Page 28 of In His Name

“Just let me hold you.”

And she does.

CHAPTER 13

Hannah

My body doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It’s foreign, detached, like I’m inhabiting someone else’s skin. It’s been three days since Dante’s “reclaiming”—three days since he shattered something deep inside me. The bruises bloom like declarations of possession—his fingerprints imprinted on my wrists, my hips, my thighs. The hickeys circle my neck like a collar, marks of ownership that no amount of clothing can completely hide. Dante prefers me in open-necked shirts now—deliberately chosen to display his claim. I move through my days like a puppet, my strings controlled by hands I no longer have the strength to fight. The new rules he promised have been enforced—more surveillance, more restrictions, more isolation. Anything that could spark resistance has been systematically stripped away. Even my reflection feels alien now—a hollow-eyed girl staring back at me, someone I used to know but can barely remember.

The shower scalds my skin, but it’s not enough to wash away the filth clinging to my bones. I stand there, unmoving, hoping the heat might somehow cleanse me, might reconnect me to a body I’m beginning to abandon. Dissociation—it used to be my survival mechanism. Now, it’s becoming my permanent state. It’s easier not to feel, not to think, not to exist. But Dante noticed that too. The night he “reclaimed” me, he recognized my ability to mentally escape and tore it from me. He demanded my full presence—body, mind, and spirit. And without that protective wall of detachment, the violation cut even deeper. It was a different kind of breaking. One I’m not sure I’ll come back from.

I turn off the water, reach for a towel, my movements mechanical. The bathroom mirror reveals his latest work. The bruises, the bite marks, the fading hickeys, the fresh ones—each a deliberate reminder of his ownership. Some marks are beginning to heal, turning yellow-green. Others are fresh and angry, still tender to the touch. But the tattoos are the worst. Permanent marks that will never fade. His initials on my neck, his initials on my wrist, the tattooed ring around my finger—a twisted mockery of a wedding band. Constant reminders that I don’t belong to myself anymore.

I dress in the clothes he’s chosen for me. Today it’s a soft blue top with a wide neckline that puts his marks on display. Loose, comfortable pants. No shoes. Everything carefully curated to give the illusion of a woman comfortable in her own home rather than a captive in her own prison. This facade of domesticity pleases him—allows him to frame my captivity as devotion. As love.

As I brush my hair—long now, because he likes it that way—I search for the part of me that still fights. The part of me that still believes there’s a way out. But it’s getting harder to find her. The constant physical and psychological violation has worn her down. Every day, a little more of Hannah Brightley slipsaway, replaced by someone else. Someone hollow. Someone compliant. Someone who survives by becoming exactly what Dante wants her to be.

The door opens without warning. It never does. Dante steps inside, pristine as always in a tailored suit despite the early hour. His gaze sweeps over me, taking inventory of his canvas. His expression tightens slightly when he notices the fading marks. Displeasure. I brace myself.

“Good morning, Hannah,” he says, his voice smooth, affectionate—like a husband greeting his wife.

“Good morning,” I respond automatically, the words hollow. Compliance prevents punishment.

He crosses the room, his fingers finding my neck, pressing against the bruises with a touch too deliberate to be accidental. “These are fading,” he remarks. His thumb pushes into a particularly tender spot, and I flinch. His smile sharpens. “We’ll need to fix that.”

It’s not a request. It never is.

My body tenses despite my best efforts to appear relaxed. Dante notices—he always notices. His grip tightens on my neck, his thumb stroking my jaw like a mockery of tenderness. “Still resisting,” he muses, as if fascinated by my endurance. “Even after everything. Interesting.”

I say nothing. Words are dangerous. Silence is safer.

“On the bed,” he says, quiet but firm. No room for defiance. “Now.”

I obey. I always do. My feet carry me to the bed—once a place of rest, now the primary site of my violation. I lay down as instructed, hands at my sides, eyes fixed on the ceiling. My body already preparing to detach from what’s about to happen. But then I remember—he won’t allow that anymore. Dissociation is defiance. Absence is rebellion. He’ll make me stay.

Dante watches me as he removes his suit jacket, folds it neatly, sets it aside. He loosens his tie but doesn’t take it off. Unbuttons the top of his shirt but leaves the rest untouched. This ritualistic partial undressing is calculated—maintaining the illusion of civility while committing the most uncivil acts.

He joins me on the bed, his weight sinking the mattress, pulling my body toward his. His hand returns to my neck, fingers pressing into the bruises again. Testing. “These marks are important,” he says, like he’s educating me. “They remind you who you belong to. They tell others not to touch what is mine.” His thumb digs deeper, drawing a whimper from my throat. He smiles. “They remind you not to forget.”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say.

“Stay present, Hannah,” he warns, catching the distant look in my eyes. His grip tightens, bringing me back. “No more hiding in your head. You’ll feel everything.”

Terror slithers down my spine. The detachment that once protected me has been stripped away, leaving me utterly exposed to the horror of my reality. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I force them down. Crying only excites him.

Dante leans down, his mouth finding my neck. His teeth scrape over my skin before he bites hard—hard enough to bruise but not break the skin. A claiming bite. My body jerks involuntarily, but I don’t resist. Resistance has consequences. I’ve learned that lesson too many times.

He works methodically, placing new marks across my throat, my collarbones—strategically ensuring there’s always something fresh, something visible. The pain is sharp, humiliating, intimate. He whispers against my skin as he works. “Mine. Only mine. Forever mine.”

I lie there, silent and still, enduring. It’s all I can do. My fingers clutch the sheets, the only outlet for my agony. Inside,I feel something unraveling—another piece of Hannah Brightley dying. Another piece of his possession growing stronger.

When he’s satisfied, he sits back, admiring his work like an artist admiring a freshly painted canvas. His fingers ghost over the bruises, pressing just hard enough to make me wince. He smiles, pleased. “Much better.”

I swallow my nausea. “Thank you,” I say, because that’s what he expects. Gratitude for violation. Appreciation for degradation. Submission as survival.

Dante beams at my response, his possessiveness dark and suffocating. He captures my mouth in a kiss—more of a stamp of ownership than affection. I endure it, like I endure everything else. Because the alternative is worse.

And with each passing day, what remains of Hannah Brightley slips further away.

---