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

Chapter 727: The Voss Black Sheep

He walked past her into the suite like she was furniture that had already been paid for, taking in the space with the lazy, proprietary scan of someone doing a routine check on something that belonged to him.

Which it did.

The whole hotel, actually—every floor, every room, every discreet camera angle tucked where lawsuits went to die—but Helena didn’t know that yet. And ignorance, in situations like this, wasn’t just a disadvantage. It was a limp he enjoyed watching people drag around while pretending they were fine.

The presidential suite was obscene. Not flashy-rich. Obscene-rich. Floor-to-ceiling windows dumped Los Angeles straight into the room, the city sprawled below like a glittering circuit board powered by cocaine, ambition, and terrible decisions. Furniture that cost more than jewelry. Leather so soft it felt illegal.

Marble and gold used sparingly, like punctuation marks for people who didn’t need to shout.

The bar was a quiet flex—liquor that required permits, favors, and people who didn’t put things in writing.

Single-malt scotch older than most marriages survived. Tequila distilled in volcanic caves by men who treated it like a sacrament. Vodka filtered through diamonds because excess had long since stopped being the point.

The room didn’t say money and power.

It said: watch your mouth.

Helena had been pacing.

He clocked it immediately. Couch cushions out of alignment, indented, shifted, never quite fixed. A water glass on the coffee table refilled too many times, condensation rings overlapping like anxiety fingerprints.

Faint scuffs in the carpet near the windows where her heels had pivoted, stalled, pivoted again.

Tiny tells.

Honest ones.

She’d been nervous.

Which was fucking adorable.

If adorable even applied to a woman like her and not dangerously beautiful, the kind of woman who used to end careers with emails that said "per my last message."

"I’ve been waiting for two days," Helena said, closing the door behind her with a soft click and following him into the living area. Her voice had that sharp, controlled edge people used when they were trying to claw back dominance through irritation—polished, irritated, but brittle underneath.

"I thought this was urgent."

"It was." Eros turned to face her, slow and unbothered. The movement pulled his shirt tight, fabric stretching just enough to show hard muscle underneath—muscles, sweat, heat, pheromones still clinging to him like a crime scene.

He saw her eyes track it.

Saw her notice before she could stop herself. Pupils dilating just a fraction too long before discipline snapped back into place like a snapped leash.

"For me," he said. "Your schedule? I don’t really give a fuck about."

The words didn’t explode.

They landed.

Helena’s spine went rigid. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He turned away and went to the bar, poured himself whiskey from a bottle that cost four figures without bothering to check which one it was. Crystal decanter. Amber liquid. No ice. He didn’t offer her shit.

Just lifted the glass and let the silence ferment while he took a slow sip, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing, the air thick with musk, sex, power—everything he carried with him whether he wanted to or not.

"You’re here because I told you to be here," he said calmly. "You came because you don’t have better options. So let’s skip the little theater where you pretend you have leverage and get straight to what happens next."

Silence.

Heavy. Pressurized.

He could feel her fury from across the room—cold, sharp, offended on a cellular level. The Ice Queen wasn’t used to being dismissed like an intern who’d missed the memo. Wasn’t used to walking into rooms where the game had already ended and she was just late to the funeral.

Too fucking bad.

He set the glass down—crystal clicking against marble—and finally looked at her.

And she felt it.

He watched her body betray her in real time. The tension crawling into her shoulders. The unconscious shift of her stance. Her breathing changing—subtle, but there. Chest rising, falling. Silk pulled tighter.

Nipples pressing harder against the fabric, piercings visible now that she wasn’t thinking about them.

A micro-adjustment of posture. Hips shifting. Thighs pressing together. Cunt clenching without asking permission.

Pure reflex.

The Taboo Aura doing its thing even without him leaning into it, even diluted by the fact that he’d just spent two and a half hours wrecking three other women—pussy, ass, milk, cream—still on his skin, in his blood, hanging in the air like a sin that hadn’t cooled yet.

She was older. Mid-thirties. Experienced. Dangerous in her own right. A woman who’d navigated international espionage, sold herself to the highest bidder, built networks and burned them with surgical precision.

And still—

She reacted like every other woman did.

