Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 669

Chapter 669: Neptune’s Throne 2

This moment when you’re completely enclosed in water moving at highway speeds, when one wrong move means getting slammed into the reef or washing-machined until you don’t know which way is up.

Time stretched. Everything went silent despite the roar. I could see the light at the end—the exit, getting smaller as the tube closed behind me, collapsing like a dying star.

Flew. Just flew. Board tracking perfect, body compressed, breathing steady.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.

Then the tube spit me out like a bullet from a gun.

The world exploded into sound—the roar becoming a scream, wind hitting my face, and underneath it all, the crowd losing their fucking minds.

I rode the white water for another thirty yards, standing tall now, board skimming across the foam. Then kicked out clean, board flipping up as I dove off into waist-deep water.

The beach erupted.

Screams. Cheers. Whistles. Phones flashing like a lightning storm. A hundred voices chanting my name.

I stood in the shallows, water streaming from my hair, chest heaving, sun behind me painting everything gold.

Colt was already paddling back out, jaw set, eyes sharp. Jaxon followed, face unreadable. The others scrambled to position.

Round one: Eros.

But we were just getting started.

I paddled back out, arms pulling steady, the board cutting through water like it was made for this. The sun had dropped lower, painting the ocean in shades of copper and violet. The crowd on the beach was louder now, energized, hungry for more.

Back in the lineup, I sat up, catching my breath. The others were already positioned, eyeing the horizon with that focus surfers get when they know they’re behind.

Colt looked over, nodded once. Respect, maybe. Or acknowledgment that I’d just made this harder for everyone.

"Round two!" Dex’s voice carried from the beach, amplified somehow—probably someone’s Bluetooth speaker. "Best wave wins! Go!"

Ryder went first.

A solid six-footer rolled in, peeling right—his preferred direction. He spun, paddled hard, popped up smooth. The wave wasn’t as clean as mine, choppier, but he worked it. Pumped for speed, carved hard, launched off the lip in a small air that got the crowd screaming. He hung there for a second, board vertical, arms out, before gravity remembered him and pulled him back down.

He landed it. Rode the shoulder for another twenty yards, kicked out clean.

Solid wave. Seven out of ten, maybe.

Shane went next. Late drop on a steep one, tried to make it, but his timing was off. The nose pearled—dug into the water instead of planing—and the whole board flipped. He went over the falls, board tombstoning behind him, leash yanking him back into the white water. He surfaced ten seconds later, coughing, board floating nearby.

The crowd groaned sympathetically.

Kai caught a screamer—fast, steep, the kind that tries to outrun you. He managed a decent ride, stayed in the pocket, clipped the lip once. But the wave closed out on him, section collapsing all at once. He got swallowed by white water, disappeared for a moment, then popped up spitting salt.

Good effort. Six out of ten.

Jaxon’s turn.

He waited. Patient. Let two waves pass that the rest of us would’ve taken. Then a set came through that made everyone sit up.

Double overhead. Maybe ten feet. The kind of wave that separates weekend warriors from people who actually know what the fuck they’re doing.

Jaxon spun, dug deep, paddled like his life depended on it. The wave picked him up, and he dropped in—vertical, committed, no hesitation. His bottom turn was a freight train, all power, no finesse. Water carved away from his rail in a massive spray. Then he shot back up the face, hit the lip in a top turn that threw spray twenty feet in the air.

He rode it all the way in, solid and strong, no barrel but no mistakes either.

The crowd went wild. That was an eight, easy. Maybe higher.

Which left Colt.

He sat there, floating, eyes on the horizon. Waiting. The sun kissed the water now, turning everything molten. Five minutes passed. The crowd got restless, murmuring.

Then I saw what he was waiting for.

An A-frame. Perfect peak, breaking in both directions, the kind of wave that comes maybe once an hour if you’re lucky. The face was glass, the shoulder clean, and the way the light hit it made it look like liquid gold.

Colt turned, positioned himself dead center. Started paddling.

Late drop—deliberately late, putting himself deeper in the pocket than was safe. The wave jacked up beneath him, stood vertical. He popped up at the last possible second, leaned back to keep the nose up, and dropped.

Then he stalled. Kicked the tail out, let the board slow, positioned himself right where the lip was about to throw. He compressed low, almost sitting, and the wave’s lip pitched over him.

Tube.

Not as long as mine. Not as clean. But deep. He was buried in there, invisible except for the occasional flash of his board’s lightning bolt through the green. The roar carried across the water.

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