Page 5 of In His Name

Yesterday, I caught myself anticipating Dante's arrival with something other than dread—not desire, certainly not love, but a kind of relief. The relief of certainty in an uncertain existence, of knowing exactly what is expected rather than fearing the unknown. The realization horrified me, evidence of how deeply his conditioning has penetrated. Is this what breaking looks like? Not a dramatic shattering but a slow erosion, a gradual wearing away of resistance until surrender becomes the path of least resistance?

I've held onto defiance as if it were a lifeline, the last connection to who I was before Dante. But that defiance has become a weight dragging me under, exhausting my limited emotional resources, yielding no progress toward freedom. For every small act of resistance, the punishment is swift and calculated, designed to wear down precisely the mental strength needed to continue resisting. It's a perfect system, a machine constructed to break wills, and I'm being ground between its gears.

A memory surfaces—my nineteenth birthday, just a few weeks before Dante took me. My friends had thrown a surprise party at the café where I worked weekends. Nothing elaborate, just cake and cheap champagne after closing time, laughter that rang genuine and free. I remember feeling so adult, so full of possibilities. I'd been working on my scholarship portfolio, convinced it would open doors to a future filled with art and travel and experiences I'd only dreamed of. That girl feels likea stranger now, her hopes and ambitions like artifacts from another civilization—interesting but irrelevant to my current reality.

Would that girl recognize me now? Would she understand the calculations I'm beginning to make, the compromises with captivity I'm considering? Or would she be horrified, see it as a betrayal of everything she believed about herself—her strength, her independence, her uncompromising spirit?

The truth, which I've been avoiding for months, is that continued resistance isn't bringing me closer to freedom. It's simply ensuring that what remains of my time under Dante's control is filled with unnecessary suffering. If escape is impossible—and increasingly, I believe it is—then what purpose does resistance serve? Who am I protecting with my defiance? What am I preserving with my continued struggle against the inevitable?

Dante doesn't want a broken doll, a mindless automaton that simply obeys commands. I've seen the disappointment in his eyes when my responses are too mechanical, too empty of genuine emotion. What he craves is something more complex: willing submission. He wants me to choose my captivity, to embrace it, to find satisfaction within the boundaries he's established. He wants my mind as completely as he has my body.

That's why the psychological tactics have escalated—the isolation, the manipulation, the calculated kindnesses interspersed with punishments. He's trying to reshape my thinking, to make me believe that acceptance is the only path to peace, that fighting my role in his life only creates unnecessary pain for everyone involved.

And the most terrifying part is that I'm beginning to see his logic, to understand the warped rationality behind his methods. Not to agree with it, not to believe it's right, but to recognize that within the closed system he's created, his approach makesa certain kind of sense. Like learning the rules of a foreign culture while traveling—you don't have to embrace their values to understand how their society functions.

Maybe that's the key. Maybe survival—true survival, not just physical existence but preservation of some essential part of myself—requires a different approach. Not surrender, not complete submission, but strategic adaptation. Learning to navigate Dante's world without being entirely consumed by it.

What if, instead of fighting every aspect of this captivity, I selectively comply? Give him what he wants in the areas that matter less to me, preserve my energy for protecting what's most essential. Let him believe he's winning, that his conditioning is working, while maintaining a private core of self he can never reach.

It would mean playing a dangerous game—appearing to accept my role as his possession while never truly internalizing it. Making him believe I'm adapting to his desires while actually adapting his desires to my survival. A form of psychological guerrilla warfare, where direct confrontation is replaced by subtler forms of resistance.

The risks are enormous. Dante is intelligent, perceptive, skilled at reading people. If he senses deception, the consequences would be severe.

The sound of the door unlocking interrupts my thoughts. Right on schedule—Dante, returning from whatever business has kept him away today. I straighten my posture, smooth the dress he selected for me this morning, prepare my expression. Usually, I would adopt the blank mask that reveals nothing, that gives him no satisfaction. Today, I'll try something different.

When he enters, I notice immediately that something is wrong. His usual precise control seems frayed at the edges—his tie slightly askew, a tension around his eyes that speaks ofsuppressed emotion. Anger, perhaps, though not directed at me. Not yet.

"Hannah," he says, crossing to where I sit by the window. His hand reaches for my face, a gesture that once made me flinch but now I accept with practiced stillness. "I've missed you today."

Instead of the neutral acknowledgment I would normally offer, I meet his eyes directly. "You seem troubled," I say, the observation genuine rather than calculated. "Has something happened?"

Surprise flickers across his features, followed by pleasure at my apparent concern. "Business complications," he says, his thumb stroking my cheek. "Nothing you need worry about."

In the past, I would have left it at that, grateful for any topic that didn't involve me, us, his obsession. Today, following my new strategy, I press gently. "Sometimes talking helps. I may not understand the specifics, but I can listen."

The offer visibly impacts him. Dante stares at me with an intensity that would once have made me look away. Now I hold his gaze, allowing a small, careful smile to touch my lips.

"This is new," he observes, his hand moving from my cheek to thread through my hair. "This interest in my day, in my concerns. What's changed, Hannah?"

A dangerous question. I consider my response carefully, weighing honesty against strategy. "I've been thinking, would it be so terrible for me to care about your life?”

His eyes narrow slightly, searching my face for deception, for the trap he suspects must lie beneath this unexpected shift.

He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, it’s like something inside him snaps.

He’s on me in an instant, pulling me flush against him and crashing his lips onto mine. His hands fist in my hair as he devours my lips.

“Hannah, my sweet, beautiful Hannah,” he breathes against my lips as he trails kisses down my neck.

My body instantly flames to life. I’ll never admit it to him, but he’s right when he says my body reacts to him, craves him.

I feel myself trembling, not with fear as it once would have been, but with something I refuse to name. His kisses burn against my skin, each one a brand more permanent than the tattoo on my finger or the mark on my hip. When he lifts me into his arms, I don't resist. This is part of the strategy, I tell myself. Strategic adaptation. Self-preservation.

"You've been thinking about us," he murmurs against my throat, the vibration of his words sending unwelcome shivers down my spine. "Tell me what conclusions you've reached, Hannah."

Before I can answer, he's carrying me across the room, his steps purposeful and controlled despite the wildness in his eyes. He tosses me onto the bed with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs, the silk comforter cool against my back where my dress has ridden up.

"I want to see if your body is as honest as your words are trying to be," Dante says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my pulse quicken. He stands at the foot of the bed, loosening his tie but otherwise remaining fully clothed. "Spread your legs for me."

---