Page 30 of Bound to Him

"Open your eyes," I say softly. "Look at me."

She obeys, her gaze steady but empty, the emotional withdrawal that always follows our couplings. I've come to expect it, even appreciate it in a way. It reminds me that there's still work to be done, still parts of her to claim.

"Some would call what I feel for you an obsession,"I tell her, my voice thoughtful. "A sickness, even. They don't understand that obsession of this intensity is love in its purest form. I want to possess you completely because you are worth possessing, worth protecting, worth keeping."

Something flickers in her eyes—confusion, perhaps, at this glimpse into my reasoning. Good. Let her see that my desire for her isn't simply lust or the need for control. It's deeper, more fundamental. It's the recognition that she was made to be mine, that our connection transcends ordinary relationships.

"Three months," I remind her, finally withdrawing from her body, lying beside her on the black sheets. "That's how long you have before we begin creating our family. I find myself impatient for it."

She says nothing, knows better than to repeat her objections. My decision is final, as all my decisions are.

"The thought of you swollen with my child," I continue, my hand resting possessively on her flat stomach, "is surprisingly arousing. Your body changing, growing, nurturing what we've created together. A visible, undeniable sign of my claim on you."

A tremor runs through her at my words, but sheremains silent, her face carefully blank. I allow this small retreat—this conversation is more for me than for her anyway, a voicing of thoughts that have occupied me with increasing frequency.

"I've been considering additional markings," I tell her, changing subjects abruptly. My fingers trace invisible patterns on her skin. "More permanent reminders of your place in my life. Perhaps here—" I touch her lower back, "—or here." My hand moves to the base of her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my fingertips.

"Whatever you think is best, Dante,” she says, the practiced response when no safe alternative exists.

"Indeed." I smile, pleased by her acceptance, however forced. "My thoughts are all that matter when it comes to your body, aren't they, Hannah?"

"Yes, Dante.” The words are empty, automatic, but they satisfy me nonetheless. The sentiment behind them is irrelevant; compliance is what matters.

I rise from the bed, gathering my clothes, watching as she remains motionless among the tangled sheets. Her stillness is a learned behavior. She knows better than to move without permission after I've claimed her.

"Clean yourself up," I instruct, buttoning my shirt. "Then sleep. I may return later tonight."

The possibility hangs between us—a promise or a threat, depending on perspective. Her expression doesn't change, but I note the minute tension that enters her body at my words.

Perfect. Let her anticipate my return, my touch, my possession. Let her understand that her body is available to me at any time, for any purpose. Let her learn that she exists for my pleasure, my satisfaction, my desire.

As I leave her suite, fastening my cufflinks, I'm already planning my next visit. The hunger never abates for long, the need to claim her never fully satisfied. Each possession is temporary, each marking insufficient. I want more—always more.

But patience has its rewards. Soon enough, her body will fulfill its ultimate purpose for me. Soon enough, she'll carry my child, the living proof of my ownership. Soon enough, she'll understand that there is no part of her that isn't mine to control, to possess, to claim as my own.

In the meantime, I'll continue to remind her. Night after night. Day after day. Until there's no part of her that doesn't bear my touch, my mark, my possession.

Until she's mine in every way imaginable.

CHAPTER 14

Hannah

The door opens at exactly 10:00 PM, right when my schedule dictates "lights out." Dante stands in the threshold, his silhouette dark against the hallway light, and I know immediately why he's come. My body tenses, a conditioned response to his presence that I can't control anymore. He doesn't speak as he enters, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds like a vault being sealed. These visits have become more frequent, his hunger for me growing rather than diminishing with possession. I sit up in bed, the silk sheets pooling around my waist, andwait. There's no point in pretending sleep, in delaying the inevitable. Dante takes what he wants, when he wants it. My role is simply to endure, to survive. But lately, survival has become more complicated, tangled with sensations my mind rejects but my traitorous body welcomes.

"You're awake," he says, his voice low, almost intimate in the dim light. It's not a question.

"Yes, Dante,” I reply, his name slipping out automatically now, trained into me through repetition and consequence.

He moves toward the bed with predatory grace, each step deliberate, measured. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits on the edge, close enough that I can smell his cologne—that distinctive scent that once made me nauseous but now triggers a complex reaction of fear, resignation, and something else I refuse to name.

"Did you know I was coming?" he asks, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. His fingers linger, tracing the curve of my cheek, down to my jaw.

"I…suspected," I admit. There's no point in lies; he reads me too easily now.

His smile is pleased, satisfied by this evidence of my attunement to his patterns. "We're becomingsynchronized, you and I. Your body anticipates mine."

I say nothing, knowing any response would either please him too much or anger him unnecessarily. Instead, I lower my eyes, staring at my hands folded in my lap, at the tattooed ring that circles my finger like a brand.

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