Page 31 of In His Name

But that was before the last escape attempt. Before the access card and the brief, terrible taste of almost-freedom. Before Dante's "reclaiming"—that night of forced presence, of commanded consciousness, when he broke something fundamental inside me. Before he killed the guard who showed me basic human kindness, before he executed the young man at the dinner party for looking at me with appreciation.

Before I fully understood the cost of resistance.

The turning point came three nights ago. A simple moment, unremarkable except for the shift it represented. I was reading in bed—one of the approved books from Dante's carefully curated selection. My hand rested on the page, and I realized I'd forgotten to tuck the tattooed finger away, forgotten to hide the mark of ownership. More surprising: I didn't immediately correct this oversight. I simply stared at my hand, at the black circle burned into my skin, and felt…nothing.

No rage. No despair. No desperate urge to conceal it.

Just emptiness. Acceptance. Surrender.

Why fight what cannot be changed? Why pretend this mark isn't permanent, that Dante's claim could ever be escaped? The ring will remain whether I acknowledge it or not. The only thing I control is how much energy I waste on pointless rebellion.

My finger throbs sometimes with phantom pain, especially when I think about the tattoo too much. There's a weight to it, invisible but present, like the real wedding band it simulates. I feel it when I turn pages, when I eat, when I brush my hair. A constant reminder, a permanent presence, just like Dante himself.

The door opens—it always does, without warning, reinforcing that nothing here is truly mine, not even privacy. Dante enters, immaculate as always in a charcoal suit, his dark eyes immediately finding me by the window.

"Good morning," he says, crossing to where I sit, bending to kiss my forehead. His hand captures mine, thumb automatically going to the tattooed ring, a habitual checking of his mark. Then he pauses, noticing something different.

I haven't tucked my hand away. I haven't tried to hide the tattoo. It's there, visible, acknowledged.

"Your ring," he says, his voice carrying that particular note of pleased surprise. "You're not hiding it today."

"No," I reply simply. What else is there to say? That I've surrendered this small battle? That I'm too tired to maintain even this tiny rebellion?

He studies my face, searching for deception, for the calculation he's come to expect. Finding none, satisfaction warms his expression.

“Good,” he murmurs, raising my hand to his lips, kissing the tattooed finger. “Good, Hannah."

I say nothing, but I don't pull away either. Another surrender, another white flag raised in the endless war between his obsession and my selfhood.

"Do you know what this means to me?" he asks, still holding my hand, his thumb tracing the circle of ink. "This acceptance?"

"That I'm learning," I say, the words empty but necessary. "That I'm understanding my place."

His smile deepens, pleasure radiating from him like heat. "Yes," he agrees. "Exactly that. Your place in my life, in my world. As my wife."

The words should disgust me. Once, they would have. Now they wash over me like water, familiar and expected. This is my reality—being owned, being possessed, being treasured not as a person but as an object of obsession.

"The ring was always there," I say, surprising myself with this admission. "Hiding it didn't make it less real."

Dante's eyes sharpen with interest. "Go on," he encourages, sitting beside me, still holding my hand, his attention absolute.

"It's permanent," I continue, the words coming from some hollow place inside me. "Like your claim. Like this life. Fighting against permanent things is…exhausting."

"Yes," he says softly, something like tenderness in his voice, though I know better than to mistake it for actual care. "Acceptance brings peace, Hannah. I've told you this from the beginning."

Has he? The past blurs sometimes, early memories of captivity fading beneath newer traumas, newer adaptations. Perhaps he did say those words. Perhaps I simply wasn't ready to hear them.

"Not fighting doesn't mean I've given up," I say, a last flicker of the defiant girl I once was. "It just means I'm choosing my battles."

His expression darkens momentarily, then clears. "There are no battles to choose, Hannah. There is only us, only this life we share, only my ownership and your acceptance of it. The tattoo is simply the visible symbol of that reality."

I look down at our joined hands, at the black ring that makes his claim physical, permanent. "Then why did you need to mark me? If it was already real, already undeniable?"

His fingers tighten slightly on mine. "Because humans need reminders. Because even the most absolute truths can be momentarily forgotten in moments of weakness. The ring reminds you, reminds others, reminds me of what can never change."

Never change. The finality of those words settles in my chest, heavy as stone. This is forever—the captivity, the ownership, the reduction to possession. The tattoo ensures I can never even pretend otherwise.

"I understand," I say, and for the first time, I think I actually do.

---