Evil MC's NTR Harem-Chapter 642 Name

"Ross! You need me!" he shouted, kicking feebly with his remaining foot. "They'll never obey you without me! Not fully!"

He clawed at the floor, leaving behind smears of red as he was pulled further away.

"Ross! Give me a chance! I'll do anything! Anything! Please—!"

Thud!

The heavy door slammed shut, silencing his cries. Only the fading echo remained, swallowed by the dark hallways of the manor.

Ross stood still, eyes on the door.

He didn't move for a few seconds, simply inhaling the quiet that followed.

Then he whispered, "I have no need for dumb fucks like you."

With a flick of his fingers, the shadows behind him shifted.

From the empty space beside the bed, a figure began to take shape—an identical copy of Thomas.

Every detail was perfect: the weary eyes, the scars, the scent, the voice. But this wasn't Thomas.

It was a puppet—an undead construct Ross had cultivated using dark sorcery.

A dead soul enslaved, hollowed out and filled with obedience. It could mimic anyone. It would mimic anyone.

This puppet would replace the man he had discarded.

"I have my own perfect ways," Ross muttered, stepping toward the replica and adjusting its collar with care, as if preparing it for a masquerade.

"Goodbye, Thomas," he said softly, almost tenderly. "You won't die anytime soon. No... no, I have far greater plans for you."

Deep below the manor, past sealed chambers and cursed runes, a cell awaited.

Ross sent a silent command to Brandon, who was already descending the hidden stairwell with the broken man in tow.

His orders were precise: break Thomas slowly. Strip him of identity, of memory, of hope.

Let him rot in despair until his sanity shattered into a thousand unrecognizable pieces.

And once the man was no longer a man—once he had screamed his voice into silence, clawed his mind into madness—Ross would tear his soul from his body.

It would not pass on. It would not be reborn. It would be trapped—caged in a spectral prison of Ross's own making, where pain was endless and time did not exist.

That would be his punishment.

A fate worse than death.

A fitting end for a man foolish enough to covet what belonged to Ross.

He returned to the bedside, brushing a strand of hair from Brenda's face.

"They're mine now," he whispered. "Mind, body, soul. And you? You're just a ghost screaming in the dark."

And with that, Ross turned away, his dead puppet already practicing Thomas's voice in the background.

***

A few hours later, Brenda and Colleen finally stirred, their bodies still aching from the relentless passion Ross had unleashed upon them.

The room was quiet, heavy with the scent of sex and something far darker—an invisible weight pressing on their minds as reality slowly returned.

Ross used this moment to bring in the fake Thomas, a perfect copy molded from flesh and dark magic.

It was time for explanations—or at least, the version he wanted them to hear.

The women listened in stunned silence as the imposter recounted their fate: how they had died years ago, their bodies buried and forgotten, only to be resurrected by Ross through means neither holy nor natural.

At first, Brenda and Colleen couldn't believe it. They screamed, cried, clung to each other as if the contact would anchor them in sanity.

But Ross had prepared well. The fake Thomas presented evidence—photos, records, grave markers, death certificates.

It was undeniable. The truth, as ugly and surreal as it was, couldn't be ignored.

"You… what are you?" Brenda asked, her voice trembling, her eyes wide with a terror that ran deeper than instinct.

Her entire worldview had shattered in mere moments.

Ross looked at her, expression unreadable for a beat—then smiled.

"Me? I'm your new master," he said simply, his tone cold but final. Then he turned and walked away, leaving the weight of those words hanging in the air like a guillotine.

With fake Thomas as leverage—held hostage under Ross's complete control—Brenda and Colleen were trapped. freewebnøvel.com

It didn't matter that he had resurrected them from tje dead; their emotional attachment was real, and Ross exploited it masterfully.

Through that thread of vulnerability, he made them yield, obey, and fall deeper under his dominion.

He had no intention of discarding them. In time, both women would become part of his growing collection of wives—bound not just by desire but by careful manipulation, and dependency.

But that would come later.

For now, Ross's attention had shifted to more pressing matters.

There were still pieces on the board to move, enemies to crush, and a world to reshape in his image.

***

One month later, Ross had completely overhauled the power structure of the nation.

Every key position within the government—beginning with the president and cascading down through the heads of the CIA, the FBI, Homeland Security, and every other strategic agency—had been quietly replaced by his loyal undead puppets.

These were not mindless corpses, but finely tuned extensions of his will, cloaked in perfect human façades, mimicking speech, emotion, and personality so convincingly that not even their closest allies suspected a thing.

With this silent coup complete, Ross had effectively rendered the old power structure obsolete.

There would be no more bureaucratic interference, no more pesky oversight, and certainly no more annoying pests like Thomas who dared to challenge his rise.

He felt no pangs of guilt. In his mind, it was not an act of evil but of correction.

Every single official he had replaced was already steeped in corruption, their hands filthy with bribes, coverups, and blood.

These were men and women who had sold out their own people time and again for a few more digits in their offshore accounts, who looked away from injustice so long as their positions remained secure.

They were hollow, morally bankrupt beings—and in Ross's eyes, turning them into literal puppets was a fitting end.

With the world now dancing to his silent tune, Ross turned his attention to matters more personal.

He began spending more time with Brenda and Colleen, drawing them deeper into his orbit with calculated charm and quiet dominance.

He didn't rush—he didn't need to. The women, still overwhelmed by the surreal nature of his charisma, power, and mystery, hung on his every word.

He offered them a life no one else could—a life of luxury, purpose, and protection beneath the wings of a godlike figure.

And when the time came to claim them fully, their bodies responded as eagerly as their minds. Their innocence, their previous notions of love and loyalty, melted under the weight of his presence.

Ross didn't need to manipulate them with words anymore; the raw, primal force of his body was more than enough.

Every moment he spent with them was a lesson, a reprogramming. His touch, his dominance, the way he filled them so completely—it left marks that ran deeper than any spell could.

Pleasure and pain, surrender and ecstasy, all wove together to burn his name into their very souls.

By the end of that month, Ross hadn't just conquered a nation—he had claimed hearts, minds, and bodies.