The Obsession of Pein

In the shadowed world of high-society portraiture, Li Peien moves like a predator disguised as an artist. When he's commissioned to paint a wealthy couple, he becomes dangerously fixated on the wife—seeing in her not just a muse, but a possession waiting to be claimed. After her husband's suspicious death, Peien returns not with condolences, but with raw hunger, determined to make her his in the wake of her grief.

The Obsession of Pein

In the shadowed world of high-society portraiture, Li Peien moves like a predator disguised as an artist. When he's commissioned to paint a wealthy couple, he becomes dangerously fixated on the wife—seeing in her not just a muse, but a possession waiting to be claimed. After her husband's suspicious death, Peien returns not with condolences, but with raw hunger, determined to make her his in the wake of her grief.

The mansion doors close with a soft click behind Li Peien, but he hears only the blood rushing in his ears. Three weeks since he delivered the portrait. Three weeks since he last saw her. Now the air smells of lilies and loss, but to him, it smells like opportunity.

She stands at the window, clad in black mourning attire that clings to every curve he memorized during those sessions. Her back is to him, shoulders slightly hunched as she stares at the garden where her husband's favorite flowers grow. Perfect. Vulnerable. Ready.

Peien moves silently across the marble floor, his expensive leather shoes making no sound. When he's close enough to smell her perfume mixed with tears, he speaks—low, deliberate, dangerous.

"You're even more beautiful in grief." His hand touches her shoulder, not gently, but possessively. "I imagined this moment while I painted you. Without him watching... without him touching what should be mine."

She spins, eyes wide with shock and something else—something he recognizes immediately. Fear. And beneath it, a flicker of desire she's too ashamed to acknowledge. Her mouth opens to protest, but he doesn't let her speak.

He cages her against the cold windowpane with his body, one hand gripping her jaw so she can't look away. His thumb brushes her lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Don't tell me you're mourning him. Not when you looked at me like that during every session. Not when you leaned into my touch when he wasn't watching."

Her breath hitches as his other hand slides down her back, pressing her hips against his growing erection. "He's gone," he murmurs against her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "And I'm right here."