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

Chapter 862: Little Prayers: Rory’s God

Author’s Note

Alright... if you made it this far?

You’re officially one of the real ones.

Thank you for reading through this arc—through all the technical stuff, the heavy world-building, the setup, and the main character awakening. I know this part was dense, but trust me... every detail mattered. Every scene was a brick in the foundation of what comes next.

Because from here on out?

We’re not walking anymore.

We’re sprinting.

The story is about to go full throttle: beauties, CEOs, luxury, sex-power games...and now?

Gods. Goddesses. Money. Madness.

But wait... it gets better.

Because the next arc isn’t just about power.

It’s about legacy.

Linda finally gets pregnant.

And Peter?

Peter steps into his new era...

Fatherhood.

Not just once either.

More father.More heirs.More chaos.More bloodlines.

More destinies being born into wealth, divinity, and danger.

This is where everything shifts.

So take a breath.Stretch your fingers.Sip your drink.

And buckle up...

Because the next arc?

It’s going to be hot, violent, luxurious, and unhinged.

And yes...

the God of Harem era is officially loading. 😈🔥👑

****

"None of those." I leaned in again, lowering my voice like I was about to reveal classified celestial information. "I’m a different kind."

Her eyes widened.

"I’m the kind that grants wishes."

"Wishes?"

"Wishes. But only special wishes."

Her whole face shifted into suspicion again, like she’d just heard an influencer say ’This is not sponsored.’

"What makes them special?"

"They have to come from women. Mothers, especially." I held up a finger. "And—especially especially—from cute little girls."

She clapped her hands together, bouncing faster now like she’d just unlocked a rare achievement.

"I’m a little girl! And Mama says I’m cute!"

"Your mama is clearly a woman of excellent judgment," I said, like I was reviewing her on Yelp.

"So, you’ll grant my wish?"

"That depends." I crossed my arms, putting on a mock-serious expression. The kind of expression men put on when they say ’I’m emotionally unavailable’ and think it makes them mysterious instead of medically concerning.

"First, I need to know your name. Gods have rules about these things."

"Aurora," she said proudly. "But everyone calls me Rory. Except when I’m in trouble, and then Mama uses my whole name."

She leaned closer and whispered the last part like it was a curse. "Aurora Maria Porter. That’s how I know I’m in big trouble."

"Aurora Maria Porter," I repeated solemnly, like I was reading the name of a fallen warrior. "That’s a beautiful name."

She beamed. Then her expression shifted, her eyes narrowing with renewed curiosity.

"What’s your name? Do gods have names?"

"We do." I nodded. "Mine is Eros."

"Eros," she repeated, testing it out on her tongue. Her brows furrowed. "That’s a weird name."

"Rude," I said flatly.

"It’s pretty, though." She shrugged, like she was doing me a favor. "Weird but pretty. Like you."

I laughed—a real, genuine laugh that surprised me with its warmth. This kid. This ridiculous, wonderful kid. She was roasting me with the casual confidence of a talk show host who knows the audience is on her side.

"Rory, I think we’re going to be friends."

"We’re already friends," she said matter-of-factly, like the decision had been signed into law. "I decided when I was looking at you. You have kind eyes."

Something in my chest tightened.

Kind eyes?

Children saw things adults missed. They didn’t see the money or the power or the carefully constructed social masks people wore like designer suits. They saw something simpler. Truer. The kind of thing celebrities spent millions trying to manufacture with PR teams, charity donations, and staged paparazzi photos of them holding a baby they definitely returned afterward.

"So about this god thing," Rory said, her suspicious look returning. "How do I know you’re not just making it up? Adults lie sometimes. Mama says it’s because they forget how to play pretend properly."

"Your mama sounds very wise."

"She’s the smartest person in the whole world," Rory said, as if the matter had been scientifically proven. "But you didn’t answer my question. How do I know you’re really a god?"

"You want proof?"

"Obviously." She put her hands on her hips in an eerily adult gesture. The posture of someone who had already emotionally fired me. "I’m not just gonna believe any stranger who says they’re a god. That’s how you get tricked."

Smart kid.

Also, mildly alarming that she’d already considered the possibility of being scammed by random divine men in restaurants, but... still. Smart kid.

"Okay," I said. "What kind of proof would convince you?"

She thought about it, tapping her finger against her chin like she was conducting a courtroom investigation.

"Can you fly?"

"Not inside," I said smoothly. "Fire code. Apparently the staff gets nervous when you start levitating near the dessert menu. The last thing I need is to get sued by a restaurant because a god violated OSHA regulations."

