Page 34 of Bound to Him

I swivel my chair to face him fully, allowing my irritation to show. "Are you suggesting I can't trust you to resolve a simple customs issue? Perhaps I need to reconsider your position in my organization."

Marco pales slightly but stands his ground. "Not at all, sir. I'm simply conveying the message as instructed. They're threatening to impound the entire shipment."

I wave a dismissive hand. "Let them. We have insurance for precisely this reason." I turn back to my screen, to Hannah, who has moved from the window seat to the bathroom. "Now leave me. I'm not to be disturbed again today."

After Marco departs, I expand the surveillance feed, switching to the bathroom cameras. Hannah stands before the mirror, examining herself with an expression I can't quite read. Her hand rises to her neck, touching a mark I left there last night—a deep purple bruise, a visible sign of my possession. Does she feel pride in wearing my mark? Resignation? Shame? The cameras, for all their technological sophistication, can't capture the nuances of her thoughts.

I need to know what she's thinking. The need burns in me, a physical ache. I've claimed her body, controlled her movements, dictated her daily existence, but her mind remains a partially closed book—pages I can see but can't always read with the clarity I crave.

She begins to undress for her scheduled shower, movements efficient rather than sensual. I watch, entranced, as each piece of clothing falls away, revealing the canvas of her skin, marked in places by my hands, my mouth, my possession. The tattoos stand out starkly—my name on her hip, the ring on her finger. Permanent reminders of who she belongs to.

As she steps into the shower, water cascading over her body, an unwelcome thought intrudes: who else has seen her like this? Before me, before Iclaimed her. She was a virgin when I took her, I know that with certainty, but who else witnessed her beauty? Who else was granted the vision of her nakedness, even without touching?

The thought sends a surge of retroactive jealousy through me, so intense it's almost nauseating. I find myself gripping the edge of my desk, knuckles white with tension. Logically, I know her past is irrelevant. She belongs to me now, completely and irrevocably. But logic has little place in the typhoon of possessiveness that has become my constant state of being.

Perhaps I should ask her. Demand names, descriptions, locations. Hunt down anyone who ever looked at her with desire, who ever harbored thoughts of possessing what is now exclusively mine.

No. That would be giving too much power to phantoms, acknowledging that others might have some claim, however tenuous, on what belongs to me. Better to focus on ensuring no future gazes fall upon her. Better to keep her isolated, protected, preserved for my eyes alone.

Hannah finishes her shower, drying herself with the black towel I've selected for her—black, like the new sheets I purchased, to emphasize the paleness of her skin. She dresses in the clothes laid out forher: a simple dress in deep blue, underwear chosen to match. Everything in her life is curated, selected, approved by me. Everything except her thoughts, which still sometimes show resistance when she believes I'm not watching.

But I am always watching. Always.

She returns to the main room, checking the schedule displayed on the tablet mounted on the wall. Next: thirty minutes of exercise, followed by dinner, then reading time again. Her life runs with the predictability of clockwork, each activity, each moment, planned and monitored.

As she begins her exercise routine—simple yoga poses, designed to keep her limber without building too much strength—I study her face for signs of rebellion, for the subtle tells that indicate her mind is wandering to forbidden territories. There's a slight tension around her mouth, a distant look in her eyes that suggests she's mentally elsewhere even as her body performs the required movements.

This displeases me. Physical compliance is only the beginning, the foundation upon which total possession must be built. I need her mind present, engaged, focused on her role in my life rather than whatever internal landscape she retreats to when she thinks I'm not paying attention.

Perhaps it's time to increase the pressure, to tighten the boundaries of her existence until there's no room for mental escape. Reduce her reading time, perhaps. Or select her books more carefully, choosing material that reinforces her position rather than offering fictional escape. Require her to verbalize her thoughts at regular intervals throughout the day, to ensure she remains present in the reality I've created for her.

The intercom buzzes again. I ignore it, too absorbed in watching Hannah's movements, in planning the next phase of her conditioning. The buzzing continues, insistent, until I finally press the button with an irritated jab.

"What?" I demand.

"Sir," Vincent's voice carries poorly disguised concern, "there's an urgent matter requiring your immediate attention. The Milano representatives have contacted our competitors. They're threatening to take their business elsewhere if we don't meet with them today."

"Let them," I say, watching as Hannah transitions from one pose to another, her body graceful despite the emptiness in her eyes. "There are other clients, other deals."

A long pause, then: "Sir, with all due respect, this is the third major deal you've allowed tocollapse this month. The board is expressing concerns about your…focus."

The implication hangs in the air, unspoken but clear. My obsession with Hannah is affecting my business, my empire. Once, this would have alarmed me. Now it seems trivial, inconsequential compared to the importance of ensuring Hannah's complete submission, her total integration into my life.

"The board serves at my pleasure," I remind Vincent coolly. "Their concerns are noted and dismissed. Is there anything else?"

"No, sir," Vincent responds, resignation evident in his tone.

After he disconnects, I continue watching Hannah, now completing her exercise routine, preparing for dinner. Her movements are perfect, precise, exactly as I've instructed. But there's still that distance in her eyes, that mental separation that infuriates me, challenges me, drives me to find new ways to bind her to me.

A realization strikes me with the force of physical impact: I'm becoming consumed by this need to possess her completely. My business—built over decades, worth billions—now feels like an annoying distraction. My associates, once valued for their loyalty and competence, now register onlyas potential threats to my time with Hannah, my observation of her. My entire existence has narrowed to this single focus: making Hannah mine in every conceivable way.

The recognition should concern me. In lucid moments, I can acknowledge that this fixation has grown beyond what might be considered healthy or rational. But those moments are increasingly rare, increasingly brief. More often, I find myself surrendering to the obsession, embracing it, justifying it as the purest form of devotion.

After all, isn't this what love is supposed to be? All-consuming, overwhelming, powerful enough to reorder priorities, to reshape a life around the beloved? Others might call it madness, but they simply lack the capacity for feeling this deeply, this completely. Their judgment is irrelevant, their understanding limited by conventional morality and tepid emotions.

What I feel for Hannah transcends ordinary definitions. It's possession, yes, but possession elevated to its highest form—a total claiming of another being not just physically but spiritually. I don't merely want to own her body or control her actions; I want to be the center of her universe as she has become the center of mine. I want her thoughts to revolve around me, her dreams tofeature me, her every breath to be drawn with awareness of my ownership.

Is that madness? Perhaps. But if so, it's a madness I embrace, a madness that gives my existence meaning beyond the accumulation of power and wealth.

---