Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 810

Chapter 810: Lost Hearts in One Place

She thought concussion delirium. Traumatic brain injury. Something she could treat with protocol and ice and a call to the ER if it got worse.

She was wrong.

From that day forward Peter Carter walked like he’d stolen someone else’s gravity.

Head up. Shoulders loose. Eyes steady. The bruises stopped arriving because the fists stopped swinging. Jack Morrison—king of cruelty, lord of hallway beatdowns—looked at Peter once after that day and suddenly found new hobbies. Like avoiding eye contact.

And Peter started talking to her.

Not nurse-patient script.

Real shit.

About hypovolemic shock protocols not taught until paramedic year. About the cytochrome P450 interactions that could turn acetaminophen into liver failure. About fibrinolytic cascades like he was discussing last night’s Netflix. He spoke about human physiology the way old surgeons talk about patients they lost thirty years ago—half grief, half ownership.

She started manufacturing reasons to walk past his classroom.

He flirted.

Not with crude lines or dick pics or "you’re too pretty to be a nurse" garbage.

He flirted like a fucking sniper.

A look that lingered two seconds too long. A compliment buried inside a question about wound debridement technique. The way he stepped just close enough that she could smell cedar and antiseptic and teenage boy sweat and still feel professional about it—until she couldn’t.

She said yes to coffee.

4:30. The little place on 7th with the mismatched chairs and no high-schoolers. Her pulse hammered in her throat when the word left her mouth. Ethics screaming wrong wrong wrong, loneliness screaming finally.

Then Trent happened.

Emma—Peter’s little sister—got cornered. Bad. The kind of bad that turns coffee dates into background noise and reminds you the boy you’re falling for isn’t just smart and pretty and hung like a felony.

He’s a brother.

The kind who’ll walk into a burning building made of teenage cruelty and come out carrying someone else’s kid sister on his back.

And fuck if that didn’t make her want him worse.

The coffee never happened the way she’d planned it to be.

But something else did.

It wasn’t dramatic. No slamming doors. No confessions under rain. Just... inevitability.

One day she was the school nurse who hated herself for wanting a student.

The next she was his.

Not because he forced her. Not because he manipulated her. Because he saw her.

The bone-deep loneliness she’d carried since she was eight and realized love was something other people got. He didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t spout therapy-speak. Just sat with it. Let it breathe. Let her be hollow without calling it pathetic.

He saw the good-girl armor—perfect grades, perfect smile, perfect compliance—and quietly handed her a crowbar.

Told her it was okay to want.

To take.

To be fucking greedy.

He saw the real Luna underneath: the one who hummed off-key when she thought no one could hear, who hoarded lip gloss like it was emotional body armor, who cried over patients she couldn’t save even though she pretended it didn’t gut her.

He wanted all of it.

Her brain. Her body. Her silences. Her stupid humming. Her naivety and innocence. Her softness.

And when he finally touched her—really touched her—it wasn’t fumbling teenage urgency.

It was devastating.

Every awkward hook-up she’d ever had turned to ash in comparison. He learned her like a textbook he’d already memorized—then rewrote every Chapter with his mouth, his hands, his patience, his hunger.

He didn’t just fuck her.

He claimed her in ways that made her feel owned and free at the same time.

So she belonged.

Not to the job. Not to the rules. Not to the version of herself she’d spent nineteen years performing.

To him.

To the boy who used to bleed on her floor every week.

To the man who now bled her dry in the best possible way—and filled her back up every single time.

[Her Room (The Present)]

Eight doors lined this side of the hall—not just eight but eight on each side—each belonging to one of the women who lived here. Each doorway carried its own vibe, its own personality. One room smelled faintly like vanilla. Another always had music leaking from underneath. Another door had a tiny crystal sun-catcher hanging from the handle, throwing rainbows on the floor.

The hall had a kind of quiet pride to it—like the mansion knew it was sheltering women Peter treasured, and it wasn’t shy about showing off.

This place wasn’t just luxury. It was belonging.

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