Page 2 of Bound to Him

The plan forms with crystalline clarity. I'll increase the pressure on Brightley, push him further into debt. When he's desperate enough, I'll offer a solution, a way out that preserves his family's safety and stability. All it will cost is his daughter.

Some might call it monstrous. I call it destiny.

As darkness falls, strings of lights illuminate the park. Hannah's profile is outlined in gold, her skin glowing. She's ethereal, untouchable, but not for long. Soon, she'll be the most touched, the most claimed woman in existence.

She shivers slightly in the cooling air, rubbing her arms. I want to wrap her in my jacket, surround her with my scent. Instead, I stay hidden, savoring these last moments of her ignorance. Soon enough, she'll know me. She'll know nothing but me.

Before I leave, I allow myself one indulgence. I position myself so that our paths will cross as she makes her way to the dessert table. When we pass each other, I brush against her arm, a touch so light she might not even register it. But I feel it like an electric current, a promise of what's to come.

For a moment—just a heartbeat—our eyes meet. Hers are hazel, clear and bright with youth. I see no recognition in them, no awareness of who I am or what I represent. She offers a polite, automatic smile before continuing on her way, already forgetting me.

But I will never forget this moment. This is the beginning of our story—a story she doesn't yet know she's part of.

As I walk back to my car, purpose fills every step. I have what every man needs—a reason to wake each morning, a goal that consumes all others. Hannah Brightley has no idea that she's become my obsession, my fixation, my future.

She belongs to me now. She just doesn't know it yet.

CHAPTER 2

Hannah

Morning light filters through my thin curtains, casting patterns across my sketchbook left open on the floor. I stretch, my fingers reaching for the ceiling, joints popping in a satisfying way. Another day, another blank canvas. That's how I've always thought of mornings, full of possibility, waiting for me to make my mark. If I'd known what was coming, I might have stayed in bed forever, buried under quilts my grandmother made before I was born, preserved in that last moment of ignorance like an insect in amber.

But I don't know what's coming, so I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my toes curling against the cold wooden floor. My room is small but mine, walls covered in paintings and sketches, most my own work, some from artists I admire. A cluttered desk sits beneath the window, tubes of paint organized by color, brushes standing at attention in chipped mugs.

I grab my worn terrycloth robe from the hook on my door and pad down the hallway to the bathroom. My younger sister Emma has left a mess of makeup scattered across the counter. I sigh, sweeping it to one side so I can brush my teeth. Sometimes I think our bathroom is too small for a family of five, but then I remember that some people have no bathrooms at all, and I feel guilty for my momentary selfishness.

After a quick shower, I wrap my wet hair in a towel and return to my room to dress. I choose a pair of faded jeans and an oversized sweater with paint stains on the cuffs. Fashion has never been my priority. Comfort is what matters when you're hunched over a canvas for hours.

Downstairs, Mom is making pancakes, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looks tired, the lines around her eyes deeper than they were last year.

"Morning, sweetheart," she says, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead," I reply, pouring myself a cup of coffee. It's cheap stuff, nothing like the fancy beans the coffee shops use, but it does the job. "Where's Dad?"

A shadow passes over Mom's face, quick but unmistakable. "He had an early meeting."

I nod, not pressing further. Dad's "meetings" have become more frequent lately, and they often coincide with unexplained absences from the family bank account. No one talks about it directly, but the tension hangs in the air like cigarette smoke.

My brother Tyler shuffles into the kitchen, his school uniform rumpled, his hair sticking up in the back. At fifteen, he's all limbs and attitude, a combination that makes him simultaneously endearing and infuriating.

"There's coffee?" he asks, reaching for my mug.

I slap his hand away. "Make your own. And fix your hair; you look like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket."

He sticks his tongue out but moves to the coffee pot.

Emma appears last, already dressed and made up for school. At seventeen, she's figured out whattook me years to understand. Appearance matters in our small town. People judge, categorize, remember. I've always been content to fade into the background, but Emma craves attention like a plant needs sunlight.

"Hannah, can I borrow your blue scarf today?" she asks, already opening the drawer where I keep my accessories.

"Sure," I say, because what else can I say? Sharing is what families do, especially when money is tight.

Mom places a stack of pancakes in the center of the table, and we gather around. There's a vacant space where Dad should be, but we've grown accustomed to his empty chair.

"How's your project coming along?" Mom asks me as we eat.

"Almost finished," I say around a mouthful of pancake. "I'm working on the final touches today. Professor Wilkins says if it's good enough, I might have a chance at the scholarship."

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