Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 796

Chapter 796: What Gods Need

The breakfast dishes were half-cleared when Mom’s hand found mine under the table.

Not accidental. Deliberate. Her thumb tracing circles on my palm in that way only she could—the touch that said I see you without words. The touch that had evolved from maternal comfort to something more complicated, more intimate, more ours in the days since everything changed between us.

"Baby," she said softly, voice pitched under the noise of Jasmine and Madison debating whether the Blade’s acceleration could outpace the Reaper’s raw power. "Did you sleep?"

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Her eyes—those dark, knowing eyes that had watched me grow from a scared orphan into whatever the fuck I was now—narrowed with the kind of assessment that came from sixteen years of reading my bullshit.

"Peter."

"I’m fine."

"You’re lying." Her grip tightened. "I can always tell when you’re lying. Your jaw does this thing."

"My jaw doesn’t do a thing."

"Your jaw absolutely does a thing." She leaned closer, and I caught her scent—that specific combination of vanilla lotion and something floral that had meant safety since I was small enough to fit in her lap. "How many hours?"

"Mom—"

"How. Many. Hours."

I exhaled. Surrendered. Because lying to Linda Carter was like lying to God—technically possible but ultimately pointless since she’d figure it out anyway and make you feel worse for trying.

"Whole day," I admitted. "Time gets weird when ARIA’s feeding me stimulant protocols."

Her expression shifted. The concern deepened into something sharper. Something that looked like a woman who’d made a decision and wasn’t interested in discussing it.

"Jasmine," Mom called across the kitchen, voice carrying that deceptive lightness she used when she was about to orchestrate something. "Didn’t you say you wanted to see the shooting range progress? The one Peter’s building?"

Jasmine perked up immediately. Still sore from Emma’s claims about Soo-Jin. Still competitive in ways that made her incapable of letting a challenge slide. "Yes. I want to see where this child—" she gestured at Soo-Jin with her coffee cup "—supposedly outperforms national team shooters, trains."

Soo-Jin’s expression didn’t change. "I don’t suppose. I do."

Madison caught my eye. Smiled. The smile of a woman who’d already figured out what Mom was doing and approved entirely.

"We should go," Madison said, standing with the fluid grace of someone who’d been raised to exit rooms like she owned them. "I’ve been wanting to see Soo-Jin demonstrate anyway. And Jasmine can show us what professional shooting looks like. Let’s see who’s better."

The challenge landed exactly where it was meant to.

Jasmine’s spine straightened. Her chin lifted. That fire in her eyes that had gotten her onto the national team in the first place—the refusal to be second best at anything—flared hot and immediate.

"Fine." She was already moving, already reaching for shoes, already in competition mode. "Let’s settle this. One hour on the range. I’ll show you what actual training looks like versus whatever Call of Duty fantasy you’ve been practicing."

Soo-Jin’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Acceptable terms."

They swept out of the kitchen in a flurry of competitive energy and pointed comments—Madison steering them toward the door with practiced ease, throwing me one last look over her shoulder.

Go sleep, that look said. I’ll handle this.

I love you, I tried to communicate back.

Her smile softened. I know. Now go.

The front door closed. Engines started.

Silence settled over the kitchen.

Just me and Mom.

She stood, tugged my hand, pulled me to my feet with surprising strength. "Come on."

"Mom—"

"Don’t." She pressed a finger to my lips. The gesture intimate in ways that would’ve felt wrong six months ago but now felt like exactly what I needed. "I know you think you can run forever on supernatural bullshit and that AI pumping chemicals into your system. I know you think sleep is optional for gods." She cupped my face in both hands, made me look at her. "But I know you, Peter. I know you can’t actually rest unless—"

She stopped. Swallowed. The words hanging between us like a confession neither of us needed to voice.

Unless you’re with me.

It was the strangest of my weaknesses. The most inexplicable. Every system enhancement, every supernatural ability, every pill and potion designed to eliminate the need for sleep—all of them failed. My body refused to surrender to unconsciousness unless mom was beside me. Some cosmic joke. Some fundamental truth about what I need that transcended everything else I’d become.

Only Linda gave me sleep.

And she knew it.

"Upstairs," she said quietly. "My room. Now."

I didn’t argue.

Mom’s bedroom still smelled like her. Same vanilla candles on the nightstand.

She closed the door behind us. Locked it with a soft click.

"Clothes off," she said, and there was nothing sexual in it. Just practical. Maternal in a way that had evolved to include everything we’d become. "You’re not sleeping in some tactical gear."

"Bed," she ordered.

She slid in beside me. Warm. Solid. Real in ways that cut through every layer of supernatural enhancement and billion-dollar empire and god-complex bullshit.

"Come here," she murmured, opening her arms.

"I’ve got you," she whispered against my temple. "I’ve always got you."

My eyes were getting heavy. Finally. Finally. Hours of running on fumes and supernatural stubbornness, and her presence was doing what nothing else could—convincing my body that it was safe enough to stop.

"Bossy."

She chose me.

When I was nothing. When I had nothing. When nobody else wanted the orphan son of an escort who died giving birth.

She chose me anyway.

And I’d burn the world down to keep her safe.

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