Page 35 of Bound to Him

On screen, Hannah moves to the dining table where her dinner awaits. She sits, arranges her napkin in her lap, begins to eat with the careful precision I've taught her. Each bite measured, each movement graceful. Perfect. Mine.

Tonight, I'll go to her again. Tonight, I'll claim her body once more, marking her inside and out with my possession. And perhaps tonight, I'll see in her eyes that surrender I crave—not just physical acquiescence but complete acceptance of her place in my life, in my obsession.

And if I don't see it? If that distance remains, that hidden corner of resistance?

Then I'll simply have to try harder. Push further. Take more.

Until there's nothing left of Hannah that isn't completely, irrevocably mine.

CHAPTER 16

Hannah

Dante decides I need fresh air today. This is how freedom comes now. As a decision made by someone else, a benevolence bestowed like scraps to a starving dog. He escorts me himself, his hand firm at the small of my back, guiding me through corridors I've never seen before. The mansion is larger than I imagined, a labyrinth of wealth and opulence that might as well be a medieval castle for all the good its splendor does me. Guards stand at regular intervals, eyes carefully trained ahead or at the floor as we pass. They've learned, it seems, the danger of looking atwhat belongs to Dante Severino. All except one, who hasn't yet received the education that keeps the others alive.

"The gardens are particularly beautiful this time of year," Dante says, his voice carrying the casual confidence of a man who believes he's being generous. "The roses are in bloom. I think you'll appreciate them, given your artistic sensibilities."

I nod, the automatic response to any statement that doesn't explicitly require words. Over these months—has it been six now? Seven?—I've learned to measure my responses carefully, to speak when spoken to, to show just enough engagement to satisfy without inviting further interaction.

We turn down a hallway lined with paintings—old masters by the look of them, not reproductions but originals worth millions. Dante's wealth continues to astonish me, though I shouldn't be surprised. A man who purchases people as casually as others buy cars must have resources beyond imagining.

"That one reminded me of you," Dante says, pausing before a painting of a young woman in Renaissance dress, her expression serene but her eyes holding a hint of melancholy. "The same quiet dignity. The same hidden depths."

I study the painting, seeing nothing of myself inthe flawless, aristocratic features. But disagreeing would be dangerous, inviting a conversation about how Dante sees me versus how I see myself. Such conversations never end well.

"It's beautiful," I say, a safe response that neither agrees nor disagrees.

Dante's hand slides from my back to my waist, pulling me closer to his side. "Not as beautiful as you," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. "Art imitates life, but never quite captures it. No painting could ever do justice to what I see when I look at you."

The compliment, delivered with apparent sincerity, turns my stomach. Once, I might have treasured such words. Now they're just another reminder of my captivity, my status as an object of obsession rather than a person.

We continue down the hallway, approaching a section of the mansion that seems more functional than the opulent areas I've seen. Staff members move purposefully, carrying linens or pushing carts of cleaning supplies. They all share the same careful avoidance, eyes downcast when we pass, bodies turning slightly away as if to make themselves smaller, less noticeable.

All except one.

He's younger than the others, perhaps new toDante's employ. Tall, with dark hair cut close to his scalp, dressed in the uniform of the security staff. As we approach, his eyes lift from the tablet he's reviewing, meeting mine for the briefest moment. There's nothing improper in his glance—no lust, no particular interest, just the natural human reaction of looking at what enters one's field of vision.

But it's enough.

Dante freezes mid-step, his hand tightening painfully on my waist. The sudden tension in his body is palpable, a predator shifting from casual observation to attack stance in a heartbeat.

"You," Dante says, his voice soft but carrying an undercurrent of violence that makes the word sound like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. "Come here."

The young guard looks up again, confusion crossing his features before recognition—and fear—set in. He approaches cautiously, stopping at a respectful distance, eyes now fixed firmly on the floor. "Sir?"

"What's your name?" Dante asks, still using that terrifyingly soft voice.

"Michael Rivera, sir. I started last week in the east wing security detail."

"Michael Rivera," Dante repeats, rolling thename around as if tasting it. "Did you receive the standard briefing when you were hired, Michael?"

The guard shifts uncomfortably. "Yes, sir. Of course."

"And what was the primary rule regarding my wife?" Dante continues, his grip on my waist now painful enough that I'll have bruises tomorrow.

Michael's face pales slightly. "Not to…not to look directly at her, sir."

"And yet, just now, you did exactly that." Dante's tone remains conversational, almost friendly, which makes it all the more terrifying. I've learned that his rage is most dangerous when it wears this calm mask. "You looked at what belongs to me."

---