Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 206

Chapter 206: My Hot Sister

Her legs stretched in ballerina-like arrogance—one elongated, toes pointed like a dagger, the other bent, knee grazing the velvet. The shorts rode up, exposing the lush curve of her inner thigh, a shadowed hollow promising secret. Muscles flexed beneath the skin, toned yet unbearably soft.

The tank top was a deliberate tease. Lingerie disguised as sleepwear. It hung loose, gaping at the armholes to flash the side swell of her breast—full, heavy, the skin luminous against the wine-red satin. When she shifted, the fabric drifted, offering a glimpse of taut nipple hardening under the cool air.

A breath, a stretch, and the silk would surrender.

Her hair was a midnight avalanche, jet-black waves cascading over one shoulder, brushing the upper swell of her breast. Each strand caught the light like obsidian wire, framing a face that’d make saints curse.

The smirk—that wasn’t teenage insolence. It was dynasty carved into flesh. Knowing. Calculated. It deepened as she sensed your gaze, transforming casual cruelty into predatory amusement. Sharp jawline tightened, highlighting the feral elegance of her bone structure. Full lips—painted a subtle, bitten-crimson—parted slightly. Moisture clung to the lower curve, glistening. A silent dare.

Her eyes—the ultimate weapon. They lifted from the trash TV flickering on the screen, dark and fathomless. Not just watching. Conquering. They held the depth of rotting orchids and the heat of smoldering embers. When she blinked, lashes thick as spider legs brushed her cheeks—delicate, yet lethally seductive.

The couch wasn’t furniture anymore; it was a throne of supplication. Emma lounged with the lazy entitlement of a goddess bemused by mortal worship. One hand rested near her thigh, fingers long, elegant, nails painted a deadly crimson. The other toyed with the hem of her shorts, knuckles brushing the skin just below the fabric—a whisper of touch, a promise of more. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

The worst part? She knew every sin her body inspired. Knew the heat rising in any man’s throat. Knew you’d sell your soul to trace the path her fingers took. And the smirk bloomed wider—a scarlet invitation to damnation—as she arched her back just slightly.

The satin stretched tighter across her breasts. The TV nonsense became background static.

In that moment, Emma wasn’t just watching. She was reigning. A paradox wrapped in sin: movie star allure, middle-girl charm, and the soul of a siren who’d drag you under with a smile.

"Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living," she said, eyes glued to the screen where some influencer was wailing about a brand deal like it was the fall of Rome. Honestly, if melodrama were an Olympic sport, this girl would be a gold medalist.

"Hey, sleeping beauty needs her rest," I said, sinking into one of the leather chairs like a king claiming his throne. "So—what’s the crisis today? Somebody canceled for inhaling oxygen without a sponsorship?"

Emma snorted. "Close. This girl’s crying because her skincare collab gave her acne. Shocking twist: chemicals aren’t the cure for bad life choices." She finally turned toward me, one eyebrow cocked like she was evaluating whether my jawline had improved in the past five minutes. "You look less like a corpse than usual. Good night?"

"Something like that." I let my eyes drift around the room, taking in the glow like a man in a perfume ad. "Where are Mom and Sarah?"

"Shopping." She said it like she’d just committed a felony. "Mom wants to ’properly furnish’ the house, whatever that means. Sarah went to stop her from buying furniture so fancy we’d need an instruction manual just to sit on it."

Half a second of panic hit—shopping meant money, and money always meant stress if they went with little money. Then ARIA’s voice brushed my ear like silk: "Relax, boss. They’re using the cards linked to your Limitless account. Current damage: $847 at Williams Sonoma. Your mother has apparently discovered professional-grade spatulas."

Right. Limitless. Literally.

I looked back at Emma, really looked. The satin pajamas made her glow like she was the centerpiece of some moody ad campaign, but her eyes whispered secrets.

Since the Trent mess, she’d gone all recluse chic: less laughter, fewer friends, zero hallway TikTok dances. Just Emma, beautiful but detached, trying to convince the universe she was social while clearly auditioning for The Bachelor: Emotional Trauma Edition.

It pissed me off. I’d crushed Trent like the cockroach he was, but the cracks he left behind? They lingered, and they were messy.

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