my blade. The perfect reconnaissance team.

"Your schedule at the wellness center has been cleared," ARIA reported. "Victoria, Ortega, and Anya have redistributed your appointments. You are free for the next seventy-two hours."

"Catherine?"

"Preoccupied with final preparations for the Paris summit. Departure in six days. She has requested no non-critical interruptions."

Good. One less international variable to juggle right now.

Protocol Fortress just made it impenetrable.

Emma, Sarah, Isabella, Sofia, and Luna gathered their school bags. Maintaining the illusion of normal teenage life—classes, homework, pretending they weren’t part of a supernatural family being hunted by unknown forces—clinging to the fragile routine of teenage normalcy even as the ground shifted beneath them.

I kissed each of them goodbye. Extra time with Emma, making sure she understood that confidence was strength but recklessness was stupidity.

"If you see Trent—or anyone who smells like trouble—you run. You call. You do not engage. That’s an order."

She rolled her eyes, pure teenage armor. "I can handle—"

"He might not be alone anymore. Whoever sprang him could be riding shotgun. You run. You call. Understood?"

A dramatic sigh, but she nodded. "Fine. But if he tries anything, I’m kicking his nuts so hard they’ll need a bloodhound to find them."

"That’s my girl."

They filed out. Madison stayed—school was irrelevant today.

I moved through the remaining women. Margaret earned a slow, deliberate kiss when Charlotte wasn’t watching—welcome to the chaos. Patricia got a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder—her truth was safe here. Charlotte received a quiet promise: "We’ll figure this out."

Then I took Madison’s hand. "Ready to ride?"

Her smile was half thrill, half challenge. "Always."

We crossed the garage, past the polished Rolls-Royces and Bentleys—the jewelry of conventional wealth—straight to the shadowed rear corner where the real predators slept.

The Hunters.

Not motorcycles. Not vehicles.

Living weapons on two wheels.

Mine crouched in the gloom like a panther mid-breath: the Void Reaper. Brutal geometry—razor-edged fairings, low-slung stance that promised violence. Fat, treadless tires built to grip anything from asphalt to gravel to blood. No visible exhaust, no running lights—just a low, hungry thrum vibrating through the concrete.

Madison stopped dead. "Holy shit. What is that?" Fair enough, she’s never seen it before.

I laid my palm on the center console. "This is what happens when you feed bleeding-edge AI, plasma weaponry, and zero regard for physics to a chassis that already hates the laws of man."

The console pulsed. Retinal scan. Biometric handshake. Then a deeper, more primal voice than ARIA’s rolled out of hidden speakers embedded in the frame:

"Biometric confirmed. Master Peter. Ready to hunt."

Madison circled the machine slowly, fingers trailing the cold, matte-black armor. The entire frame shivered faintly under her touch, like something breathing.

"It’s armed?" she asked.

"Plasma rails concealed in the spine. Micro-missile pods. EMP directional bursts. Retractable wheel-blades for obstacle removal." I opened the hidden compartment and pulled out the nano-suit—liquid shadow that flowed like oil. "And yes—full autonomy. If I’m pinned down, it’ll come for me. Guns hot."

"You built a sentient murder-cycle."

"Three of them. Soo-Jin and Ava ride the other two."

"Of course you did." Her grin was equal parts fear and arousal. "What else?"

I tapped the console. "Strap Function." A soft click—magnetic restraints unfolded from the seat and frame like steel ribbons. "Zero-to-three-hundred kilometers per hour in under two seconds. The G-forces would pulp a normal rider. These straps and inertial dampeners keep you glued in place instead."

Her eyes ignited. "You built a motorcycle that hits three hundred miles per hour."

"Bulletproof shielding, adaptive camouflage, onboard AI that plots escape vectors while I’m busy putting plasma through windshields." I tossed her the nano-suit. "Put it on. Street clothes won’t survive what happens when things get kinetic."

Madison didn’t hesitate. She stripped in the middle of the garage—practical, shameless, treating the war machine like it was part of the furniture. The suit flowed over her skin like living mercury, sealing without seams, adaptive plates accentuating every lethal curve while remaining perfectly articulated. She flexed her fingers; the material rippled in response.

