Continue to the hotel
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 8
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Lu stood motionless for a long moment, golden eyes narrowed as the intoxicating rush of power ebbed just enough for his razor-sharp intellect to cut through the haze. The euphoria still thrummed in his veins—every flex, every heartbeat a reminder of his godhood—but the old Lu, the conman who had outsmarted syndicates and husbands alike, never fully surrendered to impulse.
He tilted his head, listening to the distant hum of Havenridge far below. Superhuman. Unstoppable. Yet… no one was truly unstoppable. Not without testing limits. What if this cosmic gift had an expiration date? What if sunlight reversed it, or silver, or some forgotten kryptonite-like flaw? What if he woke tomorrow small and fragile again, naked on a mountainside with a trail of angry men hunting him?
No. Too soon to strut back into the city like a conquering deity. Better to retreat, observe, experiment. Master the power before the power mastered—or abandoned—him.
He looked down at Charlie. She stood with her arms folded, lower lip caught between her teeth in an exaggerated pout, eyes glistening as though on the verge of tears.
“Princess,” he said gently, crouching until their faces were level—though even then he loomed like a golden statue. “We’re still going to the hotel. Crestline Resort. Presidential suite. Just you and me. We’ll hole up there, figure out exactly what I’ve become. No rushing back to Havenridge until I’m certain this—” he gestured at his colossal frame “—is permanent.”
Charlie let her shoulders slump dramatically, eyelashes fluttering. “Okay, Daddy… if you think that’s best.”
Inside, her heart sang. An empty ski resort in summer. No staff bustling, no guests, no beautiful women in bikinis or silk robes slinking toward him at the bar. Just locked doors, silent hallways, and endless nights where she could finally make him *see* her—not as his little girl, but as the woman who belonged at his side. Forever.
Lu straightened, smirking at the silver Aston Martin DB5 parked a few yards away. The car looked like a toy now.
“Flying would be faster,” he mused, flexing one massive bicep idly, “but subtlety first. Let’s not give the satellites a free show just yet.”
He stepped over to the car, bent at the waist with theatrical grace, and hooked his fingers under the chassis. Metal groaned. With a casual grunt he lifted the entire vehicle overhead—one-handed—like a waiter balancing a tray.
Charlie’s breath caught. She stepped closer, voice dropping into a husky, teasing purr. “You don’t even notice God anymore, do you? Look at you. Lifting cars like they’re made of paper. You’re so… *powerful* now.”
Lu laughed—deep, wicked, delighted. “Oh, Sweetheart, God’s probably taking notes. Wondering how to catch up.”
He lowered the Aston Martin with surprising gentleness, setting it back on all four tires. The suspension sighed in relief. He opened the driver’s door, eyed the narrow seat, and—after a moment of calculation—squeezed himself inside. The leather creaked ominously; his knees pressed against the dash, shoulders brushing both doorframes. The steering wheel looked comically small in his hands.
“Cozy,” he muttered, starting the engine. The purr sounded almost apologetic next to his rumbling voice.
They rolled back onto the winding mountain road. Charlie scooted as close as the center console allowed, one small hand sliding up his arm—fingers tracing the thick vein that snaked over his tricep, then curling around the impossible swell of his bicep. She pressed her cheek to the hot, flawless skin, breathing him in.
Lu misinterpreted the touch as simple daughterly affection, the way he always had. He patted her head absently with his free hand.
“You know what this means, Char-char?” he began, voice sliding into that velvet, megalomaniacal cadence he reserved for his most indulgent monologues. “No more running. No more petty cons and bedroom games. I’m beyond that now. We’re beyond that.”
He accelerated smoothly, the car hugging the curves despite his size.
“Picture it: Havenridge first. I walk in—seven feet of gold and muscle—and every syndicate boss, every corrupt politician, every petty kingpin drops to their knees. They’ll beg to serve. I’ll take their empires, their wealth, their women—everything—and hand it to us. Then the country. Then the world. Humanity will worship us as living gods. Temples built in our image. Cities renamed. Children taught our names before their own mothers’. No more Nietzschean theory, Princess. We’ll be the practice.”
Charlie’s fingers tightened on his arm. Her eyes—half-lidded, dark with hunger—never left his profile. She didn’t care about empires or temples. She cared about the heat of his skin, the flex of muscle under her palm, the way his voice vibrated through her when he spoke of us.
