Page 27 of Bound to Him

The words twist something inside me—my greatest fear being reframed as a gift, a privilege. It's a perversion of what should be one of life's most profound joys, turned into yet another form of captivity.

"I'm too young," I try, grasping at any argument that might sway him. "I'm only nineteen. My body isn't ready."

"Women much younger than you have healthy children every day," he dismisses. "And you'll havethe best medical care available. I've already selected specialists, prepared a nursery adjacent to your suite."

The revelation that he's planned this so thoroughly, so far in advance, sends a fresh wave of horror through me. "When?" I manage to ask. "When did you decide this?"

"The moment I claimed you," he says simply. "Children were always part of the plan, Hannah. My mark on you, inside you, continuing through generations. Immortality, of a kind."

I feel sick, dizzy with the implications. Not just a child, but children. Not just imprisonment for me, but for innocent lives that haven't even been conceived yet.

"Please," I try once more, knowing it's futile but unable to stop myself. "If you care for me at all, if any part of you respects me as a person, don't force this on me. Not yet. Give me time."

Something flickers in his eyes. Not compassion, exactly, but perhaps consideration. "Time for what?"

"To adjust," I say quickly, seizing on his momentary hesitation. "To prepare mentally. Having a baby is…it's huge. Life-changing. I need time to accept it, to be ready. Please."

He studies me, his head tilted slightly, like apredator assessing prey. "You're trying to manipulate me," he observes, not angry but almost appreciative. "Interesting."

"I'm asking for mercy," I correct, the word bitter on my tongue. Begging my captor for the most basic bodily autonomy—it's a humiliation that burns, but I'd suffer worse to avoid the fate he's planning.

"Mercy implies punishment, and this isn't punishment, Hannah. It's elevation." He takes my hand again, bringing it to his lips, kissing the tattooed ring on my finger. "You're my wife. Bearing my children is your purpose, your privilege. Fighting against it only delays the inevitable."

"Then delay it," I plead. "If it's inevitable, what difference does a few months make? Let me have this time to prepare, to accept. I'll be a better mother if I'm ready."

He considers this, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "Perhaps there's some logic to that," he concedes. "A willing vessel might produce stronger offspring."

Vessel.The word lands like a slap, reducing me to a container, a biological function. But I don't flinch, don't react. If viewing me as an incubator gives me a few more months of freedom from pregnancy, I'll accept the degradation.

"Three months," he finally declares. "I'll restore your medication for three months, no longer. Use that time wisely, Hannah. When I stop the pills again, I expect acceptance, not resistance."

Relief—temporary but intense—washes through me. Three months. Ninety days to figure something out, to find a way to prevent the ultimate trap.

"Thank you," I say, the words ashen but necessary. "Thank you, sir."

His expression softens at the honorific, at my apparent submission. "You're welcome. I'm not unreasonable, Hannah. I want you to embrace your role, not merely endure it." He reaches into his pocket, producing a pill packet. "These are your actual contraceptives. Take one now."

He watches as I swallow the pill, making sure it goes down. Then he takes the vitamin from my still-closed fist and sets it back on the tray.

"Eat your breakfast," he instructs, standing. "Your prenatal vitamins will continue, of course. Your body should be prepared, regardless of when conception occurs."

I nod, picking up the fork, going through the motions of eating though my appetite has fled. Dante watches me for a moment, then checks his watch.

"I have meetings this morning. Vincent will be monitoring you today." He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Remember, three months is a gift, not a right. If I see any behavior that concerns me—any attempt to prevent or terminate a future pregnancy—the agreement is void."

"I understand," I say, keeping my eyes on my plate.

"Good girl," he murmurs, straightening. "We'll discuss nursery designs tonight. I want your input, within reason."

The casual discussion of nurseries, as if this is a normal couple planning a wanted child, makes my stomach clench. But I nod again, playing the role of the compliant wife, the willing mother-to-be.

After he leaves, I continue eating mechanically, aware of the cameras tracking every movement, every expression. I can't afford to show panic, to reveal the desperate thoughts racing through my mind.

Three months. Ninety days to find a solution to an impossible problem. If I try to escape and fail, the consequences are unthinkable—not just for me, but for my family. If I succeed somehow, Dante will never stop hunting me. And if I do nothing, in three months he'll impregnate me, binding me to him with the strongest chains possible—aninnocent child who will be both my greatest love and my heaviest shackle.

The fork trembles in my hand, betraying the emotion I'm trying so hard to conceal. I set it down carefully, taking a sip of water instead, using the glass to hide my face momentarily from whatever camera is currently focused on me.

Behind the glass, my expression crumples with the weight of this new horror. A baby. His baby. Growing inside me, changing me, marking me internally in ways that can never be undone. Even if I escape, even if I somehow get away from Dante, I would carry his child—a permanent, living reminder of my captivity.

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