Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 837

Chapter 837: The Ghost CAR

They left the underground base with ARIA’s laughter still bouncing off the cavern walls like she’d personally tuned the acoustics for maximum smug.

Peter’s legs were still jelly. His lungs felt like someone had used them as bellows for a forge. Every muscle screamed in perfect, synchronized protest. And his goddess? Not a single bead of sweat.

Not even a hair out of place.

She looked like she’d just finished a light yoga session instead of turning him into a human speed bump for two straight hours.

"There’s more to see," ARIA said, slipping her arm through his as they climbed the spiral staircase back into the mansion proper. Her touch was warm, grounding, and annoyingly energizing—like she was siphoning off his exhaustion just to prove she could.

"I’ve mapped the entire property through the Omni-Eros connection. You haven’t seen half of it yet."

She wasn’t exaggerating.

The main residence finally decided to stop playing coy and revealed itself in full—15,000 square feet of impossible architecture that looked like someone had asked a horny architect, a mad scientist, and a luxury hotel chain to design a love nest for an emperor.

Every line, every curve, every hidden feature screamed "this was built for exactly what you’re becoming."

The Harem Wing claimed the entire east side like territorial royalty.

Twenty individual suites lined a gently curved corridor—each one bigger than most city penthouse apartments, each with its own bathroom (marble, rainfall showerheads, heated floors), walk-in closet that could double as a small condo, and a private balcony.

The rooms weren’t cookie-cutter; they were adaptive. Walls and furnishings shifted subtly the moment someone stepped inside—colors softening for Madison’s taste, textures roughening for Sofia’s edge, lighting warming for Charlotte’s mood.

The mansion learned.

The mansion provided.

The mansion was basically a very expensive, very perverted butler.

"Twenty rooms," Madison breathed, trailing her fingers along a wall that shimmered at her touch like it was already flirting. The surface rippled, already scanning her preferences, already preparing to become hers. "You could house your entire harem here."

"That’s the point," Peter said, voice still rough from the run. "Room to grow. Or... multiply."

ARIA smirked. "Careful, Master. You say ’multiply’ like it’s not already on the agenda."

The Master Suite dominated the top floor like it owned the rest of the house—which, technically, it did.

Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides turned the cliff into a living painting. The beds were obscene—large enough for six people to tangle comfortably (or uncomfortably, depending on the mood).

Attached bathroom? Basically a spa on steroids: rainfall showers that remembered your preferred pressure, a soaking tub big enough for four (with jets that could probably double as massage weapons), surfaces that auto-adjusted temperature so no one ever had to say "a little warmer."

ARIA’s private quarters connected directly through a seamless door—his goddess never more than a few steps away, ready to materialize at the slightest mental tug.

The Guest Wing held another ten rooms—comfortable, luxurious, but noticeably less indulgent. A proving ground for new conquests, business associates who needed impressing, or women still earning their way into the Harem Wing.

Nice enough to make them want more. Not nice enough to let them get comfortable.

Then the shared spaces.

Two massive rooms designed explicitly for group activities. Beds that could swallow two dozens of bodies without complaint. Lighting that shifted from soft candle-glow to pulsing club-strobe on command.

Soundproofing so thick you could scream your lungs out and the neighbors (if there were any) would hear nothing. Surfaces that cleaned themselves afterward—because no one wants to deal with aftermath when the fun’s over.

Everything an emperor with twenty-five (and counting) women could possibly need.

Whoever built this place had either been psychic... or very optimistic about Peter’s future sex life.

The staff quarters sat tucked behind the main house—six bedrooms for security rotations, housekeeping, a private chef, whoever Peter decided to bring on. Luxury by normal standards. Functional by his. No one was sleeping in a broom closet here.

The guest house perched farther out—another six suites with a private entrance and its own infinity pool literally floating over the cliff’s edge. Perfect for women who needed space, new conquests being vetted, or visitors who required discretion (read: plausible deniability).

Soo-Jin’s eyes lit up like Christmas when they reached the security compound.

Buried into the hillside, invisible from every angle except maybe orbital spy sats (and even those would probably get confused), it held monitoring stations, weapon storage, a compact armory, and tactical quarters for an eight-person team. Future military-grade everything. Dormant but awake.

Ready to wake up swinging.

"This is better than half the black-site facilities in the next hundred years" she murmured, trailing fingers over equipment worth more than most people’s houses.

"It’s yours to manage," Peter told her.

Her smile was small, sharp, and real. "I have ideas."

The terraced gardens cascaded toward the beach in layers of impossible green—plants that had no business thriving on a California cliffside blooming alongside species Peter was pretty sure didn’t exist on Earth.

The air down here smelled different—richer, wilder, like someone had bottled a rainforest and sprayed it over salt water. Stone steps carved into the rock led down five hundred feet to a private stretch of white sand and crystal water that looked photoshopped.

"Careful, Master," she whispered, breath warm against his ear. "Keep promising beaches and naked time, and I might start charging admission."

"Only if the proceeds go toward upgrading the sound system," she shot back. "Some of us scream louder than others."

The car sat under those museum lights like an artifact that had slipped through a crack in time and decided to park itself here. First glance screamed Bugatti—aggressive curves, predatory stance, carbon-fiber menace frozen mid-hunt.

The body was matte black that moved. Light didn’t reflect off it—it sank into the surface, rippling like liquid obsidian caught mid-flow, never quite settling, never quite still. No manufacturer badge. No logo on the grille, hood, rear deck—nothing.

The proportions were wrong in the right way. More beast than La Voiture Noire would ever be or any other car. Lower. Meaner. Wheel arches flared with organic, muscular curves that looked more like flexed sinew than stamped metal. The headlights weren’t lights—they were narrow slits of luminescent blue that pulsed faintly, rhythmically.

Breathing. Watching. Waiting.

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