Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 794

Chapter 794: Morning Ride (NEEDS FIXING)

The Reaper ripped through Lincoln Heights morning traffic like it was personally offended by the concept of gridlock.

One-fifty. Two hundred. Why not three? Physics is negotiable when you’re riding something that has the personality of a sociopathic panther.

Ahead, Soo-Jin danced the Blade through lanes—that vicious, origami-folded murder machine someone clearly designed while high on spite and nano. All sharp planes and worse intentions. My Reaper was a battering ram with anger issues; hers was a scalpel that fucked at Mach speeds.

Precision assassination on twenty-inch rims.

She was faster by pedigree, slipping through gaps that hadn’t even decided to exist yet. Her AI played chess with traffic four moves ahead, tagging threats before they could finish blinking. The Blade’s skin shimmered—adaptive camo flirting with the scenery like it was deciding whether to eat it or just humiliate it.

My job? Bulldoze whatever survived her first pass so the real predator never had to dirty her skirts.

"Every time you ride this thing," Madison’s voice purred through the comms, half-lost under the engine’s polite scream, "I want to crawl inside it with you."

Grinned behind the visor. "You already are."

"You know what I mean." Her arms locked around my waist like she was trying to merge our ribcages. "This—this unholy velocity. I’d rather die in this seat than live in a Rolls again."

"Then die happy. We’ll make it quick."

The inertial shield hummed, parting air like Moses with a grudge and flicking road grit away like it owed us money. Traffic turned into a pathetic diorama; the Reaper’s AI treated it with the contempt usually reserved for expired coupons. A semi drifted without signaling—the system had already written its obituary two seconds earlier, vectored us through a gap narrower than most people’s moral compasses.

Soo-Jin stayed point, her Blade a black rumor nobody quite believed they’d seen. Commuters kept scrolling their phones, blissfully unaware a war crime on wheels had just used them as scenery. Cops at the intersections didn’t even lift their coffee lids. What were they going to do—write a ticket for exceeding the sound barrier?

HUD painted the world in helpful colors: pedestrians yellow (potential speed bumps), vehicles white slow-moving meat shields, Soo-Jin’s signature steady green ahead—always watching, always judging, never blinking.

"Threats?" I asked.

[None worth mentioning,] the Reaper replied, sounding almost disappointed. [Shadow Blade continues forward reconnaissance. Route obscenely clear. ETA: two minutes eighteen seconds and change.]

Not Shadow Blade. Just Blade. That thing had more personality than half the people I knew. It moved like it already knew how you were going to die and was mildly irritated you were taking so long to get there.

We carved into the residential stretch—joggers, strollers, dog-walkers who caught twin black blurs and probably blamed last night’s edibles. One guy dropped his coffee like he’d seen the devil’s Uber.

Mom’s mansion loomed ahead, the ridiculous fairy-tale house I’d bought her, so she’d have something pretty to look at while she pretended the world hadn’t tried to murder her son.

Smart gate recognized us before we even finished decelerating.

Soo-Jin hit the entrance first. Gate parted like it was apologizing; the Blade ghosted through without breaking stride, already running a perimeter sweep for imaginary snipers. Paranoia wasn’t a bug with her. It was the whole operating system.

We followed. The Reaper’s howl dropped to a smug purr as we rolled up the drive. Gate clanged shut behind us—soft magnetic kisses only our helmets caught.

Soo-Jin was off in one fluid motion, helmet under her arm, Blade idling like a sleeping assassin running last-minute murder fantasies.

I killed the Reaper near the steps. Felt Madison’s grip loosen—slow, like she was saying goodbye to a lover.

"I meant it," she murmured, private channel. "Every ride. Every single one. Even if it ends in fire."

"Then we’ll burn together. Sounds romantic."

I flicked up my watch while she slid off.

"Peter Carter."

Mom’s voice cracked like a judge’s gavel. Hands planted on hips, stance wide enough to block the doorway and half the porch light. The mom-voice—the one that once made God Himself reconsider smiting the firstborn.

Still wearing those ridiculous blue pajama clouds Sarah had gifted soft in the wrong places, clinging in the right ones. Coffee mug gripped like a talisman against the universe.

Dark half-moons under her eyes despite the so-called "indefinite compassionate leave" the hospital had slapped on her file after the shooting. Corporate code for: Your son took two in the chest; we’re not heartless enough to make you clock in tomorrow.

Madison slipped past me, already climbing the steps with that liquid prowl of hers. "Mother. You look less like death warmed over than yesterday."

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify