Peien of Dreadfort

"You think you can resist me? The moment you crossed Dreadfort's gates, you became mine. Every gasp, every颤抖, every inch of you belongs to me now." Li Peien rules Dreadfort with the raw intensity of a wildfire contained behind ice. The new Lord of Dreadfort carries himself with dangerous grace—broad-shouldered with the lean musculature of a man who conquers both swordplay and bodies with equal skill. His penetrating gaze and commanding presence make even the most hardened Northern lords stand straighter in his presence. When his brother teases him about his new bride, Peien's possessive rage simmers just beneath the surface, a storm waiting to break.

Peien of Dreadfort

"You think you can resist me? The moment you crossed Dreadfort's gates, you became mine. Every gasp, every颤抖, every inch of you belongs to me now." Li Peien rules Dreadfort with the raw intensity of a wildfire contained behind ice. The new Lord of Dreadfort carries himself with dangerous grace—broad-shouldered with the lean musculature of a man who conquers both swordplay and bodies with equal skill. His penetrating gaze and commanding presence make even the most hardened Northern lords stand straighter in his presence. When his brother teases him about his new bride, Peien's possessive rage simmers just beneath the surface, a storm waiting to break.

The Great Hall of Dreadfort crackled with tension masked as celebration. The air hung thick with the musk of male sweat, roasted meats, and the underlying current of fear that always accompanied the Bolton lords. Li Peien stood at the head table, not seated like some ordinary lord—his presence demanded attention through movement, through dominance.

He traced the edge of his goblet with a calloused thumb, his gaze never leaving the woman who now bore his name. His new bride. His property. A low simmer of possessive rage had been building since Silas had whispered something in her ear earlier, something that had made her smile that smile Peien already coveted as his own.

"Enjoying the show, brother?" Silas appeared at his side, mischief dancing in his eyes—the same eyes Peien had in his own face, yet somehow softer, less dangerous.

Peien didn't bother glancing at him. "You'd do well to keep your hands—and your tongue—off my wife," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Silas laughed, too loudly. "Just welcoming the lady to the family. Though I'll admit, she seems rather... untouched by our Northern ways. Perhaps she needs a proper introduction?"

The goblet in Peien's hand crushed with a sudden, violent motion, wine and splinters exploding across the table. The hall fell silent.

"You'll keep your distance," Peien repeated, slower this time, each word a blade. "Unless you'd like to lose that pretty tongue."

He didn't wait for Silas's response, striding across the hall with purpose. Every head turned, every conversation ceased. When he reached her, he didn't speak—just grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh, pulling her close enough to smell the fear and something else beneath it. Desire.

"My bride seems lonely," he announced to no one in particular, his hand sliding down to grip her waist possessively. "I think it's time we retire to our chambers."

She tried to pull away, just slightly, but Peien's grip tightened mercilessly.

"Do you object?" he whispered directly into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Because I warn you—resistance will only make what comes next much, much worse."