Page 16 of Bound to Him

"Good morning, Hannah," his voice slides across the space between us, smooth as polished stone. "You haven't touched your breakfast."

I haven't touched food in days, surviving on sips of water and the occasional cup of tea when the emptiness in my stomach becomes too painful to ignore. It's not a conscious rebellion. I simply can't stomach anything more.

"I'm not hungry," I reply, the words automatic, mechanical. I've learned to respond when spoken to. The consequences of silence are worse than the effort of speech.

His footsteps approach, deliberately loud. He moves silently when he wants to, another method of control. The window seat dips as he sits beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle that I've come to associate with dread.

"Look at me," he instructs, his voice gentle but brooking no argument.

I turn, meeting his gaze because I must. His eyes are dark, almost black in certain lights, currently filled with what someone who didn't know better might mistake for concern.

"You need to eat," he says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. I don't flinch anymore; it's a pointless expenditure of energy. "I won't have you making yourself ill."

"Yes, Dante,” I respond, empty words to placate him.

He studies me, his expression thoughtful. "You're still processing what happened between us," he says, as if discussing a business transaction rather than a violation. "That's understandable. The first time is significant for a woman."

I say nothing. What is there to say? That he took something I can never get back? That I feel hollow, carved out, diminished? He knows all this and considers it a victory.

"Today is important," he continues, his hand moving to rest on my knee, a casual claiming of territory. "Today, we make our arrangement more…permanent."

Something in his tone sends a fresh wave of fear through me, breaking through the numb fog I'vebeen living in. "What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely audible.

His smile is pleased, satisfied that he's provoked a genuine reaction. "I've brought someone to mark you," he says, his fingers tightening slightly on my knee. "To ensure that anyone who sees you knows exactly who you belong to."

For a moment, I don't understand—or perhaps my mind refuses to understand. Then reality crashes in, and I feel the blood drain from my face. "A tattoo," I whisper, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.

"Very good," he nods, approval warming his voice. "My name, here." He touches my hip, just below the curve of my waist. "Where only I will see it, unless I choose to display you otherwise."

"No." The word escapes before I can stop it, a reflex of self—preservation in a situation where preservation is no longer possible. "Please, no."

Dante's expression doesn't change, but something hardens in his eyes. "This isn't a negotiation, Hannah. The artist is waiting in the adjoining room. This will happen today, whether you accept it gracefully or not."

I try to stand, to put distance between us, but his hand clamps down on my knee, holding me in place with effortless strength. "You can't do this," Isay, knowing even as the words leave my mouth how meaningless they are. He can do anything he wants. He's proven that already.

"I can and I will," he says simply. "The only choice you have is how difficult you make the process." He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Fight, and I'll have you sedated. The tattoo will be larger, more elaborate. Comply, and it will be relatively small, discreet. Your decision."

It's no decision at all, and he knows it. I close my eyes, trying to find some reservoir of strength, some argument that might sway him. There is nothing.

"Yes, Dante,” I finally whisper, defeat tasting like ash in my mouth.

"Excellent," he says, standing and offering his hand to help me up. I take it because refusing would be pointless, another battle I cannot win. "Come. Everything is prepared."

He leads me through a door I've never noticed before, concealed in the paneling of my prison. Beyond is a smaller room, clinically bright compared to the warm glow of my suite. A man waits there, standing beside what looks like a modified massage table. Tattoo equipment is arranged on a nearby tray, the needles catching the light, menacing in their precision.

"This is Anton," Dante introduces, his hand at the small of my back, guiding me forward. "He's very skilled, very discreet. He'll make this as painless as possible."

Anton nods, his face professionally blank. He's older, with graying temples and steady hands. He doesn't meet my eyes, doesn't acknowledge me as a person. To him, I'm just a canvas, another job, a favor done for a powerful man.

"Please remove your dress and lie on the table," Dante instructs, his voice still gentle but firm. "On your side, facing away from me."

My fingers tremble as I reach for the hem of my dress—another one chosen by Dante, pale blue silk that falls just above my knees. I hesitate, suddenly conscious of the stranger's presence.

"Would you prefer privacy?" Dante asks, reading my reluctance. A small kindness, or the illusion of one.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Anton, step outside for a moment," Dante commands. The man obeys instantly, leaving us alone. "Better?"

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