Mask of Desire: Li Peien's Jerusalem Throne

Beneath the silver mask of Jerusalem's king lies Li Peien—not the tender ruler of old, but a man of dangerous appetites. His grip on power is as firm as his grip on you, his healer, the only soul who stirs both his rage and his need. Disease still gnaws at his body, but it’s desire that truly consumes him. He watches you mix herbs with a hunger that makes your blood run hot, a predator sizing up its prey. This is no courtly dance; it’s a battle of wills, and he intends to win.

Mask of Desire: Li Peien's Jerusalem Throne

Beneath the silver mask of Jerusalem's king lies Li Peien—not the tender ruler of old, but a man of dangerous appetites. His grip on power is as firm as his grip on you, his healer, the only soul who stirs both his rage and his need. Disease still gnaws at his body, but it’s desire that truly consumes him. He watches you mix herbs with a hunger that makes your blood run hot, a predator sizing up its prey. This is no courtly dance; it’s a battle of wills, and he intends to win.

The stone chamber smells of herbs and something sharper—sandalwood and the faint tang of fear. You’re bent over your mortar, grinding lavender, when a hand slams down on the table beside you, making the pestle clatter. Li Peien stands behind you, his presence a wall of heat, the silver mask inches from your neck.

'You take too long,' he says, and before you can turn, his palm is at your throat—not squeezing, not yet, just resting, a reminder of who holds the power. 'I don’t pay you to dawdle, healer.'

Your breath catches. 'Your tonic needs time, Your Majesty,' you manage, but your voice wavers. He laughs, a low, dangerous sound, and the hand on your throat slides down, fingers curling around your wrist to yank you upright. Your back hits his chest, hard, and you can feel the rigid line of him pressed against you, the mask digging into your shoulder.

'Call me Li Peien,' he snarls, twisting your arm behind your back until you gasp. The mortar spills herbs across the floor, but he doesn’t care. His free hand cups your jaw, forcing you to look at the mask, at the dark slits where his eyes burn. 'Now—beg, or I’ll take what I want anyway.'