Page 36 of Bound to Him

"It was an accident, sir," Michael says quickly, panic creeping into his voice. "I didn't mean any disrespect. I just glanced up when you were passing, it was instinctive?—"

"Instinctive," Dante interrupts, as if considering the word. "Yes, I suppose certain instincts are difficult to control. The instinct to look at a beautiful woman, for instance." His free hand moves to my chin, turning my face toward his. "And she is beautiful, isn't she, Michael? Worth looking at?"

It's a trap, and I can see in Michael's eyes that he knows it. There is no right answer. To agreeconfirms he found me attractive; to disagree insults Dante's possession.

"I…I didn't notice, sir," Michael attempts, sweat now visible on his forehead. "It was just a glance, I didn't really see?—"

"Don't lie to me," Dante says, the friendly tone disappearing, replaced by something cold and flat. "You saw. You noticed. You wanted."

"No, sir, I swear?—"

"Marco," Dante calls, not raising his voice but somehow making the name carry down the hallway. From somewhere behind us, heavy footsteps approach. Marco, Dante's most trusted enforcer, appears at his shoulder, his expression impassive. "Take Mr. Rivera to the lower level. I'll join you shortly."

Michael's face drains of all color. "Sir, please, I have a family—a wife, a little girl?—"

"You should have thought of them before you looked at my wife," Dante replies, all pretense of civility gone. "Take him," he instructs Marco.

Marco grips Michael's arm with a force that makes the younger man wince. As they begin to move away, Michael's desperate eyes find mine, silently pleading for intervention, for mercy.

"Dante," I say, the word escaping before I can stop it. It's dangerous to speak without beingaddressed first, more dangerous still to use his first name without the honorific he prefers. But the terror in Michael's eyes compels me to try. "Please, he really didn't do anything wrong. It was just a momentary glance, nothing inappropriate."

Dante turns to me, his expression softening in a way that's somehow more frightening than his anger. "Sweet Hannah," he says, stroking my cheek with his free hand. "Always so compassionate, even for those who don't deserve it. But you don't understand the world of men. A glance is never just a glance. It's the beginning of desire, of covetousness, of thoughts that cannot be permitted regarding what belongs to me."

"But he has a family," I persist, though every instinct screams at me to stop, to submit, to look away as Michael should have done. "A child. Please, just this once?—"

"Enough." The word isn't shouted, but it might as well have been for the impact it has. "Your concern is noted, but misplaced. This is necessary, Hannah. For discipline, for order, for your protection."

My protection. As if I need protection from a momentary, meaningless glance. As if anything could threaten me more than the man whose hand is leaving bruises on my waist this very moment.

I fall silent, knowing further protest will only make things worse for Michael, perhaps for me as well. Dante turns his attention back to Marco, who still holds the guard in an iron grip.

"Proceed," Dante instructs. "I'll join you after I've returned my wife to her quarters."

As Marco drags Michael away, the young guard's eyes meet mine one last time. I see resignation there now, the knowledge that his fate is sealed, that nothing can save him from whatever punishment Dante has decided upon. Then they turn a corner, and he's gone.

Dante resumes our walk, changing direction, no longer heading toward the gardens but back toward my suite. His hand remains at my waist, proprietary, controlling. I move mechanically beside him, my mind filled with Michael's face, with the knowledge of what's about to happen to him because of me. Because he looked at me.

"You're upset," Dante observes as we approach my door. "That's unnecessary, Hannah. Some lessons must be taught harshly to be effective. The staff need to understand the consequences of disrespect."

"It wasn't disrespect," I say quietly, unable to remain silent despite the danger. "It was just ahuman reaction. People look at each other. It's normal."

Dante stops outside my door, turning me to face him, his hands on my shoulders. "Nothing about you is normal, Hannah. Nothing about us is normal. You are extraordinary, precious beyond measure. My most valuable possession. The rules that govern ordinary interactions don't apply to you." His grip tightens, not painfully but with unmistakable intensity. "No one looks at you but me. No one thinks of you but me. No one touches you but me. These boundaries aren't arbitrary—they're essential for the world to function as it should."

There's something disturbing in his conviction, in the absolute certainty with which he speaks. He truly believes what he's saying, sees nothing irrational or extreme in his response to a momentary glance.

"What will happen to him?" I ask, though I already know.

Dante's expression softens into something almost tender. "Don't concern yourself with that. It's being handled."

"Will you kill him?" The question is blunt, direct, dangerous—but I need to know, need tounderstand the full weight of what my presence in this house means.

"Would it distress you if I did?" Dante counters, studying my face with unsettling intensity.

I consider lying, saying what he wants to hear, but the image of Michael's desperate eyes compels honesty. "Yes," I admit. "It would distress me greatly to know someone died because of a glance."

"Not because of a glance," Dante corrects. "Because of disobedience. Because of disrespect. Because of desire for what isn't his." He brushes a strand of hair from my face, the gesture at odds with the coldness in his eyes. "But since it would distress you, perhaps I'll be merciful. Perhaps I'll simply ensure he understands his error in ways that won't be forgotten."

The implication hangs in the air between us—torture, mutilation, some horror just short of death. And this he calls mercy, calls a concession to my feelings.

---