Chapter 14: Possession Marked in Petals
The peonies were obscene. Fat, pink, and heavy with scent, they drooped over the edge of the stone bench, brushing against Wei Zhao’s thigh. The twilight was a deep purple bruise, the first stars needle-pricks in the velvet sky. The air in the private pavilion was thick, soupy with the perfume of jasmine and damp earth.
He’d come here for quiet. The penthouse, for all its luxury, sometimes felt like a beautifully appointed cell. The garden, with its whispering birches and mossy lanterns, was a breath of outside. He wore one of the silk robes Jian had bought, light as a sigh, the fabric cool against his skin. He’d been tracing the faint, new curve of his belly with his fingertips, a secret conversation with the two tiny lives inside, when the crisp rustle of a tabloid magazine hitting the stone table made him jump.
Jian stood a few feet away, backlit by the soft glow from the penthouse. He wasn’t looking at Wei Zhao. He was staring at the offending magazine, his profile sharp enough to cut the gathering dark.
“They’re questioning paternity,” Jian said, his voice low and flat.
Wei Zhao’s blood went cold. He hadn’t seen the papers. Grandmother Lin and Jian had kept them away, a wall of silence erected around him.
Wei Zhao’s fingers stilled on the silk. “What?”
“‘Scandal in the Sky Palace,’” Jian recited, his tone dangerously even. He didn’t touch the magazine. “‘Is the Li heir truly the father, or is the rescued omega playing a long game?’ They’ve dug up your family’s old financial records. They’re implying you orchestrated the meeting.”
A cold laugh escaped Wei Zhao, brittle and sharp. “They think I planned to be drugged and thrown away?”
“They think you’re a opportunist.” Jian finally turned. His eyes in the dusk weren’t human. They were the eyes of something cornered, something primeval that saw a threat to its own. “They’re saying the pups might not be Li blood. That you might have been with someone else before I found you.”
The accusation hung between them, ugly and foul. Wei Zhao felt it like a physical blow, a nausea that had nothing to do with pregnancy. He stood, the silk whispering. “You believe them.”
“I believe nothing they print.” Jian took a step forward. The space between them crackled. “But it’s out there. Every investor, every rival, every snob at the charity galas will be looking at you. At them.” His gaze dropped to Wei Zhao’s abdomen, a possession his voice claimed but the world was contesting.
“So what?” Wei Zhao’s voice trembled, but he held his ground. “We hide here forever? You signed the medical orders. You know how far along I am.”
“I know what the dates say.” Another step.The peonies shivered. “Knowing and feeling are different things.”
He moved then, a blur of controlled motion. His hands closed on Wei Zhao’s shoulders, turning him, guiding him back until his spine met the cool, rough wood of the moonlit trellis. Jasmine blooms trembled overhead, releasing a sudden, overpowering sweetness.
Wei Zhao’s protest was a mere breath. “Jian—”
Jian’s mouth captured the word, swallowing it whole. This wasn’t the gentle kiss from the medical suite, the one full of trembling hope. This was a claiming. Possessive, desperate, and hot with a rage that wasn’t directed at him, but flowed through him anyway. One large hand slid inside the open silk robe, palm searing against the delicate skin of Wei Zhao’s hip.
His other hand splayed wide over the still-subtle swell of Wei Zhao’s lower belly, fingers pressing firmly as if to map its contour through muscle and bone. Wei Zhao gasped into the kiss. The sensation was overwhelming—the hard wood at his back, the scent of flowers and anger, the deliberate heat of that hand claiming territory.
Jian broke the kiss, his lips brushing Wei Zhao’s ear. His voice was a raw, low vibration Wei Zhao felt in his teeth. “Let me remind you,” he breathed, the words barely audible over the pound of blood in their ears. “Let me remind everyone who owns this womb. Who filled it.”
The crude, biological truth of it shattered Wei Zhao’s lingering shock. This wasn’t just about lust or comfort. It was an alpha’s raw, panicked response to a challenge, to the thought of his claim being diluted, questioned. A branding.
“You don’t own me,” Wei Zhao managed, his own hands coming up to push against Jian’s chest. The muscle beneath his palms was unyielding stone.
“Don’t I?” Jian murmured, the question almost lost as his mouth trailed down Wei Zhao’s throat. His hand on Wei’s belly didn’t move, an anchor point. The other tugged at the silk robe’s tie, and the garment pooled, a whisper at their feet on the mossy stone.
The night air was cool on Wei Zhao’s skin, a shocking contrast to the heat radiating from the man pinning him. He was exposed, half-supported by the trellis and Jian’s body. The world narrowed to the scent of crushed peonies, the distant murmur of the city, and the intense, focused energy of the alpha surrounding him.
Jian’s movements were efficient, his own clothing dealt with minimal fuss. There was no tenderness, only a fierce, solemn urgency. When he lifted Wei Zhao, his hands were sure under Wei’s thighs, the rough fabric of his trousers a scratch against sensitive skin. He didn’t ask. He didn’t wait.
He took him there, against the trellis, in the heart of the perfumed garden.
Wei Zhao cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the dense foliage. It was too much, too fast—a confluence of overwhelm, a brutal reassurance, and a shocking, unwanted thread of electric pleasure that sparked deep in his core. His fingers scrabbled against the wood, then clenched in the fabric of Jian’s shirt. His head fell back, striking a vine, staring up at a sliver of moon between the leaves.
Jian buried his face in the curve of Wei Zhao’s neck, his breaths ragged. His thrusts were deep, punctuating each whispered word against Wei’s skin.“Mine. They are mine. You are mine.” It was a chant, a spell, a desperate incantation against the rumors slithering through the city below.
Wei Zhao’s world dissolved into sensation—the ache of his position, the relentless pace, the unforgiving wood, the maddening scent of alpha and jasmine. Tears pricked his eyes, borne from a confusing storm of violation and a terrifying, undeniable connection. His body, traitorously, began to climb, tightening around the invading force, coaxing a ragged groan from Jian.
The climax, when it tore through him, was sharp and unwelcome, a burst of white light behind his eyes that felt less like pleasure and more like a seismic surrender. Jian followed seconds after, a low, guttural sound ripped from his chest as he shuddered, pressing Wei Zhao firmly into the trellis, his claim complete, physical, absolute.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing mingling with the rustle of leaves. The scent of sex and sweat cut through the garden’s perfume.
Slowly, gently, Jian lowered him until his feet found the discarded silk robe on the stones. Wei Zhao’s legs buckled immediately. Jian caught him, holding him upright, his own breath still labored. The ferocity was gone from his eyes, replaced by a dazed, horrified clarity. He looked at Wei Zhao’s tear-streaked face, at the marks beginning to bloom on his shoulders from the wood, at the messy reality of what he’d just done.
“Wei,” he started, his voice hollow.
Wei Zhao pushed his hands away, the motion weak but definitive. He couldn’t speak. He bent, movements stiff and aching, to retrieve his robe. He didn’t look at Jian as he pulled it on, tying the sash with fumbling fingers. The delicate silk felt like a ridiculous parody against his skin.
He turned and walked back toward the glowing penthouse on unsteady legs, each step a quiet rebellion. The taste of jasmine and salt was on his lips. Inside, beneath the shock and the ache, a cold, hard certainty was forming, as real and undeniable as the new life in his belly.
This would not happen again.