Page 31 of Bound to Him

"Look at me," he commands, his tone gentle but brooking no disobedience.

I raise my eyes to his, fighting to keep my expression neutral. Once, I would have shown defiance, hatred, fear—all the emotions that still swirl inside me. Now I know better. Now I understand that giving him access to my emotions only provides him with more weapons to use against me.

"There you are," he murmurs, as if I've been hiding rather than sitting right before him. In a way, I suppose I have been. The real me—the Hannah who existed before Dante—retreats further each day, hiding in corners of my mind he hasn't yet invaded.

His hand moves to my throat, resting there without pressure but with unmistakable intent. A reminder of his power, his control. My pulse jumps beneath his palm, betraying my anxiety despite my carefully blank face.

"Your heart is racing," he observes. "Fear? Or anticipation?"

"Both," I whisper, the honesty surprising both of us.

Something flares in his eyes—satisfaction, hunger, possession. "Good," he says. "That's progress."

Progress toward what, he doesn't say. Doesn't need to. We both know he's working to reshape me, to make me not just accept his ownership but crave it. And the most terrifying part is that sometimes, in moments I immediately try to forget, I feel myself slipping toward that abyss.

His hand slides from my throat to the neckline of my nightgown, hooking a finger beneath the thin strap. "This is in the way," he says, pulling until the strap breaks, the delicate silk tearing with a sound that seems too loud in the quiet room.

I flinch, can't help it. Not from pain—he hasn't hurt me yet—but from the casual destruction, the reminder that nothing is truly mine, not even the clothes on my body.

"Don't move," he instructs, rising from the bed to remove his suit jacket, his movements unhurried, controlled. He folds it carefully over a nearby chair, then begins unbuttoning his shirt. I remainfrozen, watching as he undresses, revealing the body that has become as familiar to me as my own. He's beautiful in an objective sense—strong, lean, powerfully built. The kind of man I might have noticed, even admired, in my previous life. Now his beauty is just another facet of my cage, another tool of my captivity.

When he's naked, he returns to the bed, standing beside it, looking down at me with an expression that sends heat curling through my stomach despite my mental resistance. "Remove that," he says, gesturing to my torn nightgown.

My hands move automatically to obey, pulling the ruined silk over my head, discarding it on the floor. The cool air raises goosebumps on my exposed skin, or perhaps it's his gaze—heavy, possessive, almost tangible in its intensity.

"Lie back," he directs.

I do as instructed, sinking against the pillows, my hair spreading around me like dark water. Dante looms over me for a moment, his eyes traveling over my body with proprietary interest, as if inspecting something he owns for damage or wear. Then he joins me on the bed, his weight making the mattress dip, his heat radiating against my side.

"You've lost weight," he notes, his handskimming my ribs, my hip, cataloging the changes in my body with clinical precision. "Are you eating properly?"

"Yes," I reply, though it's not entirely true. Food has become mechanical, a task to complete rather than something to enjoy. I eat what's provided because the alternative—forced feeding, additional restrictions—is worse.

His expression suggests he doesn't quite believe me but chooses not to pursue it now. Instead, his hand continues its exploration, moving up to cup my breast, thumb brushing over the nipple with practiced skill. My body responds instantly, the flesh pebbling beneath his touch, a sensation that shoots straight to my core despite my mental resistance.

"Your body knows who it belongs to," Dante says, watching my physical reaction with satisfaction. "Even when your mind fights it."

I turn my head away, unable to maintain eye contact during this betrayal by my own flesh. His free hand grips my jaw, firmly but not painfully, turning my face back toward him.

"No," he says simply. "You will watch. You will participate. You will acknowledge what's happening between us."

"There is no 'us,'" I whisper, a small defiance that slips out before I can stop it. "There's you taking, and me having no choice."

Instead of anger, his face shows something like sadness that doesn’t match his next words. "Still fighting. Good. I'd be disappointed if you surrendered too easily." His grip on my jaw tightens slightly. "But make no mistake, Hannah. There is very much an 'us.' You are mine, body and soul, whether you accept it yet or not."

Then his mouth is on mine, the kiss almost punishing in its intensity. I've learned to respond. Resistance only prolongs these moments, makes them more difficult. My lips part beneath his, allowing his tongue to invade, to claim. His hand moves from my jaw to my hair, fisting in the strands, holding me in place as he deepens the kiss.

The familiar heat builds low in my belly, a physical response I've tried and failed to suppress. Dante's touch is skilled, deliberate, designed to provoke reaction regardless of my mental state. My body has become a separate entity, one that responds to his ministrations with increasing eagerness while my mind retreats, detaches, tries to preserve some part of me that remains untouched.

His mouth leaves mine, trailing down my neck,teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. I gasp, can't help it, the sensation too sharp to ignore. He chuckles against my throat, the sound vibrating through me.

"There," he murmurs, sucking hard at the spot, ensuring a mark will bloom. "Let everyone see who you belong to."

"No one sees me," I remind him, the words coming out breathier than intended as his mouth continues its journey downward. "No one but you."

He lifts his head, eyes meeting mine with unexpected intensity. "And that's how it will stay," he says, the words carrying a weight, a darkness that sends a chill through me despite the heat of his body against mine. "You're mine alone, Hannah. Never forget that."

Before I can respond, his mouth closes around my nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peak, and coherent thought scatters. My back arches involuntarily, pushing me further into his touch. His hand slides between my thighs, finding me wet despite my resistance, and a sound of satisfaction rumbles in his chest.

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