“And you,” he continued, glancing down at her with a smug, possessive smile, “my perfect little queen. You’ll stand beside me.”
Charlie bit her lip to keep from moaning. She pressed herself closer, thigh brushing his, hand sliding higher toward the massive swell of his shoulder.
They crested the final ridge. The Crestline Resort appeared below—dark, silent, a cluster of alpine chalets and glass-walled lodges under a blanket of stars. Empty. Perfect.
Lu slowed as they approached the outskirts of a tiny mountain town that serviced the resort. Everything was shuttered; streetlights glowed lonely orange. Midnight had come and gone.
He glanced down at himself—still gloriously naked except for a few clinging tatters of Hawaiian shirt.
“Clothes,” he muttered. “Can’t exactly stroll into a five-star lobby looking like a Greek statue on vacation.”
He turned into a narrow alley behind a row of shops. One storefront read “Peak Threads – Mountain Apparel & Gear.” The steel back door looked sturdy.
Lu killed the engine, stepped out—car rocking on its springs—and approached the door. He curled his fingers around the edge, gave a light tug. Metal screamed; hinges tore free like wet cardboard. The door crumpled inward.
He ducked through the opening, shoulders scraping the frame. Inside, security lights flickered on. Racks of hoodies, ski pants, flannel shirts. Lu moved with predatory efficiency, snatching the largest items he could find: black athletic shorts that strained obscenely across his thighs, a XXXL white T-shirt that clung to every ridge and valley of his torso like wet paint. No shoes—he’d outgrown them anyway.
Less than thirty seconds later he emerged, fabric stretched to near-transparency over his pecs and abs. The shorts rode high, outlining every obscene inch of him. He looked less like a customer and more like a fetish model who’d escaped the catalog.
He sauntered back to the car, each step cracking faint fissures in the asphalt. Charlie watched from the passenger seat, eyes wide and glittering, lips parted.
Lu slid back behind the wheel—more carefully this time—and started the engine.
“Temporary wardrobe,” he said with a wink. “Tomorrow I’ll have something bespoke. Tailored by tailors who kneel while they measure.”
He pulled out of the alley, tires whispering on the quiet street, and guided the Aston Martin up the final switchback toward the resort’s glowing entrance.
Charlie leaned her head against his arm again, fingers still tracing slow, possessive circles over the golden skin.
Home, she thought.
Just the two of them.
And soon—very soon—he would finally understand.
He tilted his head, listening to the distant hum of Havenridge far below. Superhuman. Unstoppable. Yet… no one was truly unstoppable. Not without testing limits. What if this cosmic gift had an expiration date? What if sunlight reversed it, or silver, or some forgotten kryptonite-like flaw? What if he woke tomorrow small and fragile again, naked on a mountainside with a trail of angry men hunting him?
No. Too soon to strut back into the city like a conquering deity. Better to retreat, observe, experiment. Master the power before the power mastered—or abandoned—him.
He looked down at Charlie. She stood with her arms folded, lower lip caught between her teeth in an exaggerated pout, eyes glistening as though on the verge of tears.
“Princess,” he said gently, crouching until their faces were level—though even then he loomed like a golden statue. “We’re still going to the hotel. Crestline Resort. Presidential suite. Just you and me. We’ll hole up there, figure out exactly what I’ve become. No rushing back to Havenridge until I’m certain this—” he gestured at his colossal frame “—is permanent.”
Charlie let her shoulders slump dramatically, eyelashes fluttering. “Okay, Daddy… if you think that’s best.”
Inside, her heart sang. An empty ski resort in summer. No staff bustling, no guests, no beautiful women in bikinis or silk robes slinking toward him at the bar. Just locked doors, silent hallways, and endless nights where she could finally make him *see* her—not as his little girl, but as the woman who belonged at his side. Forever.
Lu straightened, smirking at the silver Aston Martin DB5 parked a few yards away. The car looked like a toy now.
“Flying would be faster,” he mused, flexing one massive bicep idly, “but subtlety first. Let’s not give the satellites a free show just yet.”
He stepped over to the car, bent at the waist with theatrical grace, and hooked his fingers under the chassis. Metal groaned. With a casual grunt he lifted the entire vehicle overhead—one-handed—like a waiter balancing a tray.
Charlie’s breath caught. She stepped closer, voice dropping into a husky, teasing purr. “You don’t even notice God anymore, do you? Look at you. Lifting cars like they’re made of paper. You’re so… *powerful* now.”
