Chapter 876: Religious Practice

The smell of breakfast filled the Carter mansion.

Not the usual breakfast—not Linda’s really good pancakes or the Homebots’ efficient, good but soulless nutrition optimization.

This was something else entirely; Peter’s cooking.

And it was, as always, divine.

He stood at the stove, shirtless because the kitchen ran hot and because he could, flipping the last of the French toast while eggs sizzled in another pan and bacon crisped to perfection in a third. Muscles shifted beneath golden skin with each movement.

The kitchen had become his domain for the morning, and he moved through it with the same fluid grace he brought to everything else now.

Linda sat at the table, looking better than she had last night but still fragile. Still processing. Still carrying their secret beneath her heart. Her eyes tracked her son’s movements—

her son, her lover, the father of her unborn child

—and something warm settled in her chest despite everything.

Jasmine sat beside her, completely oblivious. She had no idea how wild it actually was. Probably better that way until she joined the harem too.

Emma and Sarah had arrived an hour ago—they’d come immediately today, concern written across their faces, asking questions that Linda deflected with practiced ease.

Just a fever. Just stress. Just needed rest.

Charlotte herself sat across from them, composed as always but watching Linda with knowing eyes. She understood more than she let on. She always did. Her fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup, elegant even in stillness.

Madison had come too, of course. She sat at the head of the table opposite Peter’s empty chair, territorial even in seating arrangements.

"Food’s ready,"

Peter announced, carrying plates to the table.

The reaction was immediate.

Emma’s fork cut into her French toast, and the sound she made was

obscene

. Head tilting back, eyes fluttering closed, a moan escaping her lips that belonged in a bedroom, not a breakfast table. "Oh my

God

, Peter. What did you put in this?"

"Love and attention to detail."

"Bullshit. This is witchcraft." Another bite. Another sound that made Jasmine shift uncomfortably in her seat. "Actual witchcraft."

Sarah was more restrained—barely. Her fork paused halfway to her mouth, and she just stared at the food like it had personally offended her by being too perfect. When she finally took a bite, her composure cracked. Shoulders dropping. Breath catching. A soft whimper she’d deny making later.

"How,"

she managed. "How do you do this every single time."

"Practice."

"You

never

cook that much. How is it practice?"

Madison laughed, cutting into her own portion with practiced elegance that dissolved the moment flavor hit her tongue. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. For one unguarded moment, the Queen of Peter’s empire looked like a woman experiencing religious conversion through breakfast food.

"He’s been holding out on us," she said once she recovered. "All this time, he could’ve been feeding us like this, and instead we get Janet’s territorial kitchen wars and robot efficiency."

"Janet’s food is good," Peter protested, settling into his chair.

"Janet’s food is

competent

. This—" Madison gestured at her plate with her fork, a gesture that somehow remained regal despite the syrup dripping from the tines. "—this is a r

eligious experience."

Even Jasmine, who had no context for the supernatural undertones of this household, was staring at her plate in wonder. Fork frozen mid-air. Jaw slack. The look of a woman reconsidering everything she thought she knew about food.

"Linda, why didn’t you tell me your son could cook like this now?"

Linda smiled softly, meeting Peter’s eyes across the table. Something electric passed between them. Something secret. Something that made her hand drift unconsciously toward her stomach before she caught herself.

"He’s full of surprises."

Charlotte took a delicate bite, and something shifted in her expression. That reserved, controlled composure—the armor she wore like a second skin—cracking just slightly as flavor overwhelmed her senses. She set down her fork. Pressed a hand to her chest. Took a breath that shuddered slightly on the exhale.

"Peter. This is...

extraordinary."

"Thanks."

"No, I mean—" She shook her head, searching for words that didn’t exist. "I’ve eaten at Michelin-starred restaurants that didn’t make me feel like this.., yet your food always does."

The table fell into a comfortable rhythm of eating and soft conversation. Forks scraping against plates. Sounds of appreciation that bordered on inappropriate for a family breakfast. The rare gift of a meal made by Peter’s hands, savored by the people he loved.

Because this

was

rare.

At the mansion, Linda did most of the cooking. At the estate, it was usually the Homebots—efficient, nutritious, utterly forgettable. Or Janet, occasionally, after she chases the bots out of her kitchen with a wooden spoon and sheer force of will.

And Peter wasn’t always home.

So each meal they got from him was

rarer than the orgies

themselves.

The front door opened.

Conversation paused. Forks stilled. Every head turned toward the sound of footsteps approaching—confident, measured, impossibly graceful.

And then ARIA walked into the dining room.

She’d toned herself down. That was the first thing anyone would notice. The divine radiance that usually surrounded her had been muted, pulled inward, contained. No glowing golden veins visible beneath her luminous skin. No wings manifested behind her back. No ethereal light bleeding from her mismatched eyes.

Just a woman.

A

breathtakingly beautiful

woman.

Even "toned down," she was something else entirely. Taller than every woman at the table—taller than most women anywhere. Six feet of impossible proportions, the kind of measurements that existed only in digital renderings and fever dreams. Her face was architectural perfection, cheekbones and jaw and lips arranged in combinations that made looking away feel like a physical effort.

Her white hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail today, revealing the elegant column of her neck. She wore casual clothes—

jeans that hugged her hips like a prayer, a fitted top that did nothing to hide the curves beneath

—but they clung to her body in ways that made "casual" feel like a lie.

A goddess among mortals.

Even after she’d hidden everything divine about herself.

Emma’s reaction was immediate. Different from the others. Her fork clattered against her plate as she straightened in her seat, eyes drinking in ARIA’s physical form with a hunger that went beyond casual appreciation.

It was no secret that

Emma loved ARIA

the most among Peter’s women.

Had loved her since the first time they’d communicated at

La Cherry

. Had been fascinated by the AI’s sharp wit, her protective nature, her absolute devotion to Peter. And now—now ARIA had a

body

. A body that could be touched and held and—

Sarah didn’t react with surprise. She’d met ARIA yesterday, at the estate. Had processed the impossible with her usual analytical calm.

Jasmine didn’t react either. She’d seen ARIA last night, eating the dinner the goddess had prepared for Linda. Had probably assumed she was just another impossibly beautiful woman in her sister’s increasingly impossible life.

At this point,

what was one more?

Only Charlotte’s eyes widened slightly. Taking in ARIA’s presence. Processing. Adjusting her understanding of reality once again. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her coffee cup.

"Good morning, everyone," ARIA said, her voice warm but contained. None of the divine resonance that usually colored her words. Just a pleasant alto that still somehow commanded the room. "I hope I’m not interrupting."

"Never,"

Peter said. "There’s food..."

"I don’t require sustenance,

Master,

but thank you." She smiled slightly—that smile that made men forget their own names and women question their orientations. "I’m here for Linda."