Page 19 of Bound to Him

"It's done," I declare, releasing her hand. "You may kiss your bride," I add to myself, leaning forward to press my lips against hers.

The moment my grip loosens, Hannah jerks away. In one fluid motion, she pulls the ring from her finger and flings it across the room. It hits the wall with a small, expensive sound, then falls to the carpet.

"I am not your wife," she says, her voice stronger than I've heard it in weeks. "I don't care what ceremonies you perform or what rings you force on my finger. I will never be yours willingly."

The room goes utterly silent. The words sting me harder than any slap could. Marco and Vincent both freeze, their eyes fixed on me, awaiting myreaction. Hannah stands before me, chest heaving, eyes bright with a defiance I thought had been extinguished.

Something cold and dangerous unfurls in my chest. "You think this is a matter of willingness?" I ask, my voice deadly quiet. "You think your consent factors into this equation at all?"

She takes a step back, perhaps recognizing the danger in my tone.

"Willingness can be manufactured, Hannah. Consent is a construct that doesn't apply to our situation." I move toward her, and she retreats until her back hits the wall. "But since you've made your position so clear, perhaps we need a more permanent solution."

I turn to Marco. "Get Anton. Now."

Marco nods, understanding immediately, and leaves the room. Vincent remains by the door, his face carefully blank, a perfect employee witnessing but not judging.

"What are you doing?" Hannah asks, fear replacing defiance in her voice.

"Solving a problem," I reply, picking up the discarded ring from the carpet. "You don't want to wear my ring? Fine. I'll give you one you can't remove."

Understanding dawns on her face, horror closebehind it. "No," she whispers. "Please, no. I'll wear it. I'll wear the ring."

"Too late," I say, pocketing the diamond ring. "You've made your position clear, and I've made my decision."

I cross to the sideboard, pouring myself a drink while we wait. Hannah remains pressed against the wall, as if she might somehow melt into it and disappear. Her defiance has evaporated, replaced by the dull resignation I've come to recognize as her default state.

Marco returns with Anton, who carries his equipment in a discreet black case. The tattoo artist's face remains professional, showing no reaction to being summoned so soon after his previous visit.

"Sir," he says, nodding to me. "What can I do for you today?"

"A ring," I tell him, approaching Hannah and taking her left hand in mine once more. "Around this finger. Thin, elegant, but unmistakably a wedding band."

Anton nods, already reaching into his case for his tools. "Black ink? Or did you have another color in mind?"

"Black," I confirm. "Stark. Visible against her skin."

"Please," Hannah tries one more time, her voice breaking. "I'll wear the real ring. I promise."

I stroke her cheek, a gesture that might appear tender to an outside observer. "I know you would," I say softly. "But this is better. This way, there's no chance of loss, of removal. This way, you're marked as mine forever."

Marco brings a chair, positioning it in the center of the room. I guide Hannah to it, applying gentle pressure to her shoulders until she sits. Anton sets up his equipment on a small table beside her, the buzz of the tattoo machine filling the silence.

"Hold her hand steady," he instructs me.

I position myself behind Hannah, reaching around to hold her left hand outstretched on the armrest. She's shaking, fine tremors running through her entire body. I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair.

"This is for the best," I tell her as Anton begins his work. "This way, there can be no question, no ambiguity."

The needle touches her skin, and she flinches but doesn't pull away. She's learning, finally, the cost of defiance. The tattoo is simple—a band of black ink around her ring finger, precisely where a wedding band would sit. No elaborate design is necessary; the symbolism is clear enough.

As Anton works, I murmur into Hannah's ear, explanations that border on apologies but never quite cross that line. "You forced my hand with your defiance. I would have preferred the traditional symbol, but you left me no choice. This is your doing as much as mine."

She doesn't respond, her gaze fixed on some middle distance, disconnected from the needle marking her skin, from my words, perhaps from reality itself. This dissociation concerns me slightly. I need her present, aware, fully cognizant of her position in my life. But for now, I allow it. The shock of this new marking will fade, and she'll return to herself, to me.

When Anton finishes, he cleans the area and applies the same clear bandage as before. The black ring stands out starkly against her pale skin, a perfect circle of ownership.

"Excellent work," I tell him, examining the tattoo from different angles.

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