Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 686

Chapter 686: I Am Going To End You

I moved.

Not a run. Not a leap. Something faster. Something that said fuck physics and made the world bend around me instead.

The marble floor vanished beneath my feet as I launched in a single, obscene surge. Thirty-two feet of empty air became irrelevant. Gravity whined like a child being ignored. For 0.3 seconds I was weightless, untouchable, a missile carved from rage and muscle memory older than this house.

My godly perception sharpened to razor-wire clarity: Lila’s body tumbling in perfect slow-motion ballet. Her arc, her spin, the precise vector where our trajectories would kiss. Every detail burned into me—her arms flailing uselessly, fingers scraping at nothing but air and terror.

The white lace robe detonated open mid-fall, seams splitting with wet, ragged tears like flesh giving way.

Fabric whipped backward, exposing the full carnage painted across her torso: thumbprint bruises the color of rotting plums, belt-weals striped yellow and green like old decay, fresh crimson finger-marks blooming where Dex had just choked the life half out of her.

Her spine bowed backward at an angle that should have snapped it clean—vertebrae cracking in sharp, popcorn pops that echoed down through the foyer like gunfire.

Blonde hair lashed outward in a violent corona, strands slicing across her own face like whips.

One thick lock caught on the railing’s edge and tore free from her scalp with a sickening, wet rip—skin peeling back in a raw pink flap, blood spraying in fine crimson mist that hung suspended in the red strobes like aerosol rubies.

The scream that ripped from her throat was primordial—larynx shredding, vocal cords fraying to threads. It warped as velocity stole it, stretching into a Doppler-screaming banshee wail that punched every eardrum in the room and left them ringing.

I intercepted her at the bottom of the arc.

I caught her in a perfect Princess carry: left forearm hooked under the bend of her knees, right arm cradling the small of her back. The collision was cataclysmic. Her full weight—fragile and broken—slammed into me like a meteor wrapped in lace.

My legs flexed, absorbed, then buckled. My right knee drove into the marble with bone-shattering force. The stone spiderwebbed outward in a perfect starburst crack, the sound exploding like a suppressed rifle shot.

Silence swallowed the room whole. Thick. Suffocating. Only the drip-drip-drip of her blood hitting marble.

I held her there, knee-down, braced, her head lolled back over my elbow. Blonde hair spilled like molten sunlight across my forearm. The robe hung in blood-soaked tatters, barely clinging to her shoulders.

Fresh red streamed from the gash on her cheek—temple to jaw, a surgeon’s clean line now weeping steadily.

Scalp wound oozed darker, mixing with tears and snot and spit into a slow pink rivulet that pattered onto my chest.

She was gone—out cold, body limp as wet silk. Face slack except for the obscene gash and the slow trickle from her mouth where she’d bitten through her own lip on impact.

"Psychological shutdown," ARIA’s voice sliced through my skull, calm as refrigerated steel. "Nervous system overload. Protective catatonia. Heart rate 142 and climbing but sinus rhythm intact. Respirations shallow at eight per minute. She requires immediate advanced care. ETA to nearest Level I facility: seventeen minutes without intervention."

I stared down at her peaceful, blood-streaked face. Sleeping. Almost angelic. Like she hadn’t just been hurled off a balcony by a man who thought he owned her soul.

Something inside me fractured— fractured. Deep, spreading fissures promising cataclysm once the pressure released.

My body began to vibrate. Not tremble. Vibrate. Muscles locked so hard they sang like over-strung piano wire. Heat poured off my skin in visible waves; sweat flash-evaporated into ghostly steam that curled upward in the cold AC.

I lifted my eyes.

Dex still stood at the railing, arms extended from the shove, palms open as if he could take it back. His face was a mask of dawning horror—mouth slack, eyes wide, pupils shrinking to pinpricks as comprehension finally caught up.

Our gazes locked.

He saw it then. Saw the promise carved into my stare. Saw his own obituary written in the way my pupils didn’t dilate anymore.

The crowd detonated.

Gasps. Shrieks. Phones flashing like strobe lightning. Bodies surging in chaotic waves—some pressing closer for the shot, others scrambling backward toward exits.

"Holy fuck—he caught her—"

"How the hell—"

"Is she alive?"

"She’s bleeding—oh my god—"

"My video just—gone!"

"What the fuck just happened to my phone?"

"Everything’s black!"

"WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?"

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