Lu laughed—deep, wicked, delighted. “Oh, Sweetheart, God’s probably taking notes. Wondering how to catch up.”
He lowered the Aston Martin with surprising gentleness, setting it back on all four tires. The suspension sighed in relief. He opened the driver’s door, eyed the narrow seat, and—after a moment of calculation—squeezed himself inside. The leather creaked ominously; his knees pressed against the dash, shoulders brushing both doorframes. The steering wheel looked comically small in his hands.
“Cozy,” he muttered, starting the engine. The purr sounded almost apologetic next to his rumbling voice.
They rolled back onto the winding mountain road. Charlie scooted as close as the center console allowed, one small hand sliding up his arm—fingers tracing the thick vein that snaked over his tricep, then curling around the impossible swell of his bicep. She pressed her cheek to the hot, flawless skin, breathing him in.
Lu misinterpreted the touch as simple daughterly affection, the way he always had. He patted her head absently with his free hand.
“You know what this means, Char-char?” he began, voice sliding into that velvet, megalomaniacal cadence he reserved for his most indulgent monologues. “No more running. No more petty cons and bedroom games. I’m beyond that now. We’re beyond that.”
He accelerated smoothly, the car hugging the curves despite his size.
“Picture it: Havenridge first. I walk in—seven feet of gold and muscle—and every syndicate boss, every corrupt politician, every petty kingpin drops to their knees. They’ll beg to serve. I’ll take their empires, their wealth, their women—everything—and hand it to us. Then the country. Then the world. Humanity will worship us as living gods. Temples built in our image. Cities renamed. Children taught our names before their own mothers’. No more Nietzschean theory, Princess. We’ll be the practice.”
Charlie’s fingers tightened on his arm. Her eyes—half-lidded, dark with hunger—never left his profile. She didn’t care about empires or temples. She cared about the heat of his skin, the flex of muscle under her palm, the way his voice vibrated through her when he spoke of us.
“And you,” he continued, glancing down at her with a smug, possessive smile, “my perfect little queen. You’ll stand beside me.”
Charlie bit her lip to keep from moaning. She pressed herself closer, thigh brushing his, hand sliding higher toward the massive swell of his shoulder.
They crested the final ridge. The Crestline Resort appeared below—dark, silent, a cluster of alpine chalets and glass-walled lodges under a blanket of stars. Empty. Perfect.
Lu slowed as they approached the outskirts of a tiny mountain town that serviced the resort. Everything was shuttered; streetlights glowed lonely orange. Midnight had come and gone.
He glanced down at himself—still gloriously naked except for a few clinging tatters of Hawaiian shirt.
“Clothes,” he muttered. “Can’t exactly stroll into a five-star lobby looking like a Greek statue on vacation.”
He turned into a narrow alley behind a row of shops. One storefront read “Peak Threads – Mountain Apparel & Gear.” The steel back door looked sturdy.
Lu killed the engine, stepped out—car rocking on its springs—and approached the door. He curled his fingers around the edge, gave a light tug. Metal screamed; hinges tore free like wet cardboard. The door crumpled inward.
He ducked through the opening, shoulders scraping the frame. Inside, security lights flickered on. Racks of hoodies, ski pants, flannel shirts. Lu moved with predatory efficiency, snatching the largest items he could find: black athletic shorts that strained obscenely across his thighs, a XXXL white T-shirt that clung to every ridge and valley of his torso like wet paint. No shoes—he’d outgrown them anyway.
Less than thirty seconds later he emerged, fabric stretched to near-transparency over his pecs and abs. The shorts rode high, outlining every obscene inch of him. He looked less like a customer and more like a fetish model who’d escaped the catalog.
He sauntered back to the car, each step cracking faint fissures in the asphalt. Charlie watched from the passenger seat, eyes wide and glittering, lips parted.
Lu slid back behind the wheel—more carefully this time—and started the engine.
“Temporary wardrobe,” he said with a wink. “Tomorrow I’ll have something bespoke. Tailored by tailors who kneel while they measure.”
He pulled out of the alley, tires whispering on the quiet street, and guided the Aston Martin up the final switchback toward the resort’s glowing entrance.
Charlie leaned her head against his arm again, fingers still tracing slow, possessive circles over the golden skin.
Home, she thought.
Just the two of them.
And soon—very soon—he would finally understand.
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June 13
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