Page 13 of In His Name

I think of the ocean—a place I visited once on a family vacation, the endless blue stretching to the horizon, waves rhythmic and soothing. I focus on the memory of salt air, of sand between my toes, of the peculiar weightlessness of floating in water too deep to stand in. The technique isn't perfect; sensations from the present still intrude—pain as Dante bites my shoulder, discomfort as his weight presses me into the mattress, the involuntary physical responses he's conditioned my body to produce regardless of my mental resistance.

"You're drifting," Dante growls, noticing my partial absence. His hand strikes my face—not hard enough to leave a mark but enough to shock me back to full awareness. "Stay present. Feel this. Know who's inside you, who owns you."

I focus on his face, as commanded, but maintain the ocean in the periphery of my consciousness—a lifeline, a reminder that there was a world before this, a self before this, a reality beyond the boundaries of Dante's obsession.

His pace increases, punishing rather than pleasurable, each thrust an emphatic statement of ownership. "Say it," he demands, his breathing harsh against my ear. "Say who you belong to."

"You," I whisper, the word extracted by necessity rather than truth. "I belong to you, Dante."

The use of his name—a calculated risk—pays off. His expression softens fractionally, the violence of his movements slightly tempering. He likes it when I speak his name during these moments, interprets it as acceptance, as intimacy,as something more than the forced submission it actually represents.

And then…oh god. I close my eyes tightly as my pussy clamps down hard with the force of the orgasm that rocks through me.

"Yes," he hisses, his rhythm growing erratic as he approaches climax. "Mine. Always mine. The only man who will ever have you this way."

When he finishes, collapsing against me momentarily before rolling to the side, I feel the familiar mixture of relief and revulsion. Relief that it's over, at least for now. Revulsion at my body's betrayal, at the physical responses I couldn't control, at the seed of him inside me that makes the claiming more complete, more invasive.

Dante strokes my hair, a deceptively tender gesture after the violence of his possession. "You understand now, don't you?" he asks, his voice gentler but still threaded with steel. "Why trying to escape is futile? Why I can never let you go?"

I nod, not trusting my voice, knowing any words might reveal the truth he doesn't want to hear—that understanding the futility of escape doesn't equal acceptance, that recognizing the reality of my captivity doesn't mean surrendering to it completely.

"Good girl," he murmurs, kissing my forehead in that paternalistic way that makes my skin crawl. "The tattoos will heal. The memory of last night will fade. But the lesson remains: you are mine, Hannah. Bound to me in ways that can never be undone."

He rises from the bed, moving back to the bathroom to dress for the day. I remain motionless, feeling the evidence of his possession trickling between my thighs, the tattoos throbbing with renewed intensity after the exertion. Each heartbeat sends pain radiating from these newest marks of ownership—physicaldiscomfort mirroring the emotional anguish of having another layer of self stripped away.

When he returns, fully dressed in his usual impeccable suit, he looks down at me with an expression that might be mistaken for tenderness by someone who didn't know better. "You'll remain here today," he informs me. "Under direct observation. Your suite is being…reevaluated for security purposes."

Which means they're finding and sealing every possible exit, every potential escape route, ensuring that last night's attempt can never be repeated. The knowledge settles heavily in my chest—another door closing, another path blocked, another possibility eliminated.

"Marco will bring you appropriate clothing and meals," Dante continues. "You are not to leave this room for any reason. The bathroom, of course, is available to you, but the door remains open at all times."

No privacy, not even for the most basic bodily functions. Another humanity stripped away, another boundary erased. I nod my understanding, saving my strength, conserving my dignity for battles that matter more than this small humiliation.

Dante checks his watch—a gesture so normal, so mundane in the context of everything else that it almost seems absurd. "I have meetings until this evening. When I return, we'll discuss the additional changes to your arrangements going forward. The privileges you've lost, the increased security measures, the new expectations."

He bends to kiss me one more time, his lips lingering as if reluctant to break contact. "Remember this morning," he says against my mouth. "Remember who you belong to. Remember that no one else will ever touch you, ever know you, ever possess you as I do."

After he leaves, locking the door behind him, I curl onto my side, pulling the sheets around my naked body like armor,though I know they provide no real protection. The ocean memory has receded, leaving me stranded in the harsh reality of my situation. The tattoos throb—D.S. on my wrist, D.S. on my neck—permanent declarations of ownership that I'll carry forever, even if by some miracle I ever escape this gilded prison.

And that's the cruelest realization of all: even if I somehow managed to get away, I would never truly be free of Dante. His marks are on my skin, his claiming is written in my flesh, his possession has altered me in ways that can never be undone. Freedom, if it ever came, would be partial at best—a life spent looking over my shoulder, covering his initials with makeup or clothing, explaining away the evidence of ownership to anyone who got close enough to see.

Perhaps that's the true purpose of the tattoos, beyond punishment, beyond ownership. They're a reminder that escape, even if achieved, would never be complete. Dante has ensured that he will always be with me, always be part of me, always have some claim to the person I am and the person I might become.

The thought brings not tears—those dried up long ago—but a hollow acceptance that settles in my chest like a stone. This is my reality now. This is my life. And the sooner I truly accept that, the sooner I might find some way to survive within it that doesn't shatter what remains of my soul.

CHAPTER 7

Dante

Iwatch her on the monitors, a habit that has become as essential as breathing. Two weeks have passed since her escape attempt, since the new tattoos, since the reinforcement of boundaries both physical and psychological. Hannah moves differently now—more carefully, more consciously, as if constantly aware of being observed. Good. Awareness of surveillance is the first step toward internalizing it, toward self-regulation that eliminates the need for external control. The cameras follow her as she moves through her suite, which has been modified extensively—furniture bolted to the floors, vents sealed with welded grates, the bathroom door removed entirely, every potential weapon or tool eliminated. She has been relocated from my personal chambers back to her own space, though the security has tripled. Three guards rotate shifts outside her door, and another monitors the surveillance feeds at all times. Excessive, perhaps, but her attempt shook memore deeply than I care to admit, revealed vulnerabilities in my systems, in my understanding of her, that cannot be tolerated.

She sits at the window seat, a book open on her lap, though she hasn't turned a page in several minutes. The sunlight catches on the still-healing tattoo at her neck, the dark initials stark against her pale skin. My mark, visible to anyone who looks at her, a constant reminder of who she belongs to. The thought sends satisfaction through me—possessive, complete, absolute.

Movement on another camera feed catches my attention. The guard rotation is happening—Rivera being replaced by Thompson for the midday shift. The standard procedure is a silent handoff, with the arriving guard reviewing the log of activities before taking position. The departing guard should leave immediately, with no interaction with Hannah unless specifically required for security purposes.

Today, something changes. Thompson says something to Rivera, gesturing toward Hannah's door. Rivera nods, producing a key from his pocket. They enter her suite together—a breach of protocol that immediately sets alarm bells ringing in my mind. Guards should never enter her space together, should never deviate from established procedures without direct orders from me or Marco.

I turn up the audio feed, tension building in my chest as I watch them approach Hannah, who has risen from the window seat, her expression cautious, uncertain.

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