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

Chapter 870: What We’ve Become

The door to Linda’s bedroom was locked.

I stood in the hallway, the phantom rush of wind from ARIA’s flight still whispering against my skin, my mind reeling from the impossibility she’d just laid bare.

My hand hovered over the doorknob—hesitating in a way I hadn’t hesitated in months. Power coursed through me, abilities that bent reality to my will, but here? In front of this simple wooden door? I felt small. Human.

Like the boy she’d raised, not the god I’d become.

"She’s been crying for hours," ARIA’s voice echoed softly in my mind, her gentle intrusion laced with concern. "She stopped about twenty minutes ago. I think she’s exhausted herself."

"Is she asleep?"

"No. Just... quiet. Staring at the ceiling."

I closed my eyes, drawing a deep, steadying breath. The air in the hallway felt thick, heavy with unspoken weight. Then I knocked—soft, tentative, knuckles rapping against wood that suddenly seemed too fragile.

"Mom?"

Silence stretched, taut and aching.

"Mom, it’s me. It’s Peter."

More silence, broken only by the faint rustle of sheets from inside. Then, muffled through the door: "Go away."

The words hit like a punch, but I leaned my forehead against the cool wood, refusing to budge. "I’m not going anywhere."

"Peter, please. I can’t—I can’t look at you right now. I can’t—"

Her voice cracked, raw and frayed, and it twisted something deep in my chest.

"I know." I pressed my palm flat against the door, fingers splaying wide, as if I could push my presence through it, let her feel me there. "I know everything. ARIA told me."

A sharp intake of breath, audible even through the barrier. Then: "She what?"

"She was worried about you. We all are." My voice dropped lower, softer. "Me."

"She had no right—"

"Yes, she had no right," I agreed quickly, keeping my tone even, non-confrontational. "But she’s one of us. Worried for you, Mom. Because you’re mine—and hers, in a way. That means your pain is my pain. Your fear is my fear. And I’m not going to stand out here in the hallway while you suffer alone."

A long, agonizing pause. I could almost feel her on the other side—pacing, perhaps, or curled on the bed, arms wrapped around herself.

The silence clawed at me, every second stretching into eternity.

Then, the soft click of a lock disengaging.

I waited. Didn’t push the door. Let her make the choice. Let her open it on her own terms, in her own time.

It swung inward slowly, hinges whispering, revealing Linda Carter standing in the gap.

She looked... broken.

Her eyes were swollen from tears, rims red and puffy, the skin beneath them shadowed like bruises from exhaustion. Her hair—usually so neatly pinned or brushed—hung limp and tangled around her face, strands sticking to her damp cheeks.

She wore a t-shirt and sweatpants, faded and worn, the kind she only pulled out when the world felt too heavy to face with armor. Her shoulders hunched inward, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together by force of will alone.

But beneath the devastation—beneath the fear and fatigue and tear-streaked face—she was still the woman who’d shaped my world. Still the foundation everything else rested on.

Still my mother.

Still my lover.

And now... the mother of my child.

"Hey," I said softly, voice catching in my throat.

Her lower lip trembled—visibly quivered—and her eyes welled fresh.

Then she was in my arms.

I caught her as she surged forward, her body colliding with mine in a desperate crush. I held her.

That was all.

Just held her.

Her face buried in my chest, nose pressing into the fabric of my shirt, inhaling my scent like it was oxygen. Her fingers clutched the back of my shirt—knuckles white, fabric twisting in her grip—as if letting go meant I’d vanish.

Her body shook with sobs she’d been bottling up, the kind that wracked her frame from deep inside: shoulders heaving, breath hitching in wet, ragged gasps against my collarbone.

I didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t murmur empty platitudes like "it’s okay" or "don’t cry."

I just wrapped my arms around her tighter—one hand cradling the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her tangled hair, the other splayed wide across her back, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat echo mine.

My chin rested on top of her head; I breathed her in—the faint floral shampoo mixed with salt from tears, the warmth of her skin rising through her shirt. Let her feel my steadiness, my warmth seeping into her trembling form, my presence as the anchor in the storm raging inside her.

