Page 24 of Bound to Him

"Dante," she acknowledges.

"I trust you're finding the book engaging?" I cross to her, picking up the fallen volume, examining the page she was reading before returning it to her.

"Yes" She takes it carefully, our fingers brushing in the exchange. I note the slight tremor in her hand, the way she unconsciously touches the tattooed ring on her finger afterward. "It's…thought-provoking."

"Good. An active mind is important." I sit beside her on the window seat, close enough that our knees touch. She doesn't move away—another learned behavior. "I've come to discuss some changes to our arrangement."

Wariness fills her eyes, though her expression remains carefully neutral. "Changes?"

"Nothing to concern yourself about," I assureher, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. She holds perfectly still under my touch, like a rabbit beneath a hawk's shadow. "Simply refinements to ensure your continued well-being."

"I see," she says, though clearly she doesn't.

"From today forward, you will not be left alone," I explain, my tone conversational, as if discussing a minor change in dinner plans. "When I am not physically with you, one of my trusted staff will be. There will be no exceptions to this rule."

She swallows hard, processing the implications. "Even…even in the bathroom? When I shower or?—"

"No exceptions," I repeat, firmer now. I can’t risk something happening to her.

Her eyes drop to the book in her lap, her fingers tightening on the cover. "Yes, Dante,” she whispers, defeat evident in every line of her body.

"Additionally," I continue, "you will account for every minute of your day. A schedule has been prepared." I withdraw a folded paper from my jacket, handing it to her. "Your activities, meals, exercise, even leisure time. All have been structured for optimal benefit."

She unfolds the paper, scanning the minute-by-minute breakdown of her existence. I've left nothing to chance, nothing to whim or personalpreference. Every hour is accounted for, regulated, controlled.

"This is..." She stops, clearly reconsidering whatever she was about to say. "Very thorough."

"I take your well-being seriously," I tell her, brushing my knuckles against her cheek. "Structure provides security. Boundaries provide comfort."

She doesn't argue, doesn't point out the obvious—that these aren't boundaries but bars, not structure but shackles. She's learning to accept my reality as the only reality.

"Stand up," I instruct, rising from the window seat. "I want to show you something."

She obeys immediately, the schedule still clutched in her hand. I lead her to the bathroom, where the most significant modifications have been made. The door has been removed entirely, replaced with an archway that offers no possibility of concealment. The shower enclosure, once frosted glass, is now clear, offering an unobstructed view from every angle.

"As you can see, I've eliminated unnecessary barriers," I explain, watching her reaction closely. "This continues the theme of transparency between us."

Her face pales slightly, but she keeps her expressioncontrolled. "Yes, Dante,” she says, her voice barely audible.

"You disapprove," I observe.

"It's not my place to approve or disapprove," she replies carefully.

"No, it isn't," I agree, pleased by her understanding. "But I'm curious about your thoughts, nonetheless."

She hesitates, weighing her response, aware of the potential consequences of honesty. "It feels…exposed," she finally admits.

"That's precisely the point," I tell her, turning her to face me, my hands on her shoulders. "You are mine, Hannah. Every inch, every moment, every thought. There should be nothing hidden from me, nothing kept private or separate. Complete exposure is complete belonging."

I see the flicker of resistance in her eyes, quickly suppressed but unmistakable. It's this spark, this lingering defiance, that necessitates these measures. A part of her still believes in the possibility of autonomy, of separation from me. I must extinguish that belief entirely.

"To demonstrate the new arrangement," I continue, "you will shower now, while I observe."

Her breath catches. "Now?"

"Yes. Consider it the first entry in your newschedule." I glance at my watch. "You have fifteen minutes allocated for bathing. Beginning now."

For a moment, she doesn't move, frozen by the directness of the command. Then, slowly, she sets down the book and schedule on the bathroom counter and reaches for the hem of her dress.

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