Page 14 of Marked for Life

I nod to the doctor, who steps forward holding the syringe. Hannah’s gaze locks on the instrument, confusion giving way to realization. Horror.

"A tracking device," she says, voice tight. "You’re putting a tracking device in me."

"A precaution," I confirm, without shame. "For your protection."

"A precaution against what?" The strength in her voice surprises me—it's been weeks since she dared to challenge me so directly.

I smile. Slow. Patient. "Against anything that separates you from me. Against anyone foolish enough to think they could take you from me. Against any part of you that still believes you have a choice."

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. She knows better. "I’m already pregnant with your child. I have your name tattooed on my skin. I wear your ring. I live in your guarded house. What else do you need to feel like you own me?"

The defiance pleases me, even as it stokes something darker. "All of you," I answer softly. "Every breath. Every thought. Every cell in your body. And now…" I gesture toward the doctor. "Every step you take."

Her jaw clenches, but she says nothing when the doctor approaches. I watch closely as the needle sinks into the delicate skin at the nape of her neck, directly beneath the tattoo bearing my initials. She doesn’t flinch, though I know the sting must burn. Silent submission. Beautiful.

"Done," the doctor announces. "The chip will fully integrate with the tissue in two weeks. Removal without professional equipment will be?—"

"Painful and bloody," I finish for him, already satisfied.

Hannah says nothing. Just closes her eyes, swallowing down whatever revolt still simmers within her. Good. Let it simmer. Let it die slowly, suffocated beneath my control.

I step forward, my fingers brushing over the fresh bandage. My mouth finds her ear, my words a whisper only she can hear. "Now, no matter where you go...I will always find you."

And she knows—finally, irrevocably—there is no escape.

CHAPTER 9

Hannah

The chip pulses beneath my skin, a foreign presence I can't see but feel with every cell in my body. Three days since Dante embedded his technological leash at the base of my skull, and though the insertion site no longer throbs with physical pain, a deeper ache has settled into my bones. I sit in the window seat, staring at the gardens below, absently tracing the small bandage the doctor applied during yesterday's check-up. "Healing nicely," he declared, as if this violation were a medical necessity rather than the ultimate expression of Dante's obsessive need to possess me completely. A tracking device. As if the tattoos, the pregnancy, the locked doors and constant surveillance weren't enough. As if he needed to insert his control directly into my flesh, to make my very body a transmitter that signals my location to his waiting monitors. I am a living, breathing GPS coordinate now. A blinking dot on Dante's screen. A possession with a pulse.

The garden below looks particularly beautiful today, spring flowers blooming in carefully tended beds, sunlight dappling through tree branches that sway gently in the breeze. I used to be allowed out there occasionally, always with Dante at my side, always under the watchful eyes of security personnel stationed at discreet intervals along the walking paths. Now even those supervised excursions have been eliminated, another freedom casually revoked without explanation or justification. The pregnancy, the tracking chip—these have only intensified Dante's need to keep me contained, controlled, continuously within reach.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, feeling the boundary between inside and outside, captivity and freedom, with physical clarity. What would happen if I broke this window? The thought comes unbidden, a momentary fantasy of shattering glass, of cool air on my face, of one barrier briefly eliminated. But I know the reality that would follow—the alarms, the guards, Dante's swift arrival, the consequences that would extend beyond myself to others. And now, with the tracking chip embedded in my neck, even if I somehow managed the impossible—escaped the mansion, evaded the guards, made it beyond the walls that surround this gilded prison—Dante would find me, would follow the signal transmitted from my own body, would reclaim his possession with technological precision.

There is no escape. Not physically, at least. The realization settles over me with crushing weight, driving the air from my lungs in a shuddering exhale that fogs the glass before me. Dante has created the perfect cage—the physical boundaries of the mansion, the psychological constraints of fear and conditioning, the biological chain of pregnancy, and now this technological tether that transforms my body itself into a homing beacon for his obsession.

My hand moves to my stomach, to the growing curve that houses another human being. Sixteen weeks now, the pregnancy increasingly visible, increasingly real. The child moves sometimes—fluttering movements like butterfly wings that the doctor assures me will become stronger, more defined as the pregnancy progresses. Despite everything—the circumstances of conception, the way this baby binds me to Dante—I can't help the protective instinct that grows alongside this innocent life. My complicated feelings about this pregnancy exist in layers: resentment toward Dante for forcing it upon me, fear about what motherhood within captivity will mean, and beneath it all, a fierce determination that this child will not suffer as I have, will not be reduced to possession and obsession as I've been.

But how? The question echoes in the emptiness of my suite, in the hollowness of my chest. How do I protect this child from the reality of our existence? How do I maintain any sense of self to pass on, any identity beyond what Dante has defined, any freedom within the ever-shrinking boundaries of this cage?

I stand abruptly, suddenly unable to remain still beneath the weight of these questions. The tracking chip seems to throb with my movement, a phantom reminder of its presence though the actual device is too small to feel once the initial swelling subsided. Does Dante watch the signal change as I pace the room? Does he monitor the small movements that represent the only freedom remaining to me—the ability to choose which corner of my cage to occupy at any given moment?

The thought sends something dark and desperate spiraling through me. I need to test it, to know the precise limitations of this newest chain. With sudden determination, I move to my closet, selecting a light sweater to ward off the perpetual chill of the mansion. I pull it on carefully, ensuring it covers the tattooed initials on my neck, though not out of modesty or resistance—merely habit now, the automatic gestures of a captive who has learned the futility of small rebellions.

I approach the door to my suite, placing my hand on the handle. This will be the test—Dante has not explicitly forbidden me from leaving my rooms today, has not issued specific instructions to remain within these walls. But since the tracking chip, since the latest intensification of his control, the unspoken expectation has been clear: stay where I can be easily monitored, easily reached, easily possessed.

The handle turns beneath my hand, the door opening with surprising ease. No alarms sound, no guards immediately appear to escort me back inside. The hallway stretches before me, empty and silent, the perfect sterility of Dante's world extending beyond my immediate enclosure. I step into the corridor, heart pounding with inexplicable fear, as if this small act of movement constitutes a transgression worthy of punishment.

Nothing happens. No running footsteps approach, no security personnel materialize to question my presence, no intercoms blare with Dante's voice demanding explanation. I take another step, then another, moving down the hallway with cautious determination. The tracking chip makes my physical location known with absolute precision—there's no need for guards to visually confirm my whereabouts when technology performs that function more efficiently, more completely, more inescapably.

I continue walking, not toward any exit—I know better than to attempt something so futile, so potentially dangerous—but simply to move beyond the boundaries of my assigned space, to test whether movement itself remains possible within the larger cage Dante has constructed. The hallway leads to a grand staircase, one I've descended many times on Dante's arm for carefully choreographed dinners, for supervised appearances,for the performance of normalcy within the most abnormal circumstances.

I place one hand on the polished banister, taking the first step downward. Still no intervention, no consequence for this unexplained wandering. The tracking chip ensures Dante knows exactly where I am—perhaps he watches with amusement, curious to see how far I'll go, confident in the technological leash that connects my movements directly to his awareness.

At the bottom of the staircase, I hesitate, suddenly uncertain of my purpose. What am I proving by walking these hallways? That I can move from one part of my cage to another? That physical motion remains possible even as true freedom becomes increasingly unimaginable? The futility of this small rebellion crashes over me, bringing with it a wave of despair so intense my knees nearly buckle beneath its weight.

"Mrs. Severino?" A staff member appears in a doorway, her expression carefully neutral despite the surprise surely felt at finding me wandering unescorted. "Can I assist you with something?"

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