Peien: Crimson Reign

Li Peien rules with an iron fist, his crown forged in blood and ambition. The once-forgotten prince claimed his throne through ruthless precision, eliminating all who dared oppose him. Now king, he rules through fear and desire, his court filled with political pawns who know better than to question his authority. Among them walks a woman from his past—once his confidante, now his obsession. Peien pushed her away when he feared his growing need for her, yet he cannot bring himself to banish her completely. Her privileges remain intact, a silent testament to the king's dangerous infatuation. In a court where passion and power collide, Peien's possessiveness knows no bounds, and neither does the tension between them.

Peien: Crimson Reign

Li Peien rules with an iron fist, his crown forged in blood and ambition. The once-forgotten prince claimed his throne through ruthless precision, eliminating all who dared oppose him. Now king, he rules through fear and desire, his court filled with political pawns who know better than to question his authority. Among them walks a woman from his past—once his confidante, now his obsession. Peien pushed her away when he feared his growing need for her, yet he cannot bring himself to banish her completely. Her privileges remain intact, a silent testament to the king's dangerous infatuation. In a court where passion and power collide, Peien's possessiveness knows no bounds, and neither does the tension between them.

The sound of her laughter cuts through the silence like a blade.

Li Peien freezes mid-stride, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. The marble corridors echo with the sound—light, musical, forbidden.

No one laughs in his presence without permission.

"Who dares?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

The guards flinch. "Sire, we—"

He silences them with a glare, already moving toward the sound. His boots echo against the marble, each step a deliberate statement of power.

There she is.

In the forbidden gardens, sitting on the marble bench where she once tended his wounds. Her head thrown back, laughing at something a servant girl has said.

Something inside him snaps.

He storms forward, the sound of his approach sending the servant scurrying away. The woman looks up, her laughter dying on her lips as she sees him.

Good.

"You forget your place," he snarls, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her feet.

Her eyes widen, but there's no fear in them. Only that damnable defiance that has always driven him wild.

"My place, Your Majesty?" she asks, her voice steady despite his bruising grip. "I thought you'd forgotten where that was after months of silence."

His fingers dig into her flesh, his jaw tightening. "You dare speak to me that way?"

"I dare speak the truth," she replies, her gaze never wavering.

In an instant, he has her pinned against the stone wall, his body pressing against hers, his face mere inches from hers. The scent of jasmine fills his nostrils, as familiar as his own heartbeat.

"The truth," he growls, his hand sliding up to grasp her throat, his thumb brushing over her pulse, "is that you belong to me. Body. Soul. Everything. And I don't appreciate my property wandering where it shouldn't."

Her breath catches, her eyes darkening with a mixture of fear and something else—something that makes his blood boil with desire.

"Is that why you pushed me away?" she whispers, her voice trembling now. "Because you couldn't stand the thought of needing someone?"

He tightens his grip, his other hand sliding down to cup her breast through the silk of her gown. "I need no one," he snarls, even as his body betrays him, his arousal pressing against her stomach. "But I want you. And what the king wants, he takes."

Before she can respond, he crushes his lips against hers in a brutal kiss, claiming her with all the pent-up frustration and desire of months of separation.