Page 10 of In His Name

Fear creeps into her eyes now—real fear, the understanding that consequences are coming that can't be avoided or endured through simple stoicism. Good. Fear is honest. Fear is respect in its most primal form.

"What are you going to do?" she asks, her voice steady despite the fear.

"I'm going to ensure you never forget who you belong to," I reply, moving to my desk, pressing the intercom. "Marco, bring in Anton. And the restraint chair from the lower level."

Hannah's face pales at the mention of the tattoo artist. "Please," she says, the first hint of begging entering her voice. "Not more tattoos. I've learned my lesson. I won't try to leave again."

"Of course you won't," I agree, returning to stand before her. "Because after tonight, you'll carry permanent reminders of exactly what happens when you attempt to escape me."

Marco returns with two guards, wheeling in a chair that resembles something from a medical facility but with thick leather straps attached to the arms, legs, and headrest. Hannah stares at it, genuine terror now replacing the mixture of defiance and fear from earlier.

"Secure her," I instruct.

The guards move efficiently, cutting the zip ties only to immediately force Hannah into the chair, strapping down her arms, legs, even her head, rendering her completely immobile. She struggles initially, but the futility of resistance becomes quickly apparent.

Anton enters next, his familiar black case in hand, his expression professionally blank as always. He assesses the situation without comment, awaiting instructions.

"Hannah requires additional markings," I explain, watching her face as I detail what I want. "My initials on her wrist—theleft one, where the tracking bracelet sits. A reminder that she is monitored, tracked, owned."

Anton nods, beginning to set up his equipment beside the chair.

"And here," I continue, touching the side of her neck, just below her ear, a location visible even with most clothing. “My name. Small enough to be mistaken for an ornate design from a distance, but clear upon closer inspection."

Tears form in Hannah's eyes now, spilling over to track down her temples, into her hair. "Please don't," she whispers. "Please, Dante. Not where everyone can see."

It's the use of my name, the direct plea, that momentarily softens something in me. Not enough to change course, but enough to make a small concession. "The neck marking will be my initials only, not my full name,” I decide. "Still visible, still a clear sign to anyone who sees you, but perhaps less…explicit than originally planned."

Relief flickers across her features, followed immediately by renewed dread as Anton prepares the tattoo machine, the buzzing filling the room.

"Hold her arm steady," I instruct one of the guards, though the restraints already do this job effectively. It's the psychological impact of additional hands forcing her compliance that I'm after.

Anton begins his work on her wrist, the needle biting into her skin. Hannah gasps, her body tensing against the restraints, but she can't move away, can't escape the permanent marking being etched into her flesh.

"This pain is temporary," I tell her, stroking her hair in a gesture that might appear tender to an observer but carries its own message of control. "The lesson, however, is permanent. Every time you look at your wrist, every time you feel thebracelet against these marks, you'll remember this night. You'll remember what happens when you try to leave me."

Anton works methodically, his hand steady as he creates the intricate design of my initials—D.S.—intertwined in an elaborate script that will be both beautiful and unmistakable. Hannah's tears continue to fall, but she's gone silent, retreated into herself in a way I recognize from earlier in her captivity. A defense mechanism, a mental escape when physical escape is impossible.

"Stay present," I command, gripping her chin, forcing her to look at me. "This is happening to you, Hannah. Here and now. Don't hide from it. Experience it fully, learn from it, incorporate it into your understanding of our relationship."

Her eyes focus on mine, hatred burning through the tears. Though it tears at me, I tell myself that she can only hate me if she feels something for me. Hatred is engaged, present, connected. Hatred can be transformed over time—into fear, into respect, eventually into…something I’ve only ever dared dream of. It's the disconnection, the mental absence, that threatens my ultimate goal of possessing not just her body but her mind.

When the wrist tattoo is complete, Anton moves to her neck, positioning the machine at the sensitive skin below her ear. This marking will be smaller but more visible, impossible to hide without high-necked clothing or specifically placed jewelry, neither of which I intend to provide.

"Remember," I tell her as the needle touches her neck, "this could have been worse. Your defiance merited more severe consequences. Consider this mercy, Hannah. Consider what it means that even in my anger, I limit the punishment because of my concern for you."

A twisted logic, perhaps, but one I believe in my own way. I could hurt her so much more severely, could mark her in ways far more degrading or painful. That I choose not to is, in mymind, evidence of the unique position she holds in my life—not just possession but prized possession, something valued enough to be preserved even while being punished.

The neck tattoo takes less time, the design simpler though no less meaningful. When Anton finishes, he cleans both areas, applies clear protective bandages, and begins packing his equipment without comment or question. He's seen enough in his service to my family to know better than to show reaction or curiosity.

"Excellent work as always, Anton," I say, dismissing him with a nod. "Marco will see to your payment."

After he leaves, I instruct the guards to release Hannah from the chair. She's stopped crying, her expression now blank, shock replacing the earlier emotions. Her body sags once the restraints are removed, and I catch her before she can fall, lifting her easily into my arms.

"Take her to my chambers," I tell Marco. "Not her suite. Tonight, she stays where I can monitor her directly."

In my bedroom, I lay her gently on the black silk sheets, her pale skin and the white bandages covering her new tattoos standing out starkly against the dark fabric. She's still conscious but distant, her mind processing the trauma of the night, the reality of these new, permanent markings.

I sit beside her, stroking her hair in that same possessive gesture. "This was necessary, Hannah," I tell her, my voice soft now, the rage having burned itself out, replaced by the calmer satisfaction of consequences delivered. "Not just as punishment, but as education. You needed to understand that there is no escape, that every attempt will only bind you more tightly to me through additional markings, additional restrictions, additional consequences."

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