Page 22 of In His Name

Dante has effectively isolated me not just physically but temporally—cutting me off from my past as completely as from the outside world. And with each passing day, with each new trauma, with each adaptation to my captivity, the divide grows wider, the gulf between who I was and who I am becoming more difficult to bridge.

The evidence surrounds me, undeniable and terrifying. My body bears his marks—tattoos, scars, the muscle memory of submission. My speech patterns have shifted to accommodate his expectations, my vocabulary carefully censored to avoid triggering his rage. My daily routines revolve entirely around his preferences, his schedule, his whims. Even my thoughts increasingly arrange themselves around the central fact of his ownership, analyzing each situation for danger, for opportunity, for survival strategies.

I rise from the bed, moving to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. In the mirror, I confront the physical reality of my transformation. The girl who stares back at me is recognizable but changed—thinner, paler, with shadows beneath her eyes that never quite disappear. Her hair is styled as Dante prefers, her face bare of makeup until he decides otherwise. At her neck, the tattoo of his initials stands out starkly against her skin, a permanent declaration of ownership.

I remember the way his cock felt inside me in the limo, and I feel wetness dampen my thighs.

Dammit, I hate how my body responds to him.

The intercom buzzes, interrupting my thoughts. "Mrs. Severino, Mr. Severino will join you for lunch in fifteen minutes. Please dress appropriately and be ready to receive him."

The formal announcement, delivered by a staff member who knows better than to address me directly or personally, is another reminder of my position in this household. I move to the closet, selecting a simple dress in the sage green Dante has mentioned preferring. The neckline is modest but low enough to display his mark. The fabric soft, feminine, exactly the image he wants to project.

I dress carefully, brushing my hair into the style he approves of, pinning it partially up to keep my neck and its tattoo visible. No makeup—he hasn't sent anyone to apply it, which means he wants me natural today. These calculations have become automatic, a constant assessment of his preferences, his moods, his unstated expectations.

When Dante arrives precisely on schedule, I'm seated at the small table by the window where we sometimes take meals together. My posture is straight but not rigid, my hands folded loosely in my lap—the perfect picture of anticipatory waiting, of a woman eager for her husband's arrival rather than a prisoner dreading her captor's appearance.

"Hannah," he greets me, crossing to kiss my forehead before taking his seat across from me. "You look lovely today. That color suits you."

"Thank you," I reply, offering a small smile that doesn't feel entirely forced. This is the beginning of my new strategy—not just going through the motions of compliance but finding ways to make the performance convincing, sustainable. "Did you sleep well?"

The question is a calculated risk—initiating conversation rather than simply responding. But it's carefully chosen: innocuous, focused on his well-being, the kind of thing a caring wife might ask. His reaction will tell me much about how to initiate future interactions.

Surprise flickers briefly across his features before pleasure replaces it. "Very well, thank you. Last night's event was a success by every measure. You performed beautifully."

"I'm glad," I say, maintaining eye contact for just long enough to suggest engagement before lowering my gaze appropriately. "I was…nervous about meeting so many new people."

This is true, though not for the reasons he might assume. My nervousness stemmed from fear of making mistakes that would result in punishment, not social anxiety. But the admission creates an impression of vulnerability, of trust, that feeds his sense of protective ownership.

"You had no reason to be," he assures me, his hand reaching across the table to cover mine in a gesture that appears affectionate but carries unmistakable possession. "Everyone was impressed by you—your beauty, your grace, your appropriate behavior. Francesco Castellano's wife particularly commented on your elegant restraint."

Elegant restraint.A pretty phrase for carefully controlled fear, for performance under threat of violence. I nod, accepting the compliment as intended. "Will there be other events like it?"

"Yes," Dante confirms as staff enter with our lunch—his timing orchestrated to create these moments of uninterrupted private conversation followed by the business of dining. "Now that you've been properly introduced to society, there will be other appearances. Carefully selected, of course, and always with me at your side."

Of course. The caveat needn't be stated—I will never be allowed out alone, never permitted unsupervised interaction with the outside world. But rather than focus on this limitation, I adopt an expression of mild interest. "I would like that," I say, the lie coming more easily than expected.

Dante studies me as the staff arrange our meals, his dark eyes searching for deception, for the cracks in my performance. Finding none—I've become adept at controlling my micro-expressions, at projecting what he wants to see—he smiles, satisfaction evident in the relaxation of his shoulders, the softening around his eyes.

"I'm pleased to hear it," he says when we're alone again.

The approval in his voice sends a confusing mixture of revulsion and relief through me. Revulsion at needing his approval at all, relief that the strategy appears to be working. I take a small bite of the salad before me.

The lunch continues, our conversation flowing more naturally than in months past. I ask appropriate questions about his business (carefully vague, nothing that could be interpreted as seeking sensitive information), express interest in the charity the gala supported, even offer opinions on the food we're eating. Small, safe topics that create an impression of engagement without challenging his authority or control.

By the time he leaves, Dante's satisfaction is evident in every line of his body, in the possessive kiss he places on my lips, in the promise to return for dinner with "a surprise." I maintain the performance until the door closes behind him, until the sound of his footsteps fades down the corridor.

Only then do I allow my shoulders to slump slightly, my face to reveal the conflict beneath the careful mask. This path I've chosen—strategic compliance, selective adaptation—feels dangerously close to true surrender. The line between pretending to accept my captivity and actually accepting it seems thinner each day, each performance making the next more convincing, more natural.

But what alternative exists? Continued resistance leads only to more trauma, more punishment, more deaths on my conscience. At least this way, I might find moments of peace,might reduce the suffering of those around me, might preserve some small part of myself in the prison Dante has built.

It's not freedom. It's not even hope. But it's survival—and more importantly, it keeps me from losing my entire soul, no matter what marks are written on my skin or what role I play in public. As long as I remember that the performance is just that—an act—perhaps I can endure whatever comes next.

Perhaps I can find a way to live within Dante's madness without becoming mad myself.

CHAPTER 11

Hannah

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