Page 25 of In His Name

As he leaves, locking the door behind him—the partial opening now rescinded, the first privilege revoked—I sink to the floor, legs no longer able to support me. The momentary taste of freedom—the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, the possibility of escape so tantalizingly close—makes the return to captivity even more unbearable. Worse is the knowledge that Dante anticipated this, that he allowed the opportunity precisely to test my resolve, to measure my adaptation, to assess whether my compliance was genuine or performance.

And I failed. Failed in ways that will have consequences beyond additional restrictions. Failed in ways that will inform his approach to breaking me, to reshaping me according to his vision. The strategic compliance I've been attempting—the careful balance between survival and resistance—has been exposed as the deception it was, leaving me more vulnerable than before.

The scrape on my arm throbs, a minor pain that serves as a physical reminder of how close I came. Three more steps and I would have reached the trees. Three more steps and…what? Where would I have gone from there? How far could I have gotten, barefoot and alone, with no money, no identification, no resources? How long before Dante's men found me? Hours? Days at most?

The futility of my attempt crashes over me, not as revelation but as confirmation. Escape requires more than desperation anda stolen access card. It requires assistance, planning, resources I don't have access to.

I press my palms against my eyes, fighting back tears born not of sadness but of rage—at Dante, at this gilded prison, at my own vulnerability, at the world that continues to turn while I remain trapped in this nightmare. Crying solves nothing, changes nothing, only depletes energy I'll need for whatever comes next.

Because something will come next. Dante's calm reaction wasn't forgiveness; it was calculation. He's reassessing, redesigning his approach to my captivity based on what he learned today. The consequences won't be as simple as punishment. They'll be systemic, comprehensive, designed to eliminate even the possibility of future escape attempts.

I rise from the floor, moving to the bathroom to clean the scrape on my arm. In the mirror, my reflection stares back—wild-eyed, disheveled, marked with Dante's initials at my neck, the evidence of my status as property rather than person. The girl who once dreamed of art school, of creative expression, of a future built on passion and possibility, feels increasingly distant, increasingly unreal.

In her place is this new version of Hannah—calculating, desperate, clinging to whatever fragments of self can be preserved within the confines of captivity. Not broken, not yet, but bent by the constant pressure of Dante's obsession, his control, his relentless pursuit of complete possession.

Today's failed escape was my third attempt. The first earned me tattoos, permanent marks of ownership. The second wasn't even a full attempt—just information from Elena, the possibility of assistance—and it resulted in her death. What will this third transgression cost? What new horror will Dante devise to ensure I never try again?

I don't know. Can't know until tomorrow, when he returns to "discuss the specifics" of whatever adjustments he deems necessary. All I can do now is rest, as instructed, gather what strength remains, prepare for whatever comes next. Not with defiance—that luxury belongs to the girl I was before, the one who didn't understand the true nature of her captivity, the true depth of Dante's obsession. But with endurance, with the grim determination to survive not just physically but mentally, to preserve some essential core of self no matter what methods Dante employs to claim me completely.

The sun sets outside my window, darkness gradually claiming the room. No one comes to turn on the lights, to bring dinner, to check on my well-being. The isolation is deliberate, I know—the first taste of whatever new restrictions will define my existence going forward. But in the darkness, a tiny flame of resolve refuses to be extinguished completely. I failed today. I may fail again tomorrow, and the day after, and every day that follows. But as long as that flame burns, as long as some part of me continues to yearn for freedom despite the consequences, despite the seeming impossibility, Dante hasn't won completely.

It's a small comfort, inadequate against the reality of my situation, but it's all I have left. That, and the memory of sunlight on my face, of wind in my hair, of three steps that separated me from trees that might have hidden me, might have led me toward something beyond this beautiful prison and the man who claims to love me while treating me as less than human.

Three steps. So close. So impossibly far.

CHAPTER 12

Dante

Her attempt to escape burns inside me, a cold rage that requires careful management. The memory of her attempted escape still simmers in me—a cold, controlled rage. I kept it in check last night, choosing to express concern rather than anger, understanding rather than punishment. The impact of that choice will be far more effective than immediate violence. Hannah expects pain when she crosses the line. It's the pattern she's learned to anticipate. By withholding it, I’ve introduced something far more powerful: uncertainty. Twenty-four hours of silence, of waiting, of spiraling through possibilities has left her mentally frayed. Tonight, I’ll capitalize on that. I won’t just reclaim her body—I’ll claim her mind. Completely.

I review the surveillance footage from her suite. Hannah pacing restlessly. Barely touching her food. Flinching at every sound. She’s been torturing herself in my absence, imagining the worst. Exactly as planned. The fear she’s built up will maketonight’s correction all the more effective. This is her third attempt at freedom. It will be her last.

It would be easy to unleash my fury, to hurt her. Part of me craves it—something primal that wants to see my displeasure carved into her skin. But I've learned that pain alone isn't enough. The tattoos, the isolation, even the executions she’s been forced to witness—they haven’t erased that ember of defiance. No. Physical punishment is temporary. What I need is total mental submission. I need her to understand there is no Hannah without me. No separate identity. No escape. Only my possession.

Closing the feed, my decision solidifies. Tonight, I won’t just punish her—I’ll dismantle her. I’ll strip away whatever illusion of self she still clings to and rebuild her into something that belongs entirely to me.

I rise from my desk and prepare. A hot shower, my skin flushed and raw. The familiar scent of my cologne, carefully applied. Clothing chosen not for comfort but for the ease of removal—because tonight isn’t about pleasure, it’s about control. No alcohol, no distractions. I need absolute clarity when I face her. Precision in how I break her.

Marco is waiting outside my office when I emerge. He knows without asking what’s about to happen. “The surveillance?” I ask.

“In place, sir. Recording, but no active monitoring. Privacy mode engages once you enter.”

Good. No witnesses. No outside eyes. Tonight’s reclamation must be intimate—just her and me. Full control. No reprieve.

“And the room?”

“Prepared. Anything she could use against herself or you has been removed. The new schedule is ready for implementation tomorrow.”

I nod. After tonight, everything changes. Her routine. Her privileges. Her very concept of autonomy. When I reclaim her tonight, it will mark the beginning of her final conditioning.

We reach her door. The guard stationed there quickly averts his gaze, well-trained after witnessing the consequences of previous failures. Without a word, I dismiss him and Marco, ensuring complete privacy. This is between Hannah and me. It always has been.

I enter without knocking. Her space, like her body, exists only at my discretion. She’s by the window, hands clenched in her lap, her body taut with anticipation. She’s already dressed in the white nightgown I prefer, hair loose around her shoulders. She looks smaller tonight. Fragile. Exactly where I need her. The scrape on her arm from yesterday’s escape attempt has been treated—another reminder of her failure.

She turns at the sound of the door, immediately rising—another conditioned response. Good. But I still see it in her eyes. That flicker of defiance. That belief that she is something separate from me. That ends tonight.

“Dante,” she whispers, voice tight, gaze darting.

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