Page 12 of In His Name

Her back arches beneath me, and I know she's close. I slide my hand between us, circling her clit with my thumb.

"Come for me," I demand. "Show me who you really belong to."

The war in her eyes intensifies, but her body knows the truth. It surrenders to me completely as she shatters, my name a broken sob on her lips. I follow her over the edge, emptying myself inside her with a primal groan.

In this moment, as our bodies pulse together, there are no more lies between us. No more pretense. Just the undeniable truth that she is mine.

And I will destroy anyone who tries to take her from me.

Whatever it takes. Whatever methods necessary. She is mine, and tonight's attempt to escape has only strengthened my resolve to ensure she never questions that fact again.

CHAPTER 6

Hannah

The tattoos throb like separate heartbeats—one at my wrist, one at my neck—each pulse a reminder of failure, of punishment, of ownership written permanently into my skin. Dante's initials, marking me as branded livestock. I lie still in his bed, the black silk sheets a dark pool around my body, watching dawn illuminate the unfamiliar ceiling. I never sleep in Dante's chambers—he comes to mine, claims me there, then leaves me to the solitude that has become my only refuge. But last night changed everything. The failed escape, the forced tattooing, and now this new humiliation: being kept here like a misbehaving pet who can't be trusted alone. The old Hannah—the girl who existed before Dante—would have raged, fought, maintained defiance even in defeat. That girl feels increasingly distant, a fading memory I struggle to keep alive. In her place is someone I barely recognize, someone who calculates risks against rewards, who measures suffering against survival, whoknows the price of resistance is always paid in flesh and blood and dignity.

I hear the shower running in the adjoining bathroom, Dante preparing for his day. My body tenses involuntarily at the sound—a conditioned response to his proximity that I can't control anymore. My wrist throbs more intensely as muscles tighten, the fresh tattoo protesting even this small movement. I force myself to breathe deeply, to relax muscles that want to remain rigid with fear and anticipation.

The shower stops. I close my eyes, pretending sleep, though I know he won't be fooled. Dante has learned to read my breathing patterns, my subtle physical tells. He studies me with the obsessive attention of a scientist observing a rare specimen—cataloging reactions, mapping responses, building a comprehensive understanding of the creature he's captured.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam that carries his scent—expensive soap, cologne, the underlying maleness that my body has been trained to respond to with fear, with anticipation, with a confused mixture of dread and arousal that disgusts me even as I can't deny its existence.

His footsteps approach the bed, stopping beside me. I can feel his presence, the weight of his gaze. "I know you're awake, Hannah," he says, his voice that particular morning timbre—slightly rougher than usual, intimate in its unguarded quality. "Open your eyes."

I obey because resistance over such a small thing is pointless, saving my strength for battles that matter. He stands beside the bed, a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets glistening on his chest. His hair is damp, slicked back from his forehead, making his features appear more severe, more predatory.

"How are the tattoos?" he asks, reaching down to brush his fingers over the bandage at my neck. I flinch despite myself,the area tender and raw. "Painful, I imagine. Necessary, but painful."

"Yes," I say simply, neither agreeing with the necessity nor complaining about the pain. Neutral responses have become my default, my armor.

He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The towel parts slightly, revealing a glimpse of thigh. My stomach tightens, recognizing the signs of what's to come. Dante rarely misses an opportunity to assert his ownership physically, and after last night's escape attempt, that need will be heightened, his claiming more intense.

"Last night was disappointing," he says, confirming my fears. "I thought we'd moved beyond such childish attempts at escape. I thought you were beginning to understand your place in my life."

"I'm sorry," I say mechanically, the words empty but necessary. What else can I say? That I'd do it again given the chance? That I'll never stop wanting freedom? These truths would only invite more punishment, more pain, more permanent markers of ownership.

"No, you're not," he counters, seeing through the thin veneer of submission. "You're sorry you were caught. You're sorry you failed. But you're not sorry for the attempt itself." His hand moves to my hair, stroking it with deceptive gentleness. "That's why the punishment had to be severe, Hannah. That's why there must be consequences for your continued resistance."

I say nothing, knowing any response will be inadequate or dangerous. His hand continues its movement, from my hair down to my cheek, thumb brushing over my lower lip in a gesture that signals his intentions more clearly than words.

"Do you know what I thought about when I received that alert?" he asks, his voice dropping lower. "When I realized you had tried to leave me? Not anger, not initially. Fear, Hannah.Fear that someone might see you, might want you, might hurt you.”

His hand drifts lower, to my neck, resting over my pulse point, feeling the acceleration there as anxiety builds in me. "The thought of another man even looking at you drives me to madness," he continues. "The thought of another man touching you, tasting you, claiming what I've claimed…it's unbearable."

The possessiveness in his voice sends a chill through me despite the warmth of his skin against mine. This isn't new—Dante has always been obsessive about being the only man in my life, the only one to touch me, to know me intimately. But the intensity has increased since my attempted escape, as if the very possibility of freedom has heightened his need to reinforce his exclusive claim.

"No one else has ever touched me," I remind him, hoping to defuse the dangerous direction of his thoughts. "You know that. You were my first. My only."

Something flashes in his eyes—satisfaction, triumph, hunger. "Yes," he agrees, his hand sliding lower, pushing aside the sheet that covers me. "Mine. Only mine. Always mine."

He stands abruptly, the towel dropping away, his arousal evident. I close my eyes briefly, steeling myself for what's coming. When I open them again, he's looming over me, moving onto the bed, his body covering mine with practiced dominance.

"Look at me," he commands, one hand gripping my chin, forcing my gaze to his. "I want you to see who's claiming you. I want you to remember that no one else will ever know you this way. No one else will ever possess what I possess."

His mouth crashes down on mine, the kiss bruising in its intensity. There's no tenderness, no seduction—just raw possession, a physical manifestation of his determination to own every part of me. His hands are everywhere, gripping hard enough to leave marks, his touch brutal rather than sensual.

I don't fight him—resistance would only intensify his rage, his need to dominate completely. Instead, I employ the strategy I've developed over months of captivity: mental separation. While my body remains present, responding as it must to avoid increased violence, my mind retreats to safer territories.

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