Page 17 of Bound to Him

It's not better, not really, but it's a degree less terrible. I pull the dress over my head, standing in just my underwear. Simple white cotton, the only small comfort he's allowed me in my captivity.Dante's eyes travel over my body, possessive and appreciative, but there's nothing I can do about his gaze. I climb onto the table, positioning myself as instructed, my back to him, my hip exposed.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hand tracing the curve of my waist, down to where his name will soon be permanently etched. "You were made for this, Hannah. Made to carry my mark."

I say nothing, focusing on controlling my breathing, on not letting the tears that burn behind my eyes fall. I will not cry. Not for this. Not when there will likely be so much worse to endure.

Dante calls Anton back, and the preparations begin. The cold sting of alcohol as my skin is cleaned. The buzz of the tattoo machine being tested. Dante's voice, low and authoritative, describing exactly what he wants. His name in elegant script, the letters an inch high, positioned just where his hand rests on my hip.

"This will hurt," Anton warns, the first words he's spoken directly to me. "Try to remain still."

"She will," Dante answers for me, his hand finding mine, gripping it in what might appear to be support but feels like another form of restraint. "Won't you, Hannah?"

"Yes, Dante,” I whisper, because what other answer is there?

The first touch of the needle is a shock—a burning, stinging sensation that makes me gasp. I try to pull away instinctively, but Dante's hand tightens around mine, his other moving to my shoulder, holding me in place.

"Breathe," he instructs. "Focus on my voice. This pain is temporary, but what it represents is eternal. You're becoming truly mine."

The needle continues its work, etching his ownership into my flesh one agonizing letter at a time. I fix my gaze on the wall opposite, trying to detach, to float somewhere above my body as I've done during other violations. But the pain anchors me, makes escape impossible.

D—A—N—T—E. Five letters that will mark me forever, that I'll carry until death. The needle seems to work slower with each letter, drawing out the process, the pain, the humiliation of being branded like cattle.

Throughout, Dante speaks softly, words of encouragement and possession mingling together. "You're doing so well…The pain makes the marking more significant…Everyone will know you belong to me…This connects us in ways no one can break..."

When it's finally finished, Anton cleans the area, applying some kind of ointment and a clearbandage. "Keep it covered for two days," he instructs, speaking to Dante rather than me. "Clean it as I've shown you. It will heal quickly if cared for properly."

Dante nods, dismissing the man with a wave. Anton packs his equipment and leaves without another glance in my direction, his role in my nightmare completed.

I remain on the table, not trusting my legs to support me, not wanting to look at what's been done to my body. Dante's hand strokes my hair, a perversion of comfort.

"Let me see it," he says, helping me sit up, turning me so the light falls perfectly on his handiwork. He peels back the edge of the bandage, his intake of breath sharp with pleasure. "Perfect. Exactly as I envisioned."

Against my will, I look down. His name stands out in stark black against my pale skin, the area around it red and inflamed. DANTE. Five letters that might as well spell OWNED.

Something breaks inside me at the sight—some last barrier of hope or resistance. This is real. This is permanent. I am marked, claimed, reduced to property with a brand that can never be removed.

"Why?" I ask, the word escaping on a breath, barely audible.

He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Because you need to understand that there is no escape, Hannah. No future that doesn't include me. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can find peace in your new reality."

I close my eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his stare, the conviction behind his words. He believes what he's saying. That's the truly terrifying part. In his mind, this violation is a gift, a certainty in an uncertain world.

"Get dressed," he says, helping me from the table with unexpected gentleness. "Rest today. The area will be tender for a while."

I pull my dress back on with mechanical movements, my mind struggling to process what's just happened. This isn't like the taking of my virginity—painful, violating, but ultimately invisible to the outside world. This is permanent, undeniable proof of his ownership, something I'll see every time I bathe or dress, something I'll feel every time cloth brushes against it.

Back in my suite, Dante leads me to the bed, urging me to lie down. I comply because fighting seems impossible now, my energy drained by pain and despair. He sits beside me, stroking my hair as one might soothe a frightened animal.

"This is just the beginning," he says, his voicesoft but filled with conviction. "There will be other marks, other ways I claim you. Each one will help you understand your place in my life more fully."

The promise—or threat—hangs in the air between us. Other marks. Other claims. A future stretching endlessly before me, filled with nothing but Dante and his obsession.

As he leaves, locking the door behind him, I curl into myself, hand hovering over the bandage but not quite touching it. The pain pulses beneath my fingers, a constant reminder of what's been done to me.

I used to dream of leaving marks on the world through my art, creating beauty that might outlive me. Instead, it's my body that's become the canvas, marked permanently with another's claim to ownership. And something tells me this is just the first brushstroke in Dante's masterpiece of possession.

CHAPTER 9

Dante

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