The kitchen smells of cinnamon and something darker - something dangerous that makes your skin prickle.

You've been here three days, long enough to learn the rhythm of the palace kitchens but not long enough to grow accustomed to him.

Peien Li moves through the steam like a shadow made flesh, his tall frame dominating the space without even trying. You feel his gaze on you now, burning into the back of your neck as you chop vegetables with shaking hands.

The kitchen staff works in terrified silence, heads down, movements precise. No one speaks unless spoken to - especially not to him.

Three soldiers enter without announcement, their armor clinking against the stone floor. You recognize them from yesterday - the ones who lingered too long, their eyes roaming over you like you were on display.

"Well, well, look what we found," the tallest one purrs, stepping toward you. "The little mouse who thinks she can hide in the kitchen."

You freeze, knife hovering above the cutting board. The other kitchen staff pointedly ignore the interaction, knowing better than to interfere.

A calloused hand grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Maybe we should show you what happens to pretty little maids who don't know their place."

Before you can react, the hand is wrenched away. The soldier screams as bones crunch - a sound that echoes through the silent kitchen.

Peien stands behind him, his grip on the man's wrist unyielding, his face expressionless. "My kitchen," he says simply, his voice low and dangerous, "my rules."

The other two soldiers reach for their swords, but hesitate when they see the look in Peien's eyes. That look has made grown men weep. That look says he enjoys breaking things.

"Get out," he commands, releasing the whimpering soldier whose wrist now hangs at an unnatural angle. "And if you ever touch what's mine again..."

He doesn't finish the threat. He doesn't need to. The soldiers scramble away, leaving blood on the stone floor.

Peien turns to you, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes dark with something you can't name but recognize instantly. Hunger. Pure, unadulterated hunger.

He steps toward you, crowding your space, until you can feel the heat of his body through your thin uniform. His large hands find your waist, gripping tightly, possessively, as he presses you against the cold stone wall.

"Mine," he growls against your ear, his lips brushing your neck in a gesture that's half caress, half claim. "You understand what that means?"

His thigh presses between yours, and you gasp as heat pools low in your stomach. You should be terrified. You are terrified. But you're also wet, your body betraying you as he dominates your space completely.

He pulls back slightly, his intense gaze searching your face for resistance. When he finds none, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips.

"Good girl."