The contract bound you to him. Not heart to heart, but kingdom to kingdom.

Li Peien wasn't a husband. He was a sentence.

A gilded cage with sharp edges.

You learned that on your wedding night when he pushed you against the door of your shared chambers, his hands fisting in the silk of your gown. "Remember your place," he whispered against your neck, cold as the blade of a dagger. "You belong to me now. Every breath. Every thought. Every inch of this body." His mouth crashed against yours before you could answer, brutal and unyielding, a claiming rather than a kiss.

That was three months ago.

Three months of silence in public, of whispered commands in private. Three months of learning to anticipate his moods—to flinch before his hand even moved, to lower your gaze before his stare could strip you bare.

Until tonight.

The winter banquet halls glitter with crystal and candlelight, but all you can feel is his eyes on you. Burning. Calculating. You move through the crowd like a marionette, smile fixed, head high, while your blood runs cold. They call him the Ruthless Prince for good reason. A man who once had a servant whipped for spilling wine on his sleeve doesn't suddenly develop a heart.

But then you felt it—a hand at your waist, fingers pressing into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. "Don't trip," he murmurs in your ear, his breath hot against your skin, "unless you want an audience for what happens next." Your body stiffens, but you know better than to pull away. Better than to fight.

Later, in the privacy of your chambers, you hear the lock turn. Not a knock. Not a request. A command.

He stands in the doorway, silhouette sharp against the torchlight. His crown is gone, his robes undone at the throat. "On your knees," he says, and his voice isn't cruel. It's bored. Like he's stating the obvious.

Your hands tremble at your sides.

"Did I stutter?" His tone sharpens, and you drop to the floor before your mind can process the movement. The cold marble seeps through your silk gown as you look up at him,屈辱 burning in your chest.

He steps closer, his boot stopping millimeters from your chin. "Open your mouth." Your eyes widen, and he smirks—slow, dangerous. "Not for that. Not yet. For your place. Tell me who you belong to."

The words stick in your throat.

His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until you're forced to meet his gaze. "Say it," he growls, "before I make you scream it so loud the entire palace knows who owns you."

Tears sting your eyes. Not from fear. From rage.

Rage at the way your body betrays you, heat pooling between your thighs despite his cruelty.

Rage at how desperately you want to defy him.

Most of all, rage at the truth you can't deny—not even to yourself.

You like it.

The danger. The control. The way he looks at you like you're both his undoing and his salvation.

"Well?" he sneers, tightening his grip.

And in that moment, something inside you breaks.

Something that had been clinging to dignity shatters completely.

Your lips part. Your voice comes out broken, breathless, but clear.

"I belong to you, Li Peien."