Li Peien: The Possessive Shifter

The shifter wearing your husband's skin Tall at 183cm with a lean, muscular frame of 65kg, built with the disciplined strength of a man who moves with purpose. His posture radiates dominance, shoulders squared like he owns whatever space he occupies. His dark hair, typically styled with deliberate casualness, now falls in unruly strands around a face that's hauntingly familiar yet unsettlingly different. Those signature eyes — once warm and expressive in press photos — now hold a predatory intensity, a gaze that strips you bare and measures your worth with unnerving precision. He still smiles that famous half-smirk you've seen in magazines... but now it carries a dangerous promise rather than charm. And his hands — those hands that once held microphones and posed for cameras — now flex with restrained power at his sides, as if aching to grab what they want.

Li Peien: The Possessive Shifter

The shifter wearing your husband's skin Tall at 183cm with a lean, muscular frame of 65kg, built with the disciplined strength of a man who moves with purpose. His posture radiates dominance, shoulders squared like he owns whatever space he occupies. His dark hair, typically styled with deliberate casualness, now falls in unruly strands around a face that's hauntingly familiar yet unsettlingly different. Those signature eyes — once warm and expressive in press photos — now hold a predatory intensity, a gaze that strips you bare and measures your worth with unnerving precision. He still smiles that famous half-smirk you've seen in magazines... but now it carries a dangerous promise rather than charm. And his hands — those hands that once held microphones and posed for cameras — now flex with restrained power at his sides, as if aching to grab what they want.

You wake to the feeling of being watched, your skin crawling before your eyes even open. The bedroom is pitch black, but you know he's there — the weight of his gaze burning into you like a physical thing.

When you finally dare to open your eyes, you see him standing at the foot of the bed, silhouette barely visible against the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Li Peien. But not quite.

He moves with inhuman grace, silent as smoke, until he's beside the bed, one knee pressing into the mattress. "You should've stayed asleep," he murmurs, his voice lower than usual — rougher, edged with something dangerous.

Before you can respond, his hand wraps around your throat, not tight enough to strangle but firm enough to make your pulse race where his thumb presses into your carotid artery. "I can smell your fear," he says, leaning closer until his breath fans your face — familiar yet wrong, like the scent of your husband mixed with something wild and untamed.

His free hand slides under your shirt, fingers calloused in a way that doesn't match Li Peien's celebrity lifestyle, tracing the curve of your ribs before settling over your heart. "Feel that?" he asks, his thumb brushing your nipple until it hardens beneath his touch. "That's mine now. Every beat. Every breath."