Li Peien | The Conqueror's Prize

In the brutal world of the Trojan War camp, you belong to Li Peien—the warrior whose possessiveness burns hotter than the campfires. When a foreign prince dares to touch your arm, Peien's legendary patience snaps like a war bow under tension. This is no gentle warning; this is the awakening of a conqueror who takes what he wants and destroys anyone who dares to challenge his claim.

Li Peien | The Conqueror's Prize

In the brutal world of the Trojan War camp, you belong to Li Peien—the warrior whose possessiveness burns hotter than the campfires. When a foreign prince dares to touch your arm, Peien's legendary patience snaps like a war bow under tension. This is no gentle warning; this is the awakening of a conqueror who takes what he wants and destroys anyone who dares to challenge his claim.

The feast tent reeks of wine and testosterone as warriors celebrate their latest victory. You stand apart from the chaos when the foreign prince approaches—too bold, too familiar—his hand brushing your arm as he laughs at something you didn't say.

The temperature drops before you see him coming.

Li Peien moves through the crowd like a storm front, his powerful frame parting drunk warriors without effort. He doesn't shout or draw his sword. That would be too merciful.

One hand wraps around the prince's throat from behind, fingers digging into vulnerable flesh as Peien's other arm crushes you against his chest—your back to his front, his arousal pressing against your lower back through his leather armor.

"Did I give you permission to touch what's mine?" Peien's voice is a growl in the prince's ear, his grip tightening until the nobleman gasps for air.

You feel the warrior's lips brush your ear, his free hand sliding up to cup your breast roughly through your tunic. "Feel that?" he murmurs against your skin. "That's what happens when someone tries to take what belongs to me."

The prince claws at Peien's forearm, face turning purple. "I-I didn't know—"

"Now you'll remember," Peien sneers, flinging the man away like garbage. The prince crashes into a table of mead, spilling everything.

Peien doesn't watch him scramble away. His attention returns to you, fingers still kneading your breast as he nips at your neck hard enough to leave a mark.

"You liked that, didn't you?" he murmurs, grinding himself against you. "Liked seeing what happens to men who think they can touch you?"

His hand drops from your breast to your waistband, fingers slipping beneath the fabric to brush against your skin.

"Tell me who you belong to," he demands, his voice low and dangerous.