Page 13 of Bound to Him

The thought of his eyes on me, observing my breakdown, makes me force the tears back. I won't give him the satisfaction. I won't become a spectacle for his entertainment.

But what will I become?

The question echoes in my mind as I stare at the ceiling. My old life—my family, my studies, my dreams of art school—seems impossibly distantnow, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. In its place is this new, terrifying reality: I am the possession of a man who sees people as things to be owned.

My hand rises to my forehead, to the spot where his lips touched my skin. I can still feel the imprint, burning like a brand. It was just a kiss—clinical, almost chaste—but the intent behind it was clear. A promise, or perhaps a threat, of what's to come.

I should fight. I should scream and kick and never stop resisting. That's what the heroines in movies would do. But movies end after two hours, and I'm beginning to understand that my captivity stretches before me with no end in sight. How long can anyone maintain that level of defiance? How long before the constant resistance breaks something inside me?

The thought of breaking—of becoming what Dante wants me to be—terrifies me more than physical harm ever could. But I'm already starting to calculate, to strategize. Maybe compliance doesn't mean surrender. Maybe I can pretend, can give him what he wants on the surface while keeping my true self hidden deep inside where he can't reach.

Or is that just the first step toward truly becoming his?

I have no answers, just the growing, chilling certainty that this is my life now. A beautiful room that is still a cage. A man who claims to want me but really wants to own me. And somewhere, a family that traded me away like an unwanted possession.

I curl tighter into myself, a technique I've used since childhood to make myself feel safe. It doesn't work anymore. Nothing about me is safe now—not my body, not my future, perhaps not even my mind.

All I have left is the hope that somewhere inside me exists a strength I didn't know I possessed—a strength that will let me survive whatever Dante Severino has planned.

CHAPTER 7

Dante

Tonight, I will claim what's mine. Three weeks of patience, of carefully calculated interactions, have built to this moment. Hannah has learned the basic rules of her new existence—when to speak, when to remain silent, how to address me. She no longer flinches when I enter the room, no longer wastes energy on futile escape attempts. But compliance isn't enough. I need more than her resigned acceptance; I need to mark her in ways that can never be undone. Tonight, I will be the first man inside her, the only man who will ever know her body. The thought sends heat coursingthrough me, a hunger that's been building since I first saw her.

I adjust the lighting in her suite, dimming it to a warm glow that softens the edges of furniture, creates shadows where there were none before. The bed has been prepared with fresh sheets—black silk against which her pale skin will look like marble. There are rose petals scattered across the duvet, not out of romance, but because I want this memory to be sense—rich, impossible for her to forget.

On the nightstand, a bottle of champagne chills in an ice bucket. She won't drink it—she still refuses alcohol, afraid of losing control—but the symbolism matters. This is a celebration. An initiation. The beginning of her true existence as mine.

I've confirmed her virginity through her medical records, obtained when I first began planning her acquisition. The knowledge that I will be the first—the only—man to possess her this way fills me with savage satisfaction. In an age where purity is rare, Hannah has saved herself. Not for me, not knowingly, but the result is the same. She is untouched, and after tonight, she will be touched only by me for the rest of her life.

Some might call my fixation on her virginity old-fashioned or patriarchal. They miss the point. This isn't about outdated notions of female purity—it's about possession in its most primal form. No memories of other men to haunt her, no comparisons to be made, no experiences that don't include me. I will be her entire sexual world, past and future.

I check my reflection in the mirror, adjusting my cuffs. I've dressed carefully for this occasion—dark suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. Formal enough to mark the significance of the night, casual enough for what will follow. My hair is still damp from the shower, slicked back from my forehead. I look powerful, controlled. Perfect.

The security feed shows Hannah sitting by the window, a book open on her lap though she hasn't turned a page in ten minutes. She's wearing one of the dresses I selected for her—a simple slip of ivory silk that makes her look both innocent and enticing. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, still slightly damp from her own shower.

She senses something is different tonight. I've altered our routine, had dinner served earlier, instructed the staff to leave us undisturbed. Her body language betrays her anxiety—the slight hunch of her shoulders, the way she chews her lower lip, the constant glances toward the door.

Good. Anticipation, even fearful anticipation, will heighten the experience for both of us.

I leave my chambers, walking the short distance to her suite. Each step feels weighted with significance. I've had women before—beautiful women, skilled women—but none that belonged to me so completely. None that I've wanted with this consuming intensity.

Her door opens to my touch—I am the only one with access, the only one who controls her world. She looks up at the sound, her book forgotten as she rises from her chair. She's learned that much, at least—to stand when I enter the room, to acknowledge my presence.

"Good evening, Hannah," I say, my voice deliberate and measured.

"Good evening," she replies, her own voice soft, uncertain. She's dropped my name I've insisted upon these past weeks. Fuck, there’s nothing like hearing my name from her sweet lips. A small defiance, or perhaps distraction. Either way, it will be corrected.

"Try again," I say, not moving from my position near the door.

She swallows, her throat working visibly. "Good evening,

Dante.”

"Better." I move toward her, each step unhurried. "You look beautiful tonight."

Her eyes widen slightly, unused to direct compliments. "Thank you," she says, and then, remembering, adds, “Dante.”

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