Page 8 of Bound to Him

"There are always other ways!" I shout, rage temporarily overwhelming fear. "You could have asked for help, gone to rehab, declared bankruptcy! Anything but this!"

"Time's up, Mr. Brightley."

I freeze at the new voice. The door has opened silently, revealing a tall man in an expensive suit. He's handsome in a severe way, with dark eyes that assess me with unsettling intensity. Behind him stand two broader men, clearly muscle rather than minds.

"Please," my father says, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Just a little longer."

The man's gaze doesn't leave me. "I think we've all waited long enough," he says, and something in his tone makes my skin crawl. He steps into the room, and I retreat until my back hits the wall. "Hello, Hannah."

The way he says my name—like he's savoring the taste of it—sends a wave of revulsion through me. "Who are you?" I demand, trying to sound brave despite the tremor in my voice.

"Dante Severino," he replies, as if I should recognize the name. When I don't react, a small smile touches his lips. "Your father hasn't told you about me. Interesting."

"Leave her alone," my father says, a last, pathetic attempt at protection.

Dante doesn't even acknowledge him. "We should go," he says to me, extending a hand as if expecting me to take it willingly. "Everything has been arranged."

I look at his hand, then at his face, then at myfather, who won't meet my eyes. "I'm not going anywhere with you," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

Something flickers across Dante's features—not anger, exactly, but a momentary frustration, quickly controlled. "I understand this is sudden," he says. "But I assure you, it's for the best. Your family will be safe. You will be safe."

"Safe?" I repeat, incredulous. "You're kidnapping me!"

"I prefer to think of it as an arrangement," he says, his voice hardening slightly. "One that benefits everyone involved."

"Not me," I say, desperation giving way to determination. "I won't go. You can't make me."

The smile that crosses his face then chills me to the bone. "I think you'll find I can make you do many things, Hannah," he says softly. "But we don't need to start our relationship with unpleasantness." He turns to one of the men behind him. "Marco."

Before I can react, the larger man pushes past my father and grabs me. His hands are rough, powerful, engulfing my arms in a grip that will leave bruises. I struggle instinctively, kicking, screaming, fighting with every ounce of strength I possess.

"Mom!" I scream, hoping she's somewhere inthe house, hoping someone will help me. "Tyler! Emma! Help!"

"They're not home," Dante says calmly, watching my struggle with detached interest. "I arranged for them to be elsewhere tonight. This is difficult enough without an audience, don't you think?"

The betrayal in his words hits harder than any physical blow. He planned this, all of it. The timing, the isolation, the ensuring my family wouldn't be here to witness my abduction.

The man called Marco lifts me easily, pinning my arms to my sides. I kick backward, connecting with his shin, but he doesn't even grunt. I'm nothing to him—a package to be delivered, not a person fighting for her life.

"Please," my father begs, reaching for Dante's sleeve. "Let me explain it to her properly. Give her time to understand."

Dante looks at my father's hand on his suit until it falls away. "Time changes nothing," he says. "And explanation is unnecessary. She'll understand soon enough."

"Dad!" I scream as Marco carries me toward the door. "Don't let them take me! Please!"

My father stands there, broken and powerless, watching as his daughter is carried away to pay forhis sins. The last image I have of him is his slumped shoulders, his hands covering his face, unable to bear witness to what he's allowed to happen.

In the hallway, I redouble my efforts, thrashing wildly, my heel connecting with something solid. A grunt of pain, a momentary loosening of the grip around me. I twist, nearly breaking free, only to be caught by the second man.

"Careful," Dante says sharply. "Don't hurt her."

The irony of his concern almost makes me laugh hysterically. Don't hurt me? He's destroying my life, my future, everything I've ever known or hoped for, but God forbid there's a bruise on my arm.

They carry me down the stairs, through the living room where I grew up, past the family photos on the wall that now seem like artifacts from another life. I'm still screaming, still fighting, but with diminishing returns. My strength is fading, adrenaline giving way to exhaustion.

Outside, a black SUV with tinted windows waits in our driveway. It looks sinister, predatory, a shark among the modest family sedans of our neighborhood. The men carry me toward it, my bare feet dragging across the concrete path I've walked a thousand times before.

As they reach the vehicle, Dante steps in front of me, his face close to mine. "This will be easier if you don't fight," he says quietly. "Fighting changes nothing except how comfortable this journey is for you."

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