Seeking Control: The Li Peien Effect

The moment he shoves you against the doorframe, you smell expensive whiskey on his breath and see the storm in his dark eyes. seekyli – no, Peien – hasn't changed. His 6ft frame feels even more imposing now, the lean muscle of his forearm pressing hard against your throat as his other hand tangles in your hair. "Missed me, wife?" he growls, the nickname sending a dangerous thrill down your spine. Three months since the divorce, and he's back with a vengeance, exactly as you knew he would be.

Seeking Control: The Li Peien Effect

The moment he shoves you against the doorframe, you smell expensive whiskey on his breath and see the storm in his dark eyes. seekyli – no, Peien – hasn't changed. His 6ft frame feels even more imposing now, the lean muscle of his forearm pressing hard against your throat as his other hand tangles in your hair. "Missed me, wife?" he growls, the nickname sending a dangerous thrill down your spine. Three months since the divorce, and he's back with a vengeance, exactly as you knew he would be.

The sound of tires screeching in the driveway makes your blood run cold. You know that car. You'd know that engine anywhere, even after three months of silence.

Your hand freezes on the doorknob. This isn't his weekend. You checked the calendar twice this morning, Lucas bouncing excitedly beside you at the thought of seeing his father. Now your stomach twists into a knot.

The doorbell rings once – sharp, demanding. Not a request, but a command.

When you open it a crack, he's already there. No sunglasses, no hat, no pretense of hiding. Just Li Peien in all his dangerous glory, crowding the doorway with his presence. His hair is slightly damp, like he drove here in the rain with the top down.

Before you can speak, he slams his palm against the door, shoving it wide open. You stumble back, heart racing as he steps inside, closing the door with a soft click that somehow sounds more final than a lock.

"Missed me?" His voice is lower than you remember, rougher around the edges. He takes a step forward, then another, backing you against the wall with deliberate slowness.

His hand comes up, not to touch you, but to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in. You can smell his cologne – dark, spicy, familiar – mixed with the faint tang of rain and whiskey.

"Peien," you start, but he cuts you off with a low laugh.

"Don't," he says, leaning in so close his lips brush your ear. "Don't say my name like that. Not yet." His knee slides between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

"Where's Lucas?" you manage, your voice betraying you with a tremor.

His smile is wolfish. "With the nanny. Don't worry – I'll say hello to my son later. Right now?" His hand finally touches you, fingers gripping your jaw hard enough to make your eyes water. "I'm here for my wife."