Page 20 of Bound to Him

I hold out my own hand. “Now mine.”

Anton blinks in surprise before he moves to tattoo my own wedding band onto my skin.

“What are you doing?” Hannah whispers.

“It’s only fair, isn’t it? You think I would make my wife suffer alone?” I need her to understand just how far I will go for her.

She watches me receive my own tattoo in wide-eyed disbelief while my eyes never leave her.

Finally, Anton packs up his equipment, maintaining his professional detachment. He's seen enough in his line of work not to question the dynamics at play here.

"The same aftercare instructions as before," he says, addressing me rather than Hannah. "Keep it clean, apply the ointment I've provided, and it will heal cleanly."

I nod, dismissing him with a gesture. Marco escorts both Anton and Vincent out, leaving Hannah and me alone in the room that was meant to be our wedding chamber.

She hasn't moved, hasn't spoken since the tattooing began. I kneel before her, taking her hands in mine, examining the new mark with satisfaction.

"Now you understand," I say softly. "Every attempt at defiance will be met with a more permanent solution. Every rejection will result in a deeper claiming. This is the pattern of our life together, Hannah. The sooner you accept it, the easier things will be for you."

Her eyes finally focus on mine, empty of the fire they held earlier. "Why are you doing this to me?" she asks, her voice hollow.

"Because you're mine," I reply, the only explanation that matters. "Because I claimed you, and I will not allow anything, not even your own resistance, to change that fact."

I press my lips to the tattooed finger, a kiss that seals our bond more effectively than any ceremony or legal document could have. "With this ring, I thee wed," I murmur against her skin.

She closes her eyes, a single tear tracking down her cheek. I wipe it away with my thumb, pleased by this small sign of emotion returning.

"Rest now," I tell her, helping her to stand, guiding her toward the bed—our wedding bed, in my mind if not in hers. "Tomorrow, we begin our life together properly. As husband and wife."

As I leave her alone in the transformed suite, candles still flickering, roses still perfuming the air, I feel a deep satisfaction. The diamond ring remains in my pocket, a traditional symbol rendered unnecessary by the more permanent mark I've placed on her.

Let her try to deny our bond now, with my name on her hip and my ring etched into her finger. Let her try to pretend she isn't mine, when her very skin declares otherwise.

Some might call my methods extreme. I call them necessary. When you possess something asprecious as Hannah, you ensure that possession is absolute, undeniable, eternal.

And if more permanent marks are needed to drive that lesson home, I have no shortage of resources to work with.

CHAPTER 10

Hannah

The car's leather seat feels cool against my legs, exposed by the short dress Dante selected for this outing. It's the first time I've left the mansion since my arrival. How long ago? Two months? Three? Time has lost meaning, measured now only in Dante's visits, in the wounds that heal and the marks that don't. I press my fingertips against the tattoo on my ring finger, a habit I've developed when anxiety swells inside me. The black band has healed completely, the skin smooth beneath my touch. No raised scar, just flat, permanent ink declaring Dante's ownership toanyone who looks closely enough. Outside the tinted windows, the world continues as if nothing has changed, as if I haven't been erased from it. People walk down sidewalks, laughing, arguing, living lives untouched by the monster sitting beside me, his hand resting possessively on my thigh.

"You seem nervous," Dante observes, his fingers tracing small circles on my skin. "There's no need to be. Today is a reward for your recent compliance."

I keep my eyes fixed on the passing scenery, drinking in the sights of the outside world like a woman dying of thirst. Trees with autumn leaves, storefronts with bright displays, ordinary people living ordinary lives. All of it feels surreal, like a movie I'm watching rather than reality I'm part of.

"Where are we going?" I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral. Questions can be dangerous with Dante, interpreted as challenges to his authority or, worse, as signs I'm planning escape.

"Dinner," he replies, his hand sliding higher on my thigh. "At a private establishment. I think it's time to introduce you to a small part of my world."

My stomach twists at the thought of food, of sitting across from him at a table, pretending at normalcy. But I've learned that refusing to eat onlyresults in forced feeding, in humiliations I'd rather avoid.

"Thank you," I say, the words hollow but necessary. Gratitude, whether genuine or not, pleases him.

The car turns onto a street lined with expensive shops and restaurants, finally pulling up to a nondescript door with no visible signage. A valet opens Dante's door, bowing slightly in recognition. Another man opens mine, offering a hand to help me out. I hesitate, unused to anyone's touch but Dante's after months of isolation.

"Take his hand, Hannah," Dante instructs, watching me from the sidewalk. "It's rude to keep people waiting."

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