Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs - Chapter 340

Chapter 340: Sleepless Princess and the Hungry Beast
Madison and I had barely crossed the threshold—exhaustion slammed into me like a physical wave, a tidal wave of lead threatening to buckle my knees. The aftershocks of Sofia’s confession, razor-wire strategic planning, the white-hot rage I’d throttled all evening—it wasn’t fatigue. It was annihilation.

A void where my energy used to pulse, cold and hollow.

“You look like hell incarnate,” Madison murmured, her hand a brand of warmth against my trembling bicep as we staggered up the stairs. Her scent—clean, familiar, human—a lifeline thrown into a storm. “When’s the last time you really slept?”

I dragged a hand through my hair, thoughts thick as tar, heavy as slate. “Slept? Not just crashed out?” A harsh laugh scraped my throat. “Fuck… days. Maybe a week.”

“Peter, that’s not sustainable.” Her voice held a quiet worry that only tightened the barbed wire coiling in my gut.

“Sustainable?” I ripped my shirt off, fabric snagging on fevered skin, and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress groaned under my weight. “Since when is anything about this life sustainable? Tomorrow. The penthouse and car shopping plans. No tiptoeing around Mom, no waking the twins. And moving into my place.” Every word ground out between clenched teeth.

Madison curled against me, her body a soft, desperate line against my side, her head pillowed on the thundering of my heart. “You mean our place.”

“Our place,” I echoed, my arm snapping around her, possessive even in this hollow state. “Where we build. Where we expand.” The word felt charged, primal. Empire.

But Madison’s warmth, the familiar comfort of my own room—none of it could silence the hurricane screaming inside. My mind wouldn’t stop: Sofia’s tear-streaked face, Emma’s trauma, Charlotte’s brittle exhaustion, Isabella’s quiet desperation, the Miami women waiting… A relentless, grinding litany of responsibility and need.

Ever since Miami… since that death and rebirth in Lust Incarnate… something fundamental had been rewired. The insomnia? Just the first symptom. The system had thrown me back with a cryptic “cooldown” and fucking radio silence. No manual. No warnings. Just this… thing I’d become.

I’d figured out the new mode myself. Not like Eros—with its full-body transformation. This was subtler. Sharper. Infinitely more dangerous. A coiled predator lurking beneath the skin. Strength that felt limitless, not godlike, but primal. Terrifying.

And with it came an insatiable, clawing hunger. Lust, yes—amplified to a screaming point where focus around my women was a constant war of wills. But it was more. Everything was turned up to eleven.

This wasn’t power anymore.

This was becoming something else.

And it was hungry.

Then the protectiveness? It had curdled from care into something obsessive. The thought of anyone harming Emma, Sofia, Charlotte, Madison… or any of my women… didn’t just spark anger. It ignited a cold, calculated fury, a need to systematically erase the threat and every shadow connected to it. Was this protection? Or was I becoming the stalker masquerading as a savior?

The need to dominate… fuck. It thrummed in my veins now, a constant, low-grade vibration. Not just sexually (though that urge was a relentless, demanding drumbeat), but in every interaction. I analyzed power dynamics instinctively, planned conversations like chess moves three steps ahead, felt a visceral drive to claim more territory, more influence, more women. More control. More everything.

And the territorialism? It was becoming a possessive cancer. These weren’t relationships anymore. They were extensions of my soul. My domain. My precious women – to shield, to nurture… to expand. My empire.

The aggression simmered just below the surface, a volcano waiting for the wrong trigger. I’d nearly snapped with Trent before the transformation. What would I do now? Where was the line between alpha confidence and dangerous obsession? When did protection become control? Strategy become manipulation?

The hypervigilance was its own kind of torture. No rest. Only constant calculation, always anticipating, always guarding. Sleep was a distant country I couldn’t reach.

But the truly fucked-up part? It felt good. The power, the control, the sheer, overwhelming intensity of every sensation, every emotion. Even the exhaustion carried a manic, supercharged energy that made me feel more alive than ever before, even as it hollowed me out.

Sofia’s tears. Emma’s pain. Charlotte’s fragility. The Miami women waiting. System missions piling up. Responsibilities multiplying like weeds. Was I holding the center? Or was I just convincing myself I was in control while everything spiraled into chaos? Was I their liberation? Or was I their next cage?

I stared at the ceiling, willing oblivion, when the soft, almost hesitant creak of my bedroom door cut through the silence.

“Peter?” Charlotte’s voice was a whisper, husky with sleeplessness and something else. “Are you awake?”

I lifted my head. The dim hallway light silhouetted her, and my breath hitched. She wore one of my t-shirts, mimicking Emma and my hoodie, the cotton stretching deliciously over her curves, ending high on her thighs.

It should have looked baggy. On her, it was pure, accidental sin. Her hair was tousled, falling around her shoulders in dark waves, and her eyes, large and luminous in the gloom, held a vulnerability that shot straight to my core, even as the sight of her ignited the low banked fire in my gut.

“Charlotte?” My voice was rougher than intended. “What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she breathed, and the words were a physical touch against my skin. She stepped further into the room, and the air thickened, charged with her presence. Carrying her scent—something floral and expensive, undercut with a uniquely Charlotte warmth, like heat rising from sacred ground. “The house… it feels too foreign to me, only you can calm my nerve down. And I know this is… probably not the time, but…”

“Come here.” The words tore from my throat, ripped raw from the abyss of my own exhaustion. Not a request. A demand. An invocation. I shifted, peeling Madison slightly closer with infinite care, adjusting her, creating a space on my other side that hummed with magnetic energy, a void deliberately carved for her alone.

She moved not with grace, but with inevitability.

Every step a silent, hypnotic countdown across the floor. As she reached the bed, her gaze found mine—locked on. The air between us crackled. A heartbeat stretched into eternity—raw, exposed nerves vibrating in the silence.

Then, carefully, she climbed onto the mattress, settling into the space I’d made like water finding its level, nestled snug on my sleeping form and overheated, rigid body.

Madison stirred with a soft sigh, her arm crossing over my body brushing Charlotte’s waist like a benediction, but didn’t wake. Charlotte curled instinctively against my side, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder as if it were sculpted by cosmic design, a perfect, desperate fit.

The contact was a live wire jammed straight into my sternum. Her body was softer than the most decadent dream, warmer, yielding perfectly against the unyielding marble of my own tension.

As she shifted, seeking deeper sanctuary, the cotton of my tee hitched higher, climbing the smooth expanse of her thigh with devastating slowness.

And there it was—a glimpse of paradise and temptation tangled together in a snare.

Moonlight, thin and cool as spilled mercury, flooded through the window, illuminating the curve where her thigh met the swell of her hip in stark, sculpted relief. Not just skin. Bare skin. Flawless, luminous skin. And beneath it, barely a whisper of fabric: the delicate, dark lace of her night panties—a fragile, intricate web barely containing the promise of heaven, a dark secret held captive by moonlight.