Page 11 of Bound to Him

I've never wanted anything the way I want her. Not money, not power, not respect. Nothing compares to the hunger I feel looking at her unconscious form, knowing that I own every inch of her, every breath she takes, every beat of her heart.

This is just the beginning. Breaking her will be an art form, a delicate balance of pressure and release, pain and pleasure, terror and comfort. I'll remold her like clay, removing the parts that don't please me, strengthening the aspects I desire.

And when I'm done, when Hannah Brightleyhas been fully transformed into Hannah Severino, she'll look at me with the same obsession I feel looking at her now. She'll understand that belonging to me is not just her fate but her purpose.

Her breathing changes, becoming less deep, more irregular. Consciousness is returning, bringing with it the reality of her situation. I straighten in my chair, adjusting my posture, my expression. First impressions matter, even in captivity.

"Wake up, Hannah," I say softly, allowing myself the pleasure of one more touch, my fingers trailing along her jawline. "Your new life is waiting."

CHAPTER 6

Hannah

Iwake to unfamiliar softness, my body sinking into what feels like a cloud. For one disoriented moment, I imagine I've fallen asleep in the art supply store, on those plush demonstration chairs they keep by the expensive easels. Then awareness returns in violent flashes. Dad's face, contorted with shame. Strange men in our house. A needle sliding into my arm. My eyes snap open, heart galloping against my ribs, and I find myself staring into the dark, watchful gaze of the man who bought me like a painting at auction. Dante Severino. He sits beside the bed. It’s a massive,ornate thing that belongs in a museum. His posture is relaxed as if he's been waiting patiently for me to rejoin the world he's dragged me into.

"There you are," he says, his voice smooth as polished stone. "Welcome back."

I scramble away from him, pushing against the mattress until my back hits the ornate headboard. My mouth is desert-dry, my tongue stuck to the roof, and when I try to speak, only a rasp emerges.

"Water?" he offers, lifting a crystal glass from the bedside table as if reading my mind.

I stare at it, parched but suspicious. He sighs, takes a sip himself, then offers it again. My thirst overrides my caution. I snatch the glass, careful not to let our fingers touch, and drain it in desperate gulps. Some spills down my chin, onto my shirt—my shirt from home, still stained with paint. The sight of those familiar blue splatters threatens to undo me.

"Where am I?" I demand, my voice returning with the water. "Why have you brought me here?"

Dante takes back the empty glass, setting it aside with deliberate care. "You're in my home," he says simply. "And you're here because you belong here. With me."

A chill runs through me despite the room's warmth. I glance around, taking in my surroundingsfor the first time. The room is enormous and obscenely luxurious. All cream and gold and polished wood. Paintings hang on the walls, antiques that look genuine rather than reproductions sit on various surfaces. Through an archway, I glimpse a bathroom that looks larger than my entire bedroom at home.

Home.The thought pierces me like a physical pain.

"I don't belong to anyone," I say, forcing strength into my voice. "You can't just take people. This is kidnapping. My family will call the police. They'll?—"

"Your family," Dante interrupts, "knows exactly where you are."

The words hit me like a slap. Despite what I witnessed—my father's broken expression, his failure to protect me—part of me had been clinging to the hope that this was all a terrible misunderstanding, that my family would be searching for me.

"You're lying," I whisper, but there's no conviction behind it.

Dante leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine. "Your father traded you for his debts, Hannah. A fair exchange, I'd say—though personally, I think I got the better end of the deal." Hisgaze travels over me, assessing, possessive. "Your family is safe, their financial problems resolved. You should be grateful."

"Grateful?" The word explodes from me. "For being kidnapped? For being treated like property? You're insane!"

I launch myself off the bed, away from him, aiming for what must be the door to this gilded prison. My legs are unsteady from the sedative, but adrenaline pushes me forward. I make it three steps before Dante's hand closes around my wrist, his grip like iron, effortlessly pulling me back.

"That was unwise," he says, his voice still calm but with an underlying coldness that sends ice through my veins. He tugs me closer, until I'm standing directly in front of him, our bodies almost touching. "Let me explain how things work here, since your father clearly failed to prepare you."

I try to pull away, but his grip only tightens. "Let go of me," I demand, my free hand balling into a fist.

His eyes flick to that fist, then back to my face. "Violence will be met with consequences, Hannah. Not pain. I have no desire to damage what belongs to me, but I can make your stay here very uncomfortable if you force me to." He pauses,letting the threat sink in. "Or it can be pleasant. The choice is yours."

"I didn't choose any of this," I spit back.

"No," he agrees, surprising me. "Your father made that choice for you. But you can choose how to adapt to your new reality."

"This isn't reality," I say, my voice breaking despite my efforts to remain defiant. "This is a nightmare.You'rea nightmare."

Something flickers in his dark eyes—not hurt, exactly, but perhaps disappointment. "In time, you'll see things differently." His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, feeling my pulse. "Your heart is racing. Are you afraid of me, Hannah?"

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