Page 26 of Bound to Him

Hannah

Morning arrives with the mechanical precision that now governs my life. The curtains open automatically at 7:00 AM, letting in carefully measured sunlight. The temperature is a perfect 72 degrees. Never too warm, never too cool. On my nightstand, a tray holds breakfast (exactly 350 calories, balanced nutrition) and a small paper cup containing my pill. The birth control was Dante's idea. ”To regulate your cycle," he claimed, though we both know the real reason. It's the one smallmercy in this controlled existence, the one concession to my bodily autonomy. I reach for the cup, tipping the pill into my palm, and freeze. Something is wrong. The pill is different—a slightly different shape, a different shade of pink. My heart stutters in my chest as I examine it more closely, holding it up to the light.

The weight is wrong too—lighter, somehow. I've been taking these pills every morning for months now, enough to know the feel of them between my fingers. This isn't the same medication.

The door opens right on schedule, 7:05 AM, when Dante comes to ensure I'm awake and following my morning routine. His timing today feels too perfect, too coincidental given my discovery.

"Good morning, Hannah," he says, crossing to the bed with that confident stride that makes the spacious room feel suddenly claustrophobic. His eyes flick to the pill in my palm, then to my face. "Is something wrong with your medication?"

There's something in his tone—a hint of anticipation, of satisfaction—that confirms my suspicion before I even voice it. "This isn't my usual pill," I say, working to keep my voice steady. "It's different."

He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I can smell his cologne, that distinctive scent that once made me nauseous but has now become as familiar as my own heartbeat. "Observant as always," he says, taking the pill from my hand, examining it with exaggerated interest. "Yes, there's been a change in your prescription."

"What kind of change?" I ask, though I already know, already feel the truth settling like ice in my stomach.

He meets my eyes, his own dark and unreadable. "This is a vitamin supplement," he says simply. "You've been taking vitamins for the past three months."

Three months. The room tilts slightly, reality shifting beneath me. "And my birth control?"

"Discontinued," he says, placing the pill back in my palm, closing my fingers around it with his larger hand. "You won't be needing it anymore."

My throat constricts, making speech difficult. "You can't make that decision for me."

"I make all decisions for you, Hannah." His voice remains soft, reasonable, as if explaining something obvious to a child. "Your body is mine, just like the rest of you. What goes into it, what happens to it—those choices belong to me."

"Please," I whisper, hating the pleading in myvoice but unable to stop it. "Please don't do this. Not this."

"It's already done," he says, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist, feeling my racing pulse. "You could be pregnant already, for all we know. You're certainly overdue for your cycle."

I hadn't noticed—or rather, I hadn't allowed myself to notice—the absence of my period. The days blend so seamlessly into one another in this prison that I've lost track of such basic rhythms of my body.

"Why?" I ask, the single word loaded with all my fear, all my desperation.

"Because it's time," he replies, as if this explains everything. "Time for us to cement our bond in the most permanent way possible. A child, Hannah. Our child. A living embodiment of my claim on you."

I pull my hand away from his, scrambling backward on the bed until my back hits the headboard. "No," I say, shaking my head. "No, I won't—I can't?—"

"You don't have a choice," he interrupts, his voice still gentle but with steel underneath. "Your consent isn't required. Your body will do what bodies are designed to do, with or without your cooperation."

The calm certainty in his voice terrifies me more than anger would have. This isn't an impulsive decision, a sudden whim. He's planned this, calculated it, ensured I've been unprotected for months without my knowledge.

"I'll find a way to stop it," I say, desperation making me reckless. "I'll—I'll hurt myself, I'll starve, I'll?—"

His hand shoots out, gripping my jaw with sudden, painful force. "You will do no such thing," he says, all pretense of gentleness gone. "If you attempt to harm yourself or any child you might be carrying, the consequences will be severe. Not for you—I can't risk damaging what's mine—but for others. Your family, perhaps. Your sister Emma is quite pretty, I'm told. About the age you were when I first saw you."

The threat hangs in the air between us, monstrous in its clarity. My blood turns to ice at the thought of Dante hurting her.

"You wouldn't," I whisper, but it's an empty denial. We both know he would. He's killed for less.

"I would do whatever necessary to protect what's mine," he says, releasing my jaw, his fingers now gentle as they stroke the marks they've just left. "But it won't come to that. You'resmarter than that, Hannah. You understand your position."

I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the panic threatening to overwhelm me. A baby. Dante's baby. The ultimate trap, the unbreakable chain. Even if by some miracle I ever escaped him, I would never truly be free. He would pursue us forever, use the child to track me, to control me, to ensure I could never fully leave him behind.

"Look at me," he commands.

I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze.

"A child is a blessing," he says, his voice softening again. "Our child will want for nothing. The best of everything—education, opportunities, protection. And you'll never be alone again, Hannah. You'll have a purpose beyond simply being mine. You'll be the mother of my heir."

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