Page 1 of Marked for Life

CHAPTER 1

Hannah

The test sits on the bathroom counter, two pink lines mocking me with their clarity. No ambiguity, no room for doubt or denial. Pregnant. The word echoes in my skull like a death sentence, like the final nail in a coffin I've been trying to claw my way out of for nearly a year. My hands grip the edge of the marble sink, knuckles white with tension. This was always Dante's plan—the ultimate chain, the inescapable bond. A child. His child. Growing inside me, changing me, marking me from the inside in ways that can never be undone.

I've suspected for weeks. My period, once reliable as sunrise, disappeared. My breasts grew tender, my stomach queasy in the mornings. But I pushed the thoughts away, denied the possibility, clung to the desperate hope that it was stress, trauma, anything but pregnancy. Now reality stares back at me in pink lines, undeniable and terrifying.

My reflection looks haunted—pale face, shadows beneath my eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. I barely recognize myselfanymore. The girl who once dreamed of art school, of creating beauty, of a future built on passion and possibility, has vanished beneath layers of trauma and adaptation. In her place stands a woman marked with tattoos of ownership, conditioned through punishment and reward, and now—the ultimate transformation—a vessel for Dante's child.

Three months ago, Dante stopped my birth control. I remember the moment with perfect clarity—sitting on the edge of the bed as he explained with terrible gentleness that the time had come to "cement our bond in the most fundamental way possible." His words, not mine. Never mine.

"A child, Hannah," he'd said, his fingers tracing patterns on my stomach with possessive anticipation. "Our child. A living embodiment of my claim on you."

I'd begged him then, one of the few times I still dared to plead. "Please, not yet. I'm not ready. I can't?—"

"You can and you will," he'd interrupted, his voice soft but implacable. "Your body will do what bodies are designed to do, with or without your cooperation."

He'd given me three months to "prepare mentally," a concession he presented as generosity, as evidence of his concern for my wellbeing. Three months that passed in a blur of dread and helplessness, of watching the calendar with mounting terror as the inevitable approached. Then the night he announced the time had come—the birth control officially stopped, my body now available for its "true purpose."

The sex that followed wasn't violent—Dante rarely needs physical force anymore, not with the conditioning, the exhaustion, the learned helplessness that shapes my compliance. But it was methodical, deliberate, focused entirely on impregnation. Afterward, he'd held me close, whispering about the future, about the family we would create, about how beautiful I would look carrying his child.

I flush the toilet quickly as another wave of nausea hits me. Morning sickness—the cruel irony of the name when it strikes at all hours. I rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, try to compose myself before Dante arrives to check on me. He'll be here soon—he always knows, always watches, always maintains perfect awareness of my physical state.

Sure enough, the bathroom door opens without warning—privacy another luxury I surrendered long ago. Dante stands in the doorway, his gaze immediately landing on the pregnancy test, on the two pink lines that represent his victory, his ultimate control.

"Hannah," he breathes, something like reverence in his voice. He crosses to me in two quick strides, hands framing my face with unusual gentleness. "Is it true? Are you certain?"

I nod, not trusting my voice, not having words that could possibly express the storm of emotions inside me. His smile blooms, triumphant and possessive, his eyes lighting with a satisfaction that borders on ecstasy.

"My child," he says, one hand dropping to rest on my still-flat stomach. "Growing inside you. Perfect."

He kisses me then, deeply, passionately, a claiming rather than an expression of affection. I respond automatically, my body trained through months of conditioning to yield, to accept, to submit. Inside, behind the walls I've built to preserve what remains of myself, I scream silently, rage against this new violation, this ultimate possession.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes scan my face, reading the emotions I try to hide. "You're afraid," he observes, his thumb stroking my cheek. "That's natural, I suppose. First pregnancies often inspire anxiety."

As if this were normal. As if I were simply a nervous expectant mother rather than a captive being bred against her will.

"I—I don't know if I'm ready," I manage, the words carefully chosen to express truth without triggering his anger. "A baby changes everything."

"Yes," he agrees, satisfaction deepening his voice. "It changes everything. Cements everything. Completes everything." His hand returns to my stomach, protective and possessive. "My son or daughter, growing inside what's mine. The perfect expression of my ownership."

The nakedness of his obsession still shocks me sometimes, the way he frames everything through the lens of possession, of control, of ownership. No pretense of normal motivations, of wanting a child for the typical reasons of love or family or legacy. Just another chain, another claim, another way to ensure I can never escape him.

"Come," he says, guiding me from the bathroom to the bedroom. "Sit down. We have much to discuss."

I follow because resistance is futile, because fighting earns punishments I can no longer bear, because survival requires compliance. He settles me on the edge of the bed, sitting beside me, his hand never leaving my body—shoulder, arm, knee, a constant point of contact that reinforces his claim.

"I've already selected the doctors," he informs me, his voice taking on that clinical efficiency he uses when explaining how my life will proceed. "The best in their fields, naturally. They'll come here—no need for you to leave the safety of our home. A suite on the east wing is being converted to a nursery as we speak. The decorators will consult with us, though I have some specific ideas about the design."

He continues outlining plans for my pregnancy, for the birth, for the child's early years, all predetermined, all controlled, all decided without my input. I listen in numb silence, watching his lips move, hearing the words without fully processing them. Inside, a storm rages—grief for the life I've lost, fear for the childwho will be born into this twisted version of family, despair at this new, inescapable bond.

"Are you listening, Hannah?" Dante's voice sharpens, his hand tightening slightly on my knee.

"Yes," I respond automatically. "East wing nursery. Special doctors. I understand."

His expression softens again, misreading my compliance as acceptance, my numbness as agreement. "This is important, Hannah. This child represents our future, our family, our permanent bond. Nothing will ever separate us now—not law, not society, not even death. Our child will ensure that what we've created together endures forever."

What we've created together. As if I had any choice, any say, any role beyond physical vessel for his obsession. I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, force my expression to remain neutral, focus on breathing steadily despite the panic clawing at my chest.

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