Biology doesn’t negotiate with your résumé, your kill count, or the lies you tell yourself in the mirror. It just smells apex and floods the system with need.

Her pupils were already blown wide, her pulse hammering in her throat like a trapped animal begging to be let out—or put down—long before her prefrontal cortex could slap together a single coherent defense.

"What do you want?" Helena’s voice had gone arctic again, that practiced boardroom frost sliding back over the woman whose cunt had just clenched involuntarily at the scent of him. "You already won. You torched my employers, salted the earth of my operations, left me with nothing but the clothes on my back and a reputation even mercenaries won’t touch. So what the fuck is left to pick at?"

"Your sister."

Two syllables. Surgical rounds to the chest.

He watched the impact ripple across that perfect ice-queen mask. A hairline fracture—rage flaring hot and red behind those glacial eyes, lips parting on a snarl she barely swallowed before the corporate armor snapped back into place.

Jaw locked. Nostrils flared.

The faintest tremor in the exhale she tried to hide.

"Ava." The name dripped from her tongue like venom she’d been gargling for years, low and feral, teeth bared.

"Ava," Eros repeated, savoring it as he stepped away from the bar and into her space. Not crowding. Just existing—until the room shrank, the air thickened, and every breath she dragged in tasted like raw cock and dominance.

"The one who’s currently warming my bed and wearing my marks. The one who picked me over dragging your traitorous ass back to Langley in a body bag. The one who helped me gut Dmitri while you were busy auditioning for the next sugar-daddywarlord who might still answer your desperate little calls."

Helena’s fists curled at her sides, nails carving bloody half-moons into her palms. Knuckles bone-white.

Good. Let it hurt.

"Careful," she hissed.

"Or what, princess?" His smile was all teeth—sharp, amused, the kind that promises slow dismemberment.

"You’ll glare me to death? You’ve got no cards left, Helena. No empire. No allies. No leverage. Your baby sister—the golden child the Agency sicced on you like a fucking hound—was the one who personally ripped Vincent and Dmitri apart. The same criminal empires you were hiding behind like a spineless parasite? Ava burned them to the ground while doing her actual job: hunting you."

He watched the muscle in her jaw twitch, watched the vein in her neck throb under that porcelain skin like it was begging to be bitten.

"And while you were busy being the family’s rotting appendix," he went on, voice lazy, almost conversational, the way someone might comment on a mild drizzle while flaying you alive.

"Ava climbed the ranks. Became the daughter you were supposed to be—if you hadn’t decided whoring your skills to human traffickers and rogue states paid better than honor."

"Don’t—"

"Your grandfather." He ticked them off on his fingers, slow, deliberate, each name a fresh incision. "Four-star general. Answered only to the POTUS. Parents? One runs the SEALs, the other suns Marines. Spotless legacy going back generations. The Voss name used to open Pentagon doors with a whisper."

Another step closer. Close enough now to smell her rage and the slick heat biology was forcing between her thighs whether she liked it or not.

"And then there’s you." His voice dropped to a purr, dark silk wrapped around broken glass. "The eldest. The heir. The one who looked at all that and said, ’Nah, I’d rather be a high-end mercenary cum dumpster for any dictator with a fat enough wallet.’ Arms dealers. Slavers. Terror financiers. Didn’t matter who, did it? As long as the wire transfer cleared and you got to pretend you were still in control."

Her breathing had gone shallow, chest heaving against silk, nipples hard enough to cut glass, piercings glinting with every furious inhale. Thighs pressed together like that could hide the wet ache his pheromones were stoking.

Adorable.

"Meanwhile," he continued, grinning wider, eyes glowing with genuine enjoyment, "little Ava stayed loyal. Did the dirty work. Hunted you across three continents like the diseased Voss Family stray you are. And even though she hasn’t managed to put you down yet—because cockroaches are hard to squash—she still eviscerated the criminal trash you were cowering behind."

He let the silence stretch, thick and choking with musk and sweat and the unmistakable scent of a body betraying its owner.

"Tell me, Helena," he murmured, voice dripping with mock sympathy, "does it sting extra hard knowing the sister you always looked down on is the one who finally fucked you harder than anyone ever has—without even touching you?"

"Let’s fast-forward past the last five criminal sandcastles empires you were involved in that your sister kicked over for fun,"