Page 32 of In His Name

Dante brings my hand to his lips again, kissing the tattooed ring with reverence that borders on worship. "This pleases me greatly, Hannah. This willingness to accept, to acknowledge, to surrender the pointless fight."

Inside, some small part of me still screams, still rages against the cage. But that voice grows fainter each day, each hour, each moment of compliance. The weight of the tattooed ring seems to grow heavier as I acknowledge it, as I stop pretending it isn't there, isn't real, isn't permanent.

How much of myself can I surrender before nothing remains? How many small battles can I concede before the war is irrevocably lost? Perhaps it's already too late. Perhaps Hannah Brightley exists now only in fragmented memories, in fleeting moments of resistance that grow increasingly rare.

Perhaps the woman who sits here, displaying Dante's mark without protest, is someone else entirely. Hannah Severino, created through trauma and conditioning, through marking and ownership, through the slow erosion of will that captivity inevitably brings.

"We'll go out tonight," Dante decides, his mood elevated by this small victory. "Dinner, perhaps. A celebration"

"As you wish," I reply, the response automatic now, programmed through repetition and consequence.

He leaves after that, satisfied with this new development, with this further evidence of my adaptation. I remain by the window, staring at the tattooed ring, at this permanent symbol of ownership I've stopped fighting against.

My finger feels heavy, the phantom weight of the tattoo more pronounced now that I've acknowledged it. I wonder if this is how surrender always feels—not dramatic, not catastrophic, but quiet. A gradual laying down of arms, a whispered acceptance, aslow fading of resistance until one day you look down and realize you're displaying your chains instead of trying to hide them.

The sun moves across the sky, shadows shifting on the floor. I sit motionless, watching the light catch on my hand, on the black ring that marks me as property. Not fighting anymore. Too tired for that. Too aware of the futility, the cost, the inevitable outcome.

Some battles cannot be won. Some marks cannot be removed. Some chains become so familiar you forget they're there until you try to move beyond their length.

I trace the circle of ink with my other finger, feeling nothing but the smooth skin beneath. The tattoo itself has no texture, no raised edges, nothing to distinguish it from the rest of my skin except its color. But its weight is undeniable, its significance absolute.

With this ring, he claimed me. With my acknowledgment of it, I surrender another piece of myself.

How many pieces remain? How much of Hannah Brightley still exists beneath the markings, the conditioning, the careful breaking of will?

I don't know. I'm afraid to look too deeply, afraid of what I might not find.

Instead, I sit in the sunlight, displaying my tattooed ring to the empty room, practicing for tonight's public acknowledgment of Dante's ownership. A wife displaying her wedding band with pride. A possession accepting its status. A woman too tired to keep fighting battles that cannot be won.

The black ring gleams in the light, a perfect circle with no beginning and no end. Like Dante's obsession. Like my captivity. Like the slow surrender of self that comes with accepting the permanence of both.

CHAPTER 16

Dante

She spoke to him. The delivery boy. Just three words—"Thank you very much"—but they might as well have been a dagger to my chest. My blood goes cold, then burns, at the memory of it. Hannah's voice—soft, polite, directed at someone who isn't me. Someone who has no claim to her attention, her courtesy, her voice.

I watch the security footage again, my grip tightening on the tablet. Over and over, those three words play in my mind as I pace my office. Three words that shouldn't have been spoken. Three words that scream defiance, no matter how unintentional. A betrayal, however small, that requires correction.

I rewind the footage, watching Hannah answer the door, accepting the package with a slight smile. Innocuous to anyone else—but I see it. The unnecessary eye contact. The momentary connection. A crack in the carefully constructed walls I've built around her.

Unacceptable.

Vincent appears at my door, face neutral, but he knows better than to interrupt my brooding. "The room is prepared, sir, as you requested."

"And the delivery boy?"

"Reassigned. He won't have any further access to the main house."

I should have him killed. It's what my instincts demand. But eliminating staff over minor infractions draws attention. And this... this is Hannah's failing, not his. The boy was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. She is the one who forgot herself. She is the one who must be reminded.

"Bring Hannah to my office. Now."

Vincent nods and disappears. I set the tablet down, straightening my cuffs as I stare out the window. The high walls of my estate rise in the distance, a fortress designed to keep the world out—and Hannah in. A controlled environment, just like her existence under my hand. Safety through ownership. Love through absolute possession.

The door opens behind me, and I don't need to turn to know it's her. The subtle shift in the air, the faint tremble of her presence—it tells me everything. She's already afraid. Good. Fear is a foundation upon which devotion is built.

"Leave us," I command Vincent.

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