Page 9 of Bound to Him

I spit in his face.

The act is pure instinct, a last desperate attempt at defiance. For a frozen moment, everyone is still. Dante's expression doesn't change as he slowly wipes his cheek with a handkerchief produced from his pocket.

"I see," he says, and there's something new in his voice—not anger, but something worse. Something like satisfaction. "Marco, the sedative."

"No!" I renew my struggles, but it's futile. The man holding me tightens his grip while Marco produces a syringe from his jacket pocket. Terror spikes through me at the sight of the needle. "Please, don't?—"

"This is for your own good," Dante says, watching as Marco approaches with the syringe. "When you wake up, we'll be home."

Home.The word is an obscenity coming from his mouth. I've never hated a word so much.

The needle slides into my arm, a sharp sting followed by cold spreading under my skin. I try to focus on Dante's face, wanting to memorize everydetail of the man who's destroying me, but my vision begins to blur almost immediately.

"That's it," he says, his voice becoming distant. "Don't fight it, Hannah. This is just the beginning for us."

The last thing I'm aware of before darkness claims me is the sensation of being lifted again, more gently this time, and placed in the vehicle. Something soft beneath my head. The sound of a car door closing. And Dante's voice, close to my ear, though I can no longer make out the words.

Then nothing but black.

CHAPTER 5

Dante

Icarry her through the threshold myself. My men have offered, but this moment feels sacred—the first time Hannah enters what will be her home forever. She weighs almost nothing in my arms, her body limp from the sedative, her head resting against my chest. I can feel her heartbeat, steady and slow, through the thin fabric of her paint-stained shirt. Even unconscious, dirty from her struggle, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever possessed. And make no mistake. She is possessed, wholly and completely, from this moment forward.

The mansion is silent as I ascend the grand staircase. I've sent the staff away for the night. This transition should be private, unwitnessed by curious eyes. The only sounds are my footsteps on marble and Hannah's soft breathing. Her hair falls across my arm, silken strands catching the moonlight that streams through the high windows.

"Sir," Vincent says, appearing at the top of the stairs. "Everything is prepared as you requested."

I nod, not breaking stride. Vincent falls into step behind me, a respectful distance maintained. He knows better than to offer to help carry her, to suggest that I might tire of my burden. I would walk to the ends of the earth with Hannah in my arms, her weight a confirmation of her reality.

We reach the east wing, the section of the mansion I've spent months preparing. I stop before an ornate door, carved with patterns that match no other in the house.

"The key," I say quietly.

Vincent steps forward, producing a single gold key from his pocket. He unlocks the door, pushing it open and stepping aside. I enter, cradling Hannah closer as I cross this final boundary.

The room beyond is a masterpiece of luxury and security. I've spared no expense, overlooked no detail. The space is vast—a sitting area with plushcouches and a marble fireplace; a dining nook with a table for two; a bathroom visible through an open door, gleaming with marble and gold fixtures; and dominating it all, a massive four-poster bed draped in cream-colored silk.

The windows—tall, arched, and offering a spectacular view of the gardens—are made of bulletproof glass, reinforced with a steel framework invisible to the casual observer. The beautiful crown molding conceals state-of-the-art security sensors. The antique furniture has been selected not just for aesthetics but for weight—impossible to move without considerable effort.

Every inch of this space has been designed with a single purpose: for her.

All for her.

I carry Hannah to the bed, laying her down gently on top of the silk duvet. Her body sinks into the softness, her limbs arranged in the vulnerable sprawl of deep sedation. There's a streak of paint on her cheek—blue, the color of a morning sky—and I resist the urge to wipe it away. Let her wake with this last remnant of her former life still clinging to her skin. Soon enough, all traces of that existence will be washed away.

Vincent waits by the door, his eyes carefullyaverted from the bed. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"The surveillance system?"

"Active and recording. You can access the feeds from your office or personal devices."

"And the perimeter?"

"Double security tonight, as requested. No one approaches without immediate notification."

I nod, satisfied. "Leave us."

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