Minutes passed—maybe longer. Time blurred in the hallway’s dim light. Eventually, the sobs subsided into shaky exhales, her breathing syncing with mine. Her grip on my shirt loosened, though she didn’t pull away—her cheek stayed pressed to my chest, listening to the steady thrum of my heart.

"I’m sorry," she whispered, voice muffled and hoarse against me.

"Don’t be."

"I should have told you myself. I shouldn’t have—" She swallowed audibly, throat working. "I locked myself in here like a child, like I couldn’t face—"

"Mom."

I pulled back just enough to cup her face in my hands—palms gentle on her tear-wet cheeks, thumbs brushing away the fresh tracks with slow, careful strokes. I tilted her head up, forcing her to meet my eyes.

Hers were bloodshot,vulnerable, searching mine with a desperation that twisted my gut. "You don’t have to apologize. Not to me. Not ever."

Her warm brown eyes—eyes that had watched over me through fevers and failures and first steps—searched my face. Looking for judgment. Disappointment. The rejection she’d been bracing for.

She didn’t find it.

"You’re not... angry?" she asked, voice small and tentative, like a child testing boundaries.

"Why would I be angry?"

"Because I—because we—" She swallowed hard again, hands fidgeting at her sides. "Because I begged you to... and you..."

"I remember."

The memory surfaced sharp and vivid: the shower, steam thick and hot, water cascading over my—perfect form as I pressed her against the slick tile. Her legs wrapped around my waist, ankles locked desperately. Nails raking fire down my shoulders as pleasure built to a breaking point. And her voice—cracking, pleading—from some raw, unguarded place.

That wasn’t just you," I said quietly, thumbs still stroking her cheeks. "That was both of us. You asked, and I... I wanted to give you everything. Everything you’d ever wanted."

"But you didn’t mean to—you were supposed to—"

"I know. But things happened fast. Multiple things." I shrugged slightly, a faint, rueful smile tugging at my lips despite the heaviness.

Despite everything, Linda let out a watery laugh—short, almost surprised, her shoulders shaking with it. "Multiple things? That’s one way to put it."

"I’m not going to pretend I was being careful. I wasn’t. And if you want to be angry about that—"

"I don’t." She shook her head quickly, hands finally moving to rest on my forearms, fingers curling lightly around them. "I don’t want to be angry. I just... I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I feel. Everything is so..."

"Complicated?"

"That’s an understatement."

I guided her backward, toward the bed—my arm slipping around her waist, supporting her weight as she leaned into me. She let me lead, too exhausted to resist, her steps slow and shuffling, body heavy against mine.

We sat on the edge of the mattress—side by side, my arm staying around her shoulders, pulling her close. Her head rested against my chest again, ear pressed to my heartbeat.

The bedroom was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light, casting soft shadows across the walls, across us—creating an intimacy that felt fragile, sacred.

"Talk to me," I said, voice low, hand rubbing slow circles on her upper arm. "Tell me what you’re thinking. What you’re afraid of."

Linda was quiet for a long moment—her breathing evening out, fingers twisting idly in the hem of her t-shirt.

Then, slowly, the words began to spill.

"What are people going to think?"

They came out in a rush, her deepest fear finally voiced—body tensing against mine as if bracing for impact.

"How do I explain this to anyone? To Jasmine? To my colleagues at the hospital? To... to the world?" She pulled back slightly, looking up at me with haunted eyes, fresh tears brimming. "A woman suddenly pregnant, and the father is—"

She stopped, throat closing, hands clenching into fists in her lap. "How do I explain this?"

"You don’t have to explain anything to anyone."

"Peter—"

"I mean it." I cupped her face again, thumb tracing her cheekbone. "You don’t owe anyone any explanation. Your personal life is no one’s business. If anyone asks, the father is someone you’re seeing. Someone private. Someone who makes you happy." I pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering there, breathing her in. "All of which is true."

"But the baby will look like—"