Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 900

Chapter 900: The GodMan Returns

She’d been waiting for me.

Not casually. Not the way a normal child waits for a guest—No. Rory had established a forward operating position at my front entrance with the tactical commitment of a Navy SEAL staking out a high-value target, except instead of night-vision goggles she had light-up sneakers and a yellow sundress that screamed I am five and I will destroy you with cuteness.

Dark curls in a ponytail that had surrendered to entropy about three hours ago.

Vibrating at a frequency that suggested her tiny body was converting pure excitement into nuclear energy, probably enough to power a small city or at least keep the neighborhood dogs barking for days.

I’d barely put the car in park.

"GODMAN!"

Jesus Christ.

The small yellow missile launched off the front steps at full five-year-old sprint—which, for the uninitiated, is basically a controlled face-plant happening at velocity... curls bouncing with the aerodynamic profile of a golden retriever in a wind tunnel after too much espresso.

I’d just reached for the door—but there was a decorative stone border between the driveway and the path that this child was approaching with the spatial awareness of a drunk butterfly on roller skates.

Sneaker caught the edge. Body pitched forward. Arms windmilled.

On the porch, Vanessa made a sound that could only be described as her soul leaving her body through her mouth in a single, strangled "RORY—"

My women—went rigid. That collective millisecond where everyone’s brain says oh fuck but their legs haven’t received the memo yet, so they just stand there like very attractive statues experiencing existential dread.

I moved.

Rory was in my arms. One knee on the ground, her body against my chest, fall cancelled. Fifteen feet from the car. Nobody saw the in-between.

That’s fine.

The in-between wasn’t for them.

My women didn’t blink.

Tuesday energy.

Vanessa, however, was doing that thing where a human being’s operating system encounters an error it can’t resolve and just—freezes. Hands over mouth. Eyes buffering.

Rory? Rory was laughing.

Because of course she was.

This child had the self-preservation instincts of a lemming and the fear response of a golden retriever being told it’s a good boy while someone throws a tennis ball off a cliff.

Almost eating pavement at full speed was apparently a thrill ride, five-star review, would recommend.

"GodMan SAVED me!" she announced, at a volume that suggested she believed God Himself needed the update, possibly via emergency broadcast system. "I was falling and then WHOOSH and now I’m HERE!"

"I saw. What did mommy say about running fast toward hard things?"

She scrunched her face. Doing the math. Tiny brow furrowed like she was solving quantum field theory with crayons. "That my legs shouldn’t get ahead of my brain."

"And what did your legs just do?"

"...Got ahead of my brain." Half a second of shame. Then it evaporated like water on a skillet in hell. "But you CAUGHT me! So it’s FINE!"

"Slower next time. Your mom’s heart can’t afford the medical bills. Or the therapy."

I glanced at the porch. Vanessa still hadn’t rebooted. Hands still over mouth. Loading bar at about 40%.

Rory followed my gaze. "Mama’s doing the frozen thing."

"She’ll do that a lot around me often."

"She did it yesterday too. When we talked about you...she got all red and said things and then went ’oh my GOD Vanessa’ to herself and put her face in a pillow."

I filed that under information I will absolutely be using later and changed the subject before my brain could start composing thank-you notes to Vanessa’s subconscious.

"Let’s go say hi to everyone." I adjusted her on my hip. She settled in like she’d been custom-fitted for the position—one arm around my neck, other hand reaching up to grab my jaw and turn my face toward her with the entitlement of a five-year-old who believed she owned me.

She did, honestly. Little terrorist.

Then: "Where’s the angel?"

And there it was. The question that had been loading since ARIA had winked at this kid through a restaurant window while flying through the goddamn sky with fifteen-foot divine wings. Rory had been holding this question in her tiny body like a grenade with the pin out, and the second she saw me it was getting thrown.

"Angels are busy, Rory. God’s orders. Very classified."

Her face collapsed. The pout deployed—lower lip out, eyes the size of planets, chin wobbling with a precision that would make professional actors weep. This child had weaponized disappointment the way I’d weaponized charm.

We were the same species.

"She’s not COMING?"

"Not today. But—" finger up, pre-emptive strike against the incoming tears—"she told me to tell you she’s visiting soon. Personally. And she hasn’t forgotten about you."

"REALLY?!" Nuclear detonation of joy. "When?! Tomorrow?! Can she come to my HOUSE?! Will she have her WINGS?! Can I TOUCH them?! Are they soft?! Do they SPARKLE?! Does she eat food?! DOES SHE KNOW MY NAME?!"

Eleven questions in one breath. Genuinely impressive lung capacity. Future auctioneer or rapper, hard to tell.

Or possibly hostage negotiator, given how quickly she could make grown adults panic.

"She knows your name. And yes, they’re soft. Angel confidentiality on the rest."

"Well. And who is this beautiful soul?"

Threat level: zero.

Warmth level: maximum.

Cookie probability: high.

Safe.

Linda smiled. Finished the sentence: "When you’re in big trouble. Right?"

Rory’s head whipped to me so fast she almost gave herself whiplash. Eyes narrowed. The look of a child who had identified a snitch and was considering violence, possibly involving light-up sneakers to the shins.

"There’s a MANUAL?"

"Massive. Chapter one: Full Names and When to Deploy Them. Chapter two: The Disappointed Sigh. Chapter three: ’I’m Not Mad, I’m Just Disappointed,’ and Why That’s Worse. Chapter four: How to Make a Child Feel Guilt Through Eye Contact Alone."

"You get in trouble TOO?!"

"Exactly the same. Except nobody catches ME when I fall."

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