Page 28 of Bound to Him

And yet, a tiny, treacherous voice whispers, a child would also be mine. Something to love in this loveless prison. Someone who might need me as much as I need escape.

I silence the thought immediately. Dante would never allow me to love our child more than I fear him. He would use the baby as leverage, as another way to control me, to ensure my compliance. The child would become another victim of his obsession, another possession to be controlled.

Three months. I have three months to find a way out of this nightmare before it becomes truly inescapable.

I finish my breakfast, every bite tasteless, every swallow difficult. Then I rise, moving to the bathroom to brush my teeth—the next activity in my rigidly scheduled day. In the mirror, a stranger stares back at me. Hollow-eyed, pale, with the shocked expression of someone who has just glimpsed her future and found it unbearable.

CHAPTER 13

Dante

Iwatch her on the monitors, my body responding with Pavlovian predictability to even this digital version of her. She's in the bath. It’s 8:15 PM, exactly when her schedule permits this indulgence. Steam rises around her, partially obscuring her body beneath the water, but I can see enough. The curve of her shoulder, the elegant line of her neck as she leans back against the tub. My Hannah, my possession, my obsession. The renewed birth control pills were a temporary concession, one I'm already regretting despite the strategic advantage of having her more willingwhen the time comes. But pills take time to leave the system, to relinquish their hold on her fertility. In the meantime, there are other ways to remind her who owns her body, other methods of claiming what belongs to me.

My hand adjusts the camera angle, zooming in closer. She has no privacy, not even here, not even in this most intimate of moments. The cameras capture everything. The water droplets sliding down her skin, the way her hair darkens when wet, forming tendrils that cling to her neck like my fingers soon will. My body tightens at the thought, desire spreading through me like a fever.

My obsession with Hannah was instant and stronger than anything I’ve ever felt before. But now, months into our arrangement, my hunger for her has taken on a life of its own. I want her constantly, with an intensity that sometimes frightens even me.

The monitor shows her rising from the bath, water sluicing down her body in rivulets I envy. She's lost weight under my care, but not unhealthily so. Her body has simply refined itself, shedding the softness of her former life, revealing the cleaner lines beneath. My marks on her stand out against her pale skin—the tattoo of my name on her hip, the inked wedding band on her finger.Visible reminders of ownership that please me but aren't enough. Never enough.

I need more. Need to mark her internally, with my body, my essence. Need to remind her that every inch of her exists for my pleasure, my use, my satisfaction.

The intercom buzzes, interrupting my contemplation. "Sir, the documents you requested are ready for your review."

"Later," I reply, not taking my eyes from the screen. Hannah is drying herself now, movements efficient rather than sensual. She doesn't perform for the cameras, doesn't acknowledge them at all, in fact, maintaining the illusion of privacy that we both know is false.

"But sir, you said they were urgent?—"

"I said later." My tone leaves no room for argument. The intercom falls silent.

Business can wait. Empire-building can wait. The world outside these walls can burn to ash for all I care when Hannah is like this—vulnerable, exposed, mine for the taking.

She dresses in the nightgown I selected for her—ivory silk that falls to mid-thigh, modest compared to what I could force her to wear, but that's not the point. The point is that I chose it, that her body is clothed in fabric I selected, that eventhis basic function—covering herself—happens according to my will, not hers.

The thought sends another surge of heat through me. This is power in its purest form—not the crude influence of money or the blunt instrument of violence, but the absolute control of another human being's existence. And not just any human being. Hannah.MyHannah.

I switch off the monitors and stand, adjusting myself within the confines of my tailored pants. The guards outside my office straighten as I emerge, eyes carefully averted from the obvious evidence of my arousal. They know better than to notice such things if they wish to keep their positions. Or their lives.

"No disturbances," I instruct as I stride down the hallway toward Hannah's suite. "For any reason."

"Yes, sir," they murmur in unison, falling into step behind me at a respectful distance.

Outside Hannah's door, I dismiss the current guard with a nod. He leaves immediately, no questions asked. The timing isn't lost on him—Hannah freshly bathed, me arriving unscheduled. This has happened before, will happen again. The staff know their place, which is to see nothing, hear nothing, know nothing.

I enter without knocking—another reminder that this space, like her body, exists at my pleasure. She's sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair, a nightly ritual scheduled between bath time and reading time. The brush pauses mid-stroke when she sees me in the mirror, her eyes widening slightly before she controls her expression.

"Good evening, Dante,” she says, her voice carefully modulated. Not too eager, not too reluctant. She's learned the narrow path of acceptable responses.

"Continue," I tell her, moving to stand behind her, watching in the mirror as she resumes brushing her damp hair. The repetitive motion is hypnotic—stroke, pause, stroke, pause. Her hair has grown longer during her time with me, now reaching the middle of her back. I've forbidden her to cut it.

I take the brush from her hand, our fingers brushing in the exchange. A small tremor runs through her at the contact—fear or anticipation, perhaps both. I continue the brushing myself, each stroke a possessive gesture.

"You're tense," I observe, my free hand coming to rest on her shoulder, feeling the rigid muscles beneath the thin silk. "Why is that, Hannah?"

"I'm sorry, Dante,” she says, the defaultresponse when she doesn't know what answer I want. "I'll try to relax."

"See that you do. Tension interferes with pleasure." My hand slides from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her damp hair. "And I intend there to be pleasure tonight."

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, a flash of something—resignation, dread, perhaps a hint of the defiance I've worked so hard to extinguish—before lowering in submission. "Yes.”

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