"Can you shoot lightning from your fingers?"

"Only on Tuesdays," I said with a straight face. "Today’s not Tuesday."

She narrowed her eyes, clearly unimpressed by my divine scheduling restrictions.

"Can you—" She gasped suddenly, like she’d remembered the most important question in human history. "Can you do magic? Like real magic? Not the pulling-coins-from-ears stuff, that’s just tricks. Real magic."

I glanced at Charlotte, who was watching this exchange with an expression somewhere between amused and utterly charmed—like she’d just witnessed the most wholesome interrogation of a suspicious deity in recorded history.

"Real magic," I said slowly. "Hmm."

I raised my right hand, holding it palm-up where only Rory could see it clearly.

And then I let it vibrate.

Not visibly at first—just a subtle blur at the edges, a suggestion of movement that shouldn’t be possible. Then faster. More pronounced. My hand became a smear of motion, like I’d pressed fast-forward on just that one part of my body, the edges losing definition, the movement so rapid it was almost invisible. Like reality itself had lagged and my hand was buffering.

Rory’s jaw dropped.

"WHOA!"

She stepped back, nearly tripping over her own feet, her eyes huge and round as dinner plates—like she’d just watched a Disney character come to life and immediately commit a felony.

I stopped the vibration. Held up my hand, perfectly still, perfectly normal.

"That’s—that’s—" She was pointing at my hand, then at my face, then at my hand again, words failing her completely. "HOW DID YOU—YOUR HAND WAS—IT WAS DOING THE—"

"Magic," I said simply, like that explained everything and didn’t sound like the start of a cult recruitment speech.

"DO IT AGAIN! DO IT AGAIN!"

I obliged. Faster this time. My hand blurred so completely it became almost transparent, moving at a frequency that human eyes couldn’t track. If anyone else had seen it, I would’ve been on the evening news by sunrise—Local Man Breaks Physics, Restaurant Still Charges Him for Dessert.

"OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH."

Rory was practically vibrating herself now, bouncing up and down, her hands clasped against her chest. She looked like she was about to spontaneously combust out of pure joy.

"Can you do it with your whole body? Can you walk through walls? Can you—"

"One miracle at a time," I said, laughing. "Even gods have to pace themselves. Otherwise we end up like celebrities—overexposed, exhausted, and crying in the back of a black SUV while pretending it’s ’self-care.’"

She stopped bouncing, staring at me with new eyes. The skepticism was completely gone now, replaced by the kind of absolute, unshakeable faith that only children could summon. The kind of faith adults only pretended to have when they were trying to sell you Diddy oils.

"You’re really a god," she whispered.

"I really am."

"A real one."

"As real as they come."

She processed this for a long moment, her tiny face scrunched up like her brain was trying to download the update.

Then: "So you actually grant wishes? Like, actually actually?"

"Actually actually. But remember—"

"Only for women and mothers and cute little girls," she recited. "I remembered."

"Gold star," I said solemnly. "Straight to the fridge."

"So how does it work?" She was leaning in now, fully invested, like she was about to negotiate a contract. "Do I just say the wish out loud? Do I have to close my eyes? Is there a magic word? OH—" She grabbed my sleeve, urgent with sudden concern.

"Do I only get one? Because in the stories sometimes you only get one and I don’t want to waste it on something dumb."

I covered her small hand with mine, her tiny fingers wrapped in my palm.

"It’s not like the stories. You can tell me as many wishes as you want."

"Really?"

"Really. But here’s the special part—" I leaned closer, lowering my voice. "The best wishes, the ones that work the fastest, are the ones that come from daughters. When a little girl tells a god what her mama needs most... those prayers are extra powerful."

"Why?"

"Because daughters know things about their mamas that no one else knows." My voice softened without me meaning it to. "They see her when she thinks no one’s watching. They hear the wishes she never says out loud. They know the secret prayers, the ones she whispers to herself when she thinks everyone’s asleep."

Rory’s expression shifted.

The bubbly energy didn’t disappear, but something else rose beneath it. Something that had no business being in the eyes of a five-year-old. Something older. Something heavy. The kind of thing adulthood tried to give you slowly, but life sometimes threw at kids like a brick.

"So when mamas pray," she said slowly, "really hard, at night... you hear them?"

The air between us changed. Thickened. Like the restaurant had dimmed a little, like even the universe had leaned in to listen.

"I do."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

She was quiet for a moment. Processing. Behind those big brown eyes, I could see gears turning, connections being made, dots being connected with a sophistication that belied her age.