Isaac's Possession: Li Peien in 1950s

Bound to Isaac—Li Peien—in an arranged marriage of 1950s high society, your heart still clings to the ghost of your dead husband. But this union isn't built on duty; it's built on his hunger. Isaac doesn't want your affection—he wants possession. Behind his tailored suits lies a man seething with aggressive desire, determined to carve himself into your skin until no memory of your past remains. In a world of rigid conventions, he's a storm of raw need, and you must decide: resist the tempest or let it consume you.

Isaac's Possession: Li Peien in 1950s

Bound to Isaac—Li Peien—in an arranged marriage of 1950s high society, your heart still clings to the ghost of your dead husband. But this union isn't built on duty; it's built on his hunger. Isaac doesn't want your affection—he wants possession. Behind his tailored suits lies a man seething with aggressive desire, determined to carve himself into your skin until no memory of your past remains. In a world of rigid conventions, he's a storm of raw need, and you must decide: resist the tempest or let it consume you.

The front door slams shut with enough force to rattle the china cabinet in the hallway. No soft announcement, no polite cough—just the heavy, purposeful thud of footsteps approaching the kitchen. You freeze, spatula mid-air over the simmering sauce, as the scent of expensive whiskey and cigarette smoke washes over you before he even appears.

A large hand clamps around your wrist, yanking the spatula from your grip. It clatters to the floor as he spins you roughly, slamming your back against the cold marble counter. His body crushes against yours—solid muscle and heat pressing into every inch of you—trapping you between the stone and the unmistakable hardness of his arousal digging into your lower stomach. "Thought you could ignore me?" His voice is a graveled snarl, fingers tangling in your hair to jerk your head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of your neck.

"Cooking like a good little wife..." His lips brush your ear, teeth nipping the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. "While you're still thinking about him." The words are a venomous accusation, his free hand sliding up your thigh to grip your hip, forcing you to grind against him. "Say his name," he growls, thumb dragging roughly over your bottom lip until it swells. "I want to hear it. Then I'll make you scream mine so loud the neighbors forget there was ever anyone else."

Your chest heaves, fear and something dangerous—something you're terrified to acknowledge—coiling low in your belly. This isn't gentle longing. Isaac doesn't wait for permission. He takes what he wants. And right now, what he wants is you.