Page 16 of Marked for Life

"No," I say after a moment. "Install a bioelectric lock on her door. Keyed exclusively to my genetic signature. No one enters or leaves without my physical presence."

Marco nods. "I'll have the security team begin the installation today."

"And the housekeeper. Paula." The name tastes bitter on my tongue. "Reassign her to one of the outer properties. Effective immediately. No further contact with this house or anyone inside it."

There's no hesitation in Marco's response. "Understood." He doesn't question the severity of the punishment. He knows better. Anyone who interacts with Hannah—no matter how innocently—becomes a threat. A variable I can't afford.

When Marco leaves, I turn my gaze back to the monitor. Hannah hasn't moved. Her palm still rests against the glass, her expression distant. I pull my phone from my pocket, opening the tracking app to review her movement history over the past twenty-four hours. She'd wandered, tested limits, moved beyond her designated boundaries. The deviation is minor, but it's the principle of it. Any step outside my explicit control is unacceptable.

I pocket the phone, the cold weight of it grounding me. Technology can only do so much. I need more—more containment, more control, more certainty that she exists solely within the parameters I've set for her.

The mansion falls silent as I move through it. Staff members press against the walls, averting their gazes as I pass. They've learned not to look too closely at what belongs to me, not to linger in the same space as Hannah, not to breathe the same air for too long. It's better that way. For them. For her. For me.

When I reach the east wing, the workmen installing the biometric lock pause, their hands steady but their eyes averted. "It'll be fully operational by evening, Mr. Severino," one of them reports, his voice clipped and professional. "Keyed exclusively to your DNA. No possibility of bypass or forced entry."

"Good," I say. "Finish quickly."

The hallway beyond the security barrier is empty—by design. Hannah's suite occupies the entire northern end, cut off from casual traffic, isolated from any unnecessary contact. She exists alone here, untouched, unspoiled, and completely mine. Exactly as it should be.

I step inside without announcing myself. She's still by the window, her gaze lost in the gardens she no longer has access to. When she hears me, she turns—her face carefully composed, her features a mask of forced indifference.

"Dante," she says, my name absent of warmth but also absent of defiance.

I approach her, my hand automatically finding the curve of her stomach—seventeen weeks now, my child growing inside her. Proof of my claim made flesh. I savor the feel of it beneath my palm, the tangible evidence that she can't escape me. Not now. Not ever.

"You left your suite yesterday," I say, my voice low but pointed.

Her gaze flickers down to my hand, avoiding mine. "I didn't know I couldn't." A careful response. A safe one. She’s learning.

"You knew," I correct her, my fingers tightening slightly against her stomach. "It won't happen again. The new security measures will ensure that."

Her throat works as she swallows, but she says nothing. Just like I prefer.

I tilt her chin, forcing her gaze back to mine. "You understand, don't you, Hannah?" My thumb drags along her jawline. "Everything I do—every lock, every guard, every reinforced layer—it's all for you. For us."

She doesn't answer, but she doesn't pull away either. That’s enough. For now.

But soon, the part of her that still thinks she can exist beyond my control—the sliver of independence she still clings to—willbreak. And when it does, she will belong to me in the truest sense.

Completely. Irrevocably.

Mine.

CHAPTER 11

Hannah

The biometric lock hums softly every time Dante enters or leaves the room — a gentle, mechanical purr that serves as a constant reminder of my captivity. For three days now, I've been confined within these stunning, gilded walls, unable to step so much as a foot outside without Dante’s physical presence. I am only allowed to leave if he’s beside me, his hand on my back, his body shadowing mine as if proximity alone could reinforce my imprisonment. I remember the day he brought me here, how he guided me through stores filled with imported Isfahan carpets, hand-painted Italian silk wallpaper, and custom furnishings specifically chosen to flatter my complexion. Every inch of this room is beautiful — and every inch of it is a cage. The luxury doesn’t soften the reality. I am trapped. And only Dante can unlock the door.

I sit at my vanity, running a brush through my hair in mechanical, detached strokes, listening to the muffled sound of construction in the adjacent suite. Dante’s new quarters. Soon,he’ll be even closer. He’s having the wall between us altered so his room will connect directly to mine — a door only he will have the authority to open. Another layer of control, another wall closing in around me. Soon, there will be no space between us at all.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me feels foreign, despite the familiar features. My body has changed. Eighteen weeks pregnant now, my stomach has begun to curve outward — impossible to hide, impossible to ignore. I’ve had to adapt my clothing, my movements, my very posture to accommodate the life growing inside me. The child moves often now, soft little flutters that bring both wonder and despair. I can’t forget how this child came to exist, nor can I separate the growing life from the captivity that created it. Dante calls it our child — a symbol of our supposed union, a product of what he calls love but what I know to be violation.

The hammering and drilling in the next room suddenly go silent. The workers are done for the day, leaving behind only a haunting quiet. My stomach knots. It won’t be long before that connecting door is complete. Soon, Dante won’t even have to walk the hallways to reach me. Soon, my captivity will become even more absolute.

I set the brush down, my hand instinctively moving to the back of my neck. Beneath the smooth skin lies the tracking chip — embedded, permanent, inescapable. It doesn’t hurt anymore, not physically, but the weight of it never leaves me. It ensures Dante always knows exactly where I am, whether I’m in this room, pacing the balcony, or resting in bed. It’s a constant tether — one more reminder that I belong to him.

The lock hums. My body reacts before my mind does, muscles tensing, heart rate quickening. That sound always comes before him. I barely have time to steel myself before his presence fills the doorway.

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