Novel Full Chapter 896: Mother and Daughters Foursome?
Chapter 896: Mother and Daughters Foursome?
The fact that Sarah — Sarah — her measured, thoughtful, careful Sarah — had been moaning about being better than her mother was enough to make Linda want to rewrite her will.
Not out of anger, exactly.
Out of... what? Offense?Competitive irritation?
The bizarre, taboo-adjacent indignation of a woman who was simultaneously a mother, a lover, and apparently a benchmark?
Should she be mad at Peter?
She’d asked herself that question a thousand times since he had first pulled their whole family into this taboo mother-daughters orbit. Should she be furious at him for corrupting her daughters? For turning her home into something that would give a family therapist a stroke?
For being so impossibly, devastatingly, demonically beautiful and tempting that no woman in his orbit could resist him — including, most damningly, his ownmother?
No. She’d passed that phase eons ago. Burned through the anger, the guilt, the shame, the denial — all of it consumed in the furnace of loving him so completely that moral objections felt like arguing with gravity.
Peter was a force. A beautiful, terrible, tender force that rewrote the rules of every life he touched.
And if she couldn’t resist him — Linda Carter, the woman who had raised him, who should have been the last line of defense against exactly this kind of madness — how could she expect her daughters to?
She’d fucked him too. She was pregnant with his child. She had no moral high ground left. She’d burned that high ground down and built a love nest on the ashes.
Besides — and this was the part that had kept her staring at the ceiling for hours last night— Sarah had been a virgin.
Linda hadn’t known that. Not for certain. She’d suspected, the way mothers suspect things about their daughters without confirmation. But hearing it last night— hearing Sarah’s voice crack with pain and wonder and desperate need, hearing the specific sounds of a first time that was being handled with more care than Sarah probably expected— that had been the confirmation.
Her daughter’s first time. With her brother. In their mother’s house. While their mother — pregnant by the same man —lay upstairs pretending she couldn’t hear.
Linda took a sip of cold coffee. Grimaced. Set it down.
The moans from the bedroom had shifted rhythm. Faster now. More urgent. Sarah’s voice climbing toward something inevitable, punctuated by the unmistakable low rumble of Peter’s voice saying things Linda couldn’t make out but could feel in her chest.
Emma’s spoon slipped. Clinked against the bowl. She caught it, set it down carefully, and pressed both palms flat against the countertop as if she needed to verify that solid surfaces still existed.
They still didn’t look at each other.
Linda’s hand drifted — unconscious, instinctive — to her stomach. The quantum watch pulsed softly on her wrist. Beneath her palm, impossibly small, Peter’s child grew. The baby she’d begged for. The baby that made her position in this family both the most secure and the most insane.
She was the mother. The lover. The pregnant one.
And her daughter was down the hall trying to dethrone her.
Linda almost laughed. Almost. The absurdity of it was so vast, so cosmically ridiculous, that laughter felt like the only sane response.
What came next?
A foursome?
Both her daughters on either side of her, all three of them sharing the man who’d made them all lose their minds? Both twins pregnant too, eventually? — because why not, why draw a line now, what possible boundary remained that hadn’t already been obliterated?
She closed her eyes.
Sarah’s moan hit a peak — long, raw, shattered — and then dissolved into breathless, sobbing laughter that carried down the hallway like a confession.
Emma stood up abruptly. Picked up her soggy cereal. Walked to the sink. Dumped it. Stood there with her back to Linda, shoulders rigid, ears crimson.
Linda opened her eyes.
Thank God Jasmine was still asleep upstairs.
That was the thought she clung to— the single, fragile mercy in this entire catastrophe. Jasmine, who had only recently discovered that her nephew had a harem.
Jasmine, who was still processing the fact that her sister’s adopted son was a teenage empire-builder with supernatural abilities.
Jasmine, who absolutely, categorically, under no circumstances needed to wake up to the sound of her niece screaming about competitive sexual performance against her mother with her brother while her sister sat in the kitchen contemplating the logistics of a family foursome.
Jasmine could never know.
At least not today.
Linda took another sip of cold coffee. Swallowed it like medicine.
What came next? She didn’t know. Couldn’t know. The rules of her life had been rewritten so many times that the original text was illegible.
She was a mother, a lover, a pregnant woman, a nurse who understood biology well enough to know that nothing about this family was biologically advisable, and a woman who loved a man so thoroughly that she’d stopped asking whether love was supposed to look like this.
Both her daughters. Pregnant. Like her.
The thought landed in her mind with the quiet, terrifying weight of inevitability.
Or worse — better? — all three of them. Together. With him. Not a fantasy. Not a late-night intrusive thought she could dismiss. A possibility. Real and present and living in the same house, breathing the same air, loving the same impossible man.
Linda Carter stared at her cold coffee.
And wondered when — not if — the last wall would fall.
From down the hallway, Sarah’s voice rose one final time — raw, triumphant, wrecked — and then fell into a silence that was somehow louder than the screaming.
Emma turned from the sink.
Their eyes met.
For the first time all morning, something passed between them. Not words. Not acknowledgment. Just a look — brief, loaded, saturated with shared knowledge that neither of them could speak aloud.
Then Emma looked away. Poured herself a glass of orange juice with trembling hands.
And Linda thought: We’re all his. Every single one of us. And none of us want to be anything else.
The kitchen clock ticked.
The bird outside kept singing.
And somewhere in the master suite, Peter Carter held his sister in his arms — spent, satisfied, oblivious to the audience he’d never asked for — while the women in his life sat in the wreckage of their dignity and waited for whatever impossible thing came next.