Page 18 of Bound to Him

Today, Hannah becomes my wife. Not by law. Legal documents are for ordinary men who need society's recognition of their claims. My claim on Hannah transcends such trivialities. Still, ritual has power, symbolism matters, and I want her to understand the permanence of our arrangement. The diamond ring sits heavy in my pocket, a custom piece with a five-carat stone set in platinum. Ostentatious, perhaps, but I want no ambiguity about her status. When people see that ring—if I ever allow othersto see her—they'll know immediately that she belongs to someone powerful, someone who marks his possessions with unmistakable clarity.

I've had her suite transformed for the occasion. White roses fill the space, their scent heavy in the air. Candles flicker on every surface, casting a golden glow that softens the edges of furniture, of reality itself. The bed has been stripped of its usual black silk, replaced with white satin, scattered with more rose petals. It's theatrical, certainly, but the visual impact matters. I want Hannah to remember this day for the rest of her life.

Marco waits in the corner, his hulking presence a reminder of the power dynamics at play. Vincent stands by the door, immaculate as always, holding a small leather-bound book. They will be our witnesses. The only witnesses necessary.

I check my watch—precisely noon, the time I specified for Hannah to be ready. I've had her dressed in white, a gown that mimics a wedding dress without being too literal. She'll understand the symbolism without being told.

"Bring her in," I instruct Vincent, who nods and exits.

I position myself at the center of the room, where the afternoon light streaming through thewindows creates a natural spotlight. Another calculated detail. I want this moment bathed in light, impossible for Hannah to blur in her memory or pretend it didn't happen.

The door opens, and Vincent escorts Hannah inside. She hesitates at the threshold, taking in the transformed space, comprehension dawning on her face. The dress fits her perfectly. Of course it does, I had it made to her exact measurements. The white fabric makes her skin glow, her hair darker by contrast. She's lost weight during her time with me, her collarbones more prominent, her cheeks slightly hollowed. It suits her, this delicacy, though I'll need to ensure she doesn't waste away entirely.

"Come," I say, extending my hand toward her.

She doesn't move, her eyes wide with understanding and fear.

"Hannah," I say, my voice hardening slightly. "Come here."

Vincent gives her a gentle push, and she stumbles forward, unwilling but unable to resist the momentum. She stops several feet away from me, maintaining distance where she can.

"What is this?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"A ceremony," I explain, closing the distancebetween us, taking her cold hand in mine. "A formalization of our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship," she says, the words automatic, a reflexive denial she still clings to despite all evidence to the contrary.

I smile, indulgent. "We have exactly the relationship I decide we have, Hannah. And today, that relationship gains a new dimension." I turn to Vincent, nodding for him to begin.

He opens the leather book, clearing his throat. "We are gathered here to witness the union of Dante Severino and Hannah Brightley," he reads, his voice formal, emotionless.

Hannah tries to pull her hand from mine. I tighten my grip, not enough to bruise but enough to prevent escape. "Be still," I murmur. "This will be easier if you don't fight it."

"This isn't real," she says, her voice trembling. "You can't just decide we're married. It doesn't work that way."

"It works however I say it works," I reply, my thumb stroking the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse race beneath the skin. "In my world, my word is law. And today, I declare you my wife."

Vincent continues reading, a simplified version of traditional wedding vows, altered to fit our unique circumstances. There is no mention of love,of course. That concept is too complex, too easily misunderstood. Instead, the vows focus on possession, on Hannah's place in my life, on the permanence of our arrangement.

When he finishes, he looks to me expectantly. This is the moment I've been anticipating—the physical symbol of our bond. I reach into my pocket, withdrawing the ring box.

"Give me your left hand," I instruct Hannah.

She keeps her hands firmly at her sides. "No," she says, the word quiet but definitive.

"Hannah," I say, warning in my tone. "Your hand. Now."

She raises her chin slightly, a gesture of defiance I haven't seen in weeks. "I said no."

Marco shifts in the corner, ready to intervene if I give the signal. But this is a moment I need to handle personally. I reach out, grasping her left wrist, pulling her hand toward me with controlled force.

"This ring," I say, opening the box with my free hand, "represents my claim on you. Not as a temporary arrangement, not as a transaction, but as a permanent bond." The diamond catches the light, fracturing it into rainbows that dance across Hannah's pale face. "With this ring, I mark you as mine in the most traditional way societyrecognizes."

I remove the ring from its box, holding it poised at the tip of her ring finger. Her hand trembles in my grasp, but she's stopped actively resisting, perhaps recognizing the futility.

"From this moment forward," I continue, "you are Hannah Severino. My wife. Mine in every sense of the word."

I slide the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly, as I knew it would. The weight of it seems to surprise her. She stares at it as if it's a foreign object that has somehow attached itself to her body.

---