Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 155

Chapter 155: The Aftermath

As the paramedics dabbed at Trent’s mangled face, Peter leaned in—close enough that Trent could smell the faint copper of his sister’s blood still clinging to him. His voice was steady, but it carried that dangerous quiet only heard in war movies right before the trigger’s pulled.

"You’re coming to the police station with me," Peter murmured, each word landing like a scalpel cut, clean and deliberate. "Or I release everything I found on you. Every email. Every deleted file. Every sick little souvenir you thought you’d buried."

The words didn’t just sink in—they burrowed deep, rooting in Trent’s skull with the cold weight of inevitability. His swollen eyes went glassy with a fear that had nothing to do with broken bones.

Everyone at Lincoln High knew Peter Carter’s other reputation—not just the temper, but the uncanny IT skills. The kid could gut a firewall faster than most people could gut a fish. If Peter had stormed into that office without even asking questions, fists already cocked, it meant he had proof.

Real proof.

The boy isn’t bluffing, Trent realized through the fog of pain. He knows. He fucking knows everything.’

A thin thread of rationality fought through the pounding in Trent’s skull, tallying the odds.

If this went to court—if Peter aired those files—the fallout wouldn’t just end Trent’s career. It would detonate his entire life: his reputation, his family’s name, his father’s position as school director.

One upload to the right inbox, and he’d be remembered for all time as a monster... instead of just the charming predator who never got caught.

When the paramedics tried to slide him onto the stretcher, Trent gave a weak, blood-flecked shake of the head.

"No hospital," he rasped, every syllable slicing his throat raw. "I’m going to the station... with him."

The cops glanced at each other, baffled, but Trent’s insistence cut through the confusion. Whatever had gone down between him and the Carter kid, Trent wanted it off the books, away from cameras.

Each step toward the police car was a fresh sermon in pain—ribs screaming, teeth clicking loose, skin tugging against stitches that didn’t exist yet. Still, a bitter thought curled through his mind like smoke: The kid’s protecting his sister’s dignity. Not shouting it from the rooftops. He wants this handled quietly—like men.

And then the darker, more self-serving echo followed: If that’s the game, maybe we both get to walk away breathing. Sure, my face will look like hamburger meat for a month... but a pedophile conviction? That’s the kind of thing even Satan won’t bunk with in hell.

Christ, the kid hit like a damn wrecking ball. Every breath was a razor dragging through his ribs, every heartbeat a sledgehammer against his skull. Still, that wasn’t what made his palms sweat.

No, it was the look in Peter Carter’s eyes—the steady, unblinking kind you see right before someone pulls a trigger.

He knows. He fucking knows everything.

Trent could practically hear the noose tightening. Every "deleted" file, every private email, every carefully hidden record—if Peter had it, then the walls were already collapsing. His father’s name on the school building wouldn’t save him.

His little kingdom here would burn, and the ashes would stick to his family’s teeth for decades.

And the worst part? Peter wasn’t grandstanding. He wasn’t broadcasting it to the gawking crowd. The boy was holding it in—keeping Emma’s name out of the gossip grinder. Protecting her image.

There was almost... a sick, grudging respect in that.

He waved the paramedics off. No hospital. No news crews with their vulture lenses. Just the quiet ride to the station where they could both pretend this was nothing more than a fistfight gone nuclear.

Assault charges I can spin. Headlines about "Lincoln High Predator" end careers.

As the police car door slammed behind him, Trent leaned back, pain screaming through his bones. Somewhere deep down, past the humiliation and fear, a twisted thought coiled in his brain like a snake: Kid’s dangerous. More dangerous than me. And if I had any brains left... I’d make damn sure I never end up on the wrong side of him again.

But even as pain fogged his vision, Trent Holloway clung to one crystalline truth: the ledger between him and Peter Carter wasn’t just unfinished—it was blank compared to what was coming. This wasn’t defeat. This was prologue.

Peter slid into the police cruiser’s back seat, wrists cuffed, the metal biting cold against raw skin. His knuckles throbbed with every heartbeat, skin torn from the methodical demolition he’d just delivered.

There was no satisfaction in him—no surge of triumph—only the cold, mechanical calculation that this was the smallest fire he could set to burn away Emma’s nightmare.

’Do I go to the station?’ she asked herself, knowing full well the answer. The rational voice insisted, Stay away. Let his family deal with it. But there was another voice—lower, more dangerous—that reminded her you don’t just turn away when someone who fascinates you is in the fire.

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