Page 37 of Bound to Him

"Thank you," I force myself to say, the words ashen on my tongue. Playing the game, knowing that even this hollow gratitude might save some small part of Michael from Dante's rage.

Dante smiles, pleased by my apparent submission. "You're welcome, my love. Now rest. I'll return once this unpleasant business is concluded."

He kisses me, a claiming rather than an affection, then opens my door, ushering me inside. The lock engages behind me with its familiar click, sealing me in my luxurious prison while somewhere below, a man suffers for the crime of seeing me.

I sink onto the window seat, my body trembling with delayed shock, with the horror of what I've witnessed and what I know is happening now. My presence in this house is toxic, dangerous to anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path. My very existence here puts others at risk.

The realization settles on me like a physical weight. Any thoughts of escape, of resistance, must now account for this terrible reality: Dante's obsession makes me a weapon against innocent people. If I run, who will pay the price? If I fight back, who will suffer in my place?

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, looking out at the gardens I was promised but will not see today. Roses in bloom, Dante said. Beauty cultivated, controlled, contained—like me. But roses have thorns, natural defenses against those who would possess them too carelessly. What are my thorns? What protection do I have against the man who sees me as his most precious possession?

None, it seems. And worse, my thorns harm others while leaving Dante untouched. Michael's face haunts me—his fear, his desperation, the resignation in his final glance. All because he looked at me. All because, for a fraction of a second, his eyes met mine.

How many others have suffered because of me? How many more will pay for Dante's obsession with blood, with pain, with lives destroyed?

And knowing this, how can I ever justify trying to escape, when the cost will be measured not just in my suffering but in the suffering of others who have done nothing wrong except exist in Dante's world, in my proximity?

The trap is complete now, barred not just with locks and guards and surveillance, but with moral impossibility. Freedom, if it ever comes, will be bought with blood I cannot bear to have on my hands.

I am well and truly trapped.

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