Page 23 of Bound to Him

"You should rest," he says, surprising me.

As he turns to leave, a question escapes me before I can stop it. "How many?"

He pauses, hand on the doorknob. "How many what?"

"How many people have you killed because of me? Because they looked at me, or spoke to me, or?—"

"Enough," he interrupts, turning back to face me. "Enough to ensure that those who remain understand. Enough to keep you safe, to keep you mine." He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Does it bother you? The blood on my hands?"

I should lie. Should pretend indifference, or even approval. But the truth spills out, unstoppable. "Yes. It terrifies me."

Instead of anger, his face shows nothing. "Then you're beginning to understand the depth of my commitment to you. What I feel for you isn't simple possession, Hannah. It's devotion of the most absolute kind. I would burn the world to ash to keep you."

The declaration, spoken so calmly, so matter-of-factly, sends ice through my veins. This isn't love. This isn't even obsession. This is something darker, more primal, more dangerous than I have words to describe.

"Get some sleep," he says, brushing his lips against my forehead in a parody of tenderness.

After he leaves, I sink to the floor, my legs unable to support me any longer. The dress—the beautiful green dress—suddenly feels contaminated, a shroud rather than a garment. I tear it off, stumbling to the shower, turning the water as hot as I can bear. But no amount of scrubbing can wash away the knowledge that a man died tonight because he looked at me.

As the water beats down on my skin, I finally allow myself to cry—not for me, not this time, but for the nameless man who didn't know the rules ofDante's world, who couldn't have known that a glance would be his death sentence.

And beneath the grief, the shock, the horror, a terrible realization takes root: I will never escape. Not because of locked doors or guards or the tattoos marking me as Dante's property, but because the entire world has become unsafe. Because Dante's reach, his willingness to destroy anyone who might help me, makes freedom not just unlikely but potentially deadly—not just for me, but for anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path.

I am truly trapped now, caged not just by walls but by the growing body count Dante seems willing to accumulate to keep me. And the most terrifying part is that some twisted corner of my mind whispers that perhaps it's better this way, better to remain in my golden cage than to risk more innocent lives in a futile bid for freedom.

That thought, that surrender, frightens me more than anything Dante has done thus far.

CHAPTER 11

Dante

The security monitors glow in the darkness of my office, each screen showing a different angle of Hannah's suite. She's reading by the window, curled into the window seat that's become her favorite retreat. The book is one I selected—Russian literature, Dostoyevsky. I approve of her taste. Since the incident at the restaurant three weeks ago, she's been more compliant, more subdued. Fear has proven to be an effective teacher, though it's merely the first step in her education. True ownership isn't achieved through fear alone. It requires total control,complete awareness, an omnipresence that leaves no room for independent thought or action. Today marks the beginning of that next phase.

I zoom in on her face, studying the subtle changes these months have wrought. The soft roundness of her cheeks has given way to more defined angles. Her eyes, once bright with defiance, now hold a wariness that never quite fades, even when she's alone. Or when she thinks she's alone. She's never truly alone, of course. I am always with her, even when physically absent.

The intercom buzzes, interrupting my observation. "Sir, the modifications to Ms. Hannah's suite are complete."

"Excellent," I reply. "And the other preparations?"

"All in place, as you specified."

"I'll be there shortly."

I switch off the intercom and stand, adjusting my cuffs. The "modifications" are extensive—additional cameras in previously blind spots, motion sensors in the floors, microphones sensitive enough to pick up whispered words, even Hannah's breathing while she sleeps. Excessive, perhaps, but necessary. She remains unpredictable in small ways, and unpredictability is unacceptable in what belongs to me.

Some might view my level of surveillance as paranoia. They misunderstand the nature of true possession. To own something completely means knowing it completely. Every movement, every sound, every breath. Hannah is the most valuable thing I possess, and therefore requires the most rigorous monitoring.

It's for her protection as much as my peace of mind. The world is full of threats. :eople who would take her from me, harm her, use her to get to me. By keeping her under constant watch, I'm ensuring her safety. My methods may seem extreme to outsiders, but love, real love, is extreme by its very nature.

And I do love her, in my way. Not the sentimental, weak version of love portrayed in movies and books, but something purer, more primal. The love of an owner for a priceless possession. The love of a collector for his most perfect acquisition.

I make my way to Hannah's suite, nodding to the guards stationed outside. They step aside immediately, eyes respectfully lowered. They know better than to look directly at what belongs to me.

The door opens silently. Hannah doesn't notice my entrance immediately, absorbed in her book. I take a moment to observe her in person. The way the afternoon light catches in her hair, the delicatecurve of her neck as she bends over the pages, the slight furrow between her brows as she concentrates.

"Hannah," I say, announcing my presence.

She starts, the book slipping from her fingers. Her reaction is physical, instinctive—a quickening of breath, a widening of eyes, the subtle tension that enters her muscles. Ready for flight, though she's learned the futility of that response.

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