Page 8 of In His Name

I begin turning pages of the contract, explaining key sections to Hannah in terms that sound reasonable, that disguise the true nature of what she's being asked to sign. "This section covers financial arrangements—your access to household accounts, monthly allowances, provisions for your future security."

What I don't highlight is the language specifying that all accounts remain under my control, that her "access" exists only through my direct authorization, that her movements and purchases will be monitored and approved in advance.

"This addresses residency requirements—our primary home being the estate, with provisions for travel to my other properties when appropriate."

I don't mention the clauses prohibiting her from leaving any residence without my explicit permission, the tracking mechanisms that will be legally sanctioned once she signs, the penalties for unauthorized departure.

"And this section outlines our mutual obligations to each other—fidelity, support, cooperation in all family matters."

The benign phrasing conceals language that codifies her complete submission to my will, her obligation to comply with any and all directives regarding her body, her behavior, her very thoughts.

Throughout my explanation, Hannah sits very still, her eyes moving over the text visible on each page. She's intelligent—I've always known this, always valued it despite the challenges it presents. She understands what this document represents:another chain, another lock, another barrier to any imagined freedom.

"Do you have any questions before we sign?" I ask, the question a formality. Whether she has questions or not, the outcome will be the same.

Hannah hesitates, choosing her response carefully. "What happens if I don't sign?" she finally asks, her voice barely audible.

I smile, squeezing her hand gently—a gesture that appears affectionate to the notary but conveys clear warning to Hannah. "That's not an option I'm willing to consider," I say softly. "This is a formality, Hannah. A recognition of what already exists between us. Refusing would indicate a fundamental misunderstanding of your position, one that would necessitate…clarification."

The threat is veiled but unmistakable. Hannah's recent progress—her apparent adaptation, her efforts at cooperation—would be erased, the punishments resumed with increased intensity. She knows this. I can see the calculation in her eyes, the weighing of resistance against consequence.

"I understand," she says after a moment, defeat and resignation evident in the slight slump of her shoulders.

"Excellent." I turn to the signature page, uncapping a fountain pen—a Montblanc, custom-made for this occasion, engraved with our initials intertwined. "If you'll sign here, my love."

Hannah takes the pen, its weight unfamiliar in her hand. She hesitates again, the nib hovering above the signature line. For a moment, I wonder if she'll attempt defiance despite the consequences. But then she lowers the pen, signing her name—her married name, Hannah Severino—in a script that trembles slightly but remains legible.

Pride and satisfaction surge through me as I watch the ink dry. Another barrier falls, another level of possession achieved. I sign my own name beside hers with a flourish, the action feeling momentous, historic.

The notary completes her part efficiently—stamping, signing, recording the transaction in her ledger. "Congratulations on formalizing your union," she says, the words rehearsed, meaningless, but appropriate to the fiction we're maintaining.

"Thank you, Ms. Kelley. Marco will see you out," I say, pressing the intercom button. My attention remains on Hannah, on the document now legally binding her to me in yet another way.

After the notary leaves, I lift Hannah's hand to my lips, kissing the tattooed ring visible on her finger. "It's done," I tell her, satisfaction warming my voice. "The final formality completed. You are now mine in every way that matters—physically, emotionally, legally."

"Was it necessary?" she asks, her eyes fixed on our joined hands. "After everything else—the ceremony, the tattoos, the…the physical claiming. Why this too?"

The question doesn't anger me. In fact, I appreciate her desire to understand, to comprehend the architecture of her captivity. "Because legitimacy matters, Hannah. Because appearances matter. Because I want no loose ends, no vulnerabilities in our arrangement."

"Arrangement," she repeats, the word hollow. "Is that what this is?"

"It's a marriage," I correct her gently. "Perhaps not begun in traditional ways, perhaps not based on the sentimental notions society promotes, but a marriage nonetheless. One that will last until death separates us—no divorce provisions, no escape clauses, no possibility of dissolution. Permanent. Binding. Inescapable."

I watch her absorb this, watch the final hope of legal recourse fade from her eyes. She's intelligent enough to understand what this contract means—that any authority she might have appealed to will now see only a legal marriage, properly documented, officially recognized.

"Now," I say, closing the portfolio containing our signed contract, "we begin the next phase of our life together. With these formalities behind us, we can focus on more important matters."

"What matters?" she asks, wariness returning to her voice.

I smile, stroking her cheek with the back of my hand. "Children, of course. The three-month extension of your birth control ends next week. It's time we started our family, solidified our bond in the most fundamental way possible."

Fear flashes across her face before she can suppress it—real, visceral fear that penetrates the careful mask she's constructed. The sight of it sends a thrill through me. Despite her recent cooperation, despite her apparent adaptation, she still fights internally. The challenge of breaking that final resistance, of claiming not just her body but her complete surrender, remains.

The contract is just another step in that process—another weight added to the pressure bearing down on her will. Each document signed, each formality completed, each legal barrier erected brings us closer to the ultimate goal: Hannah's total acceptance of her place in my life, her complete surrender to my ownership.

When she carries my child, when her body changes to accommodate the life we create together, that surrender will be one step closer. The contract ensures she has no legal recourse to prevent it, no authority to appeal to, no escape from the future I've designed for us.

Perfect. Exactly as planned. Exactly as it should be.

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