"It’s... vibrating," she said, voice catching.

"Haptic neural link. You’ll feel road texture, proximity alerts, incoming vectors before your eyes register them. Second sight."

I stepped into mine. The familiar second-skin weight settled like an old friend that had pulled me out of too many graves. Palm to the console. The Reaper responded with a hydraulic sigh—seat splitting, helmet rising like a dark crown. Matte obsidian visor, HUD already painting tactical overlays across my vision: threat layers, navigation ghosts, weapons hot-status, ARIA’s heartbeat pulsing in the corner.

Madison’s helmet unfolded from her side of the chassis—sleeker lines, feminine aggression. She slid it on. A sharp inhale hissed over comms as the interface woke.

"Jesus," she breathed. "I can see everything. Threat icons. Predictive paths. Thermal signatures through walls—"

"Welcome to divine transit." I swung a leg over. The Reaper adjusted instantly—suspension dropping, seat contouring to my mass, balance shifting like it was breathing with me. "Strap Function stays cold unless we need it. Right now we’re just visiting Mom. But grip hard anyway."

She mounted behind me. Arms locked around my waist, chest molded to my back, thighs clamping my hips. Even through layered armor I felt her pulse, her heat, the subtle tremor of anticipation in every breath.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Make it hurt."

I rolled the throttle.

The Reaper didn’t scream like mortal bikes. It growled—deep, tectonic, a promise of controlled apocalypse. Garage door parted without command. Sunlight hit the active-camo panels; they flickered once, sampling albedo, then smoothed to near-invisibility against the concrete.

We eased out. Let the AI breathe, let Madison feel the gyro-stabilized balance.

Then we hit asphalt.

And I fed it everything.

Zero to sixty in 2.1 seconds. The launch was surgical violence—G-forces clawing at ribs, vision tunneling, brain registering this should not be possible. The Reaper’s AI ate the physics problem for breakfast: traction vectoring, stability gyros, predictive collision avoidance. I simply held course and let the machine hunt.

Madison’s arms cinched tighter—not fear. Ecstasy.

Her laugh cracked over comms like gunfire. "FASTER!"

I gave her faster.

One-fifty. Two hundred. Two-forty.

Ahead, a leaner shadow sliced traffic like a thrown knife—Soo-Jin on the Shadow Blade. Bulbous carbon fairings, hubless rims that seemed to defy gravity, crimson LED veins pulsing like arterial glow. Where my Reaper was brute apocalyptic force, hers was surgical elegance—a scalpel on wheels. She flowed through gaps that hadn’t existed seconds earlier, AI threading her three moves ahead, scouting, clearing, carving safe passage.

My blade, doing blade things.

Traffic dissolved into irrelevant geometry. The inertial field shimmered faintly—a soap-bubble distortion that parted air, flicked debris aside, turned wind into courtesy. We ghosted through Lincoln Heights: visible one heartbeat, vanished the next. Soo-Jin a crimson specter leading, Madison fused to my spine, the three of us locked in lethal synchrony.

Cops didn’t even twitch. What were they going to do—radio in machines that could outrun sound and return fire with directed plasma?

HUD painted the world in clean symbology: pedestrian vectors green, vehicle threats amber, Soo-Jin’s marker steady emerald ahead. Zero red icons. Nothing on four wheels could touch us.

Madison’s voice cut through the restrained fury of the engine, soft and reverent: "This is what you meant. Gods don’t travel like mortals."

"Gods don’t need to."

The Reaper could take us anywhere. Through barricades. Over oceans if the batteries held. Autonomous, loyal, lethal—built to one biometric signature and no other.

Soo-Jin ahead, ensuring the road stayed sanctified.

Three men had disappeared into clean blackouts. Someone was harvesting my enemies. Someone wielded tech that could stare ARIA in the eye and not blink.

But that war could wait thirty minutes.

First we were going to see Mom.

With my blade carving the way forward and my queen sealed to my back.

I twisted the throttle again.

Los Angeles smeared into streaks of chrome, neon, and morning fire.

Because gods ride war machines. Their blades clear the path. And the universe can catch up when it’s ready.