Page 24 of In His Name

I run for the trees, freedom so close I can taste it, can feel it in the wind against my face, in the sun warm on my skin. Ten steps to the treeline. Five. Three.

"Hannah."

One word. Just my name, spoken in that voice I've come to fear above all others. I freeze, my body responding toits conditioning before my mind can even process what's happening. Dante stands at the edge of the service yard, Marco and two other guards beside him. His expression is calm, almost sad, betraying none of the rage I expected, the fury I've witnessed before.

"Come here," he says, his voice still gentle, still controlled.

My legs tremble, urge me to run, to complete the journey to the trees just steps away. But my body knows the futility of that choice, understands on a cellular level that there is no escape from Dante Severino, not without resources, planning, assistance I don't have. Running now would only increase the punishment, would only add the sin of defiance to the transgression of attempted escape.

I turn back, arms wrapped around myself, suddenly aware of how I must appear—barefoot, wild-eyed, the sleeve of my dress torn where the gate scraped me, blood trickling down my arm. Dante's possession, attempting to flee. Dante's wife, betraying the trust he thought he'd built.

As I walk toward him, each step heavier than the last, I wait for the explosion, for the violence I know must come. But Dante remains calm, watching my approach with that same sad expression, as if my escape attempt has disappointed rather than enraged him.

"Give Marco the access card," he instructs when I reach them.

I remove the plastic rectangle from my pocket, handing it to Marco without meeting his eyes. Shame washes through me, not for trying to escape—never for that—but for failing, for the consequences this failure will bring, for whatever suffering Dante will inflict as punishment.

"Are you hurt?" Dante asks, taking my arm, examining the scrape with what appears to be genuine concern.

"No," I whisper, confused by this reaction, this unexpected gentleness.

"Good," he says, his hand sliding from my arm to the small of my back—that familiar, possessive touch that guides me back toward the mansion, back toward captivity. "I'm not angry, Hannah."

The words shock me more than rage would have. I look up at him, searching his face for signs of deception, for the fury I know must simmer beneath this calm exterior.

"You're not?" I ask, hating the tremor in my voice but unable to suppress it.

"No," he says, his pace unhurried as we walk back through the service yard, through the kitchen where the staff now stand at attention, eyes carefully averted, through the stairwell and back into the main house. "This wasn't your fault."

We reach my suite, the door still partially open as I left it in my desperate flight. Dante guides me inside, dismissing the guards with a gesture. When we're alone, he turns me to face him, his hands gentle on my shoulders.

"It wasn't your fault," he repeats, his dark eyes capturing mine, holding them. "It was an opportunity. A test. One I knew you might fail, given your…history."

Understanding dawns, cold and horrifying. "You…you left the card for me to find?"

He smiles, the expression not reaching his eyes. "Not exactly. But I was aware of the maintenance work, aware of the potential security lapse it represented. I could have suspended your door privileges during the repairs. I could have doubled your guard. I chose not to."

"Why?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer, already feel the trap closing more tightly around me.

"To see if you were ready," he says simply. "To determine whether your recent compliance was genuine or merely performance."

The word strikes like a physical blow—performance. My strategy of strategic compliance laid bare as the deception it was. Dante knew. Perhaps not the specifics, but he sensed the calculation behind my changed behavior, suspected it wasn't true surrender.

"And now I know," he continues, his thumb brushing my cheek in a gesture that might appear tender to an observer but carries unmistakable possession. "You're not ready yet. You still harbor these…impulses toward freedom, these delusions of escape."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words empty, automatic, a reflex developed through months of conditioning.

"Don't be," he says, surprising me again. "As I said, it's not your fault. You can't help your nature, your instincts. It's my responsibility to help you overcome them, to guide you toward acceptance."

The calm reasonableness of his tone terrifies me more than shouting would have, more than immediate punishment. This calculated response suggests planning, suggests consequences more carefully designed, more psychologically precise than mere physical retribution.

"What happens now?" I dare to ask, my voice small.

Dante's smile deepens, still not touching his eyes. "Now we adjust our approach. Now we recognize that you require additional support in your journey toward acceptance." His hand slides from my cheek to my neck, fingers resting lightly over his tattooed initials. "Now we ensure that the next time an opportunity presents itself, you make the right choice."

The implications hang in the air between us—new restrictions, new surveillance, new methods of control designedto extinguish even the instinct toward freedom. Not punishment for this specific transgression, but a comprehensive redesign of my captivity to prevent future attempts.

"Rest now," he says, releasing me with a final caress that feels more like a brand than an affection. "We'll discuss the specifics tomorrow, after you've had time to reflect on today's…learning experience."

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