Page 18 of Marked for Life

Ipress my palm against Hannah’s stomach, feeling the firm, round curve beneath my hand. Twenty weeks. Halfway to meeting my son. My child. My blood growing inside the woman who belongs to me completely.

The doctor says everything is perfect—the baby’s development, Hannah’s health, the steady rhythm of that tiny heart pumping Severino blood through microscopic veins. I’ve never created anything perfect before. My business, my empire, my wealth—they’re all powerful, all impressive, but flawed in ways that keep me awake at night. But this child? He will be perfect. My legacy. My immortality. The unbreakable bond that ties Hannah to me forever.

"He’s active today," I murmur, waiting for another flutter against my palm. The movements are stronger now—no longer the butterfly wings Hannah described weeks ago, but real kicks, real punches. Evidence of life. Of strength.

Hannah says nothing, but her hand moves to rest beside mine, fingers splayed across the curve of her stomach. That instinctive protectiveness pleases me. Even if her mind still fights it, her body knows the truth—she is mine. And this child cements that claim in a way nothing else could.

"The nursery should be finished next week," I tell her, keeping my hand where it is, unwilling to break this connection. "The hand-painted murals are almost done. The furniture’s been delivered—custom-made, of course. Imported Italian craftsmanship, designed exactly to my specifications."

"Our needs or your specifications?" Hannah’s voice carries that familiar sharp edge—one that both irritates and thrills me. Even now, twenty weeks pregnant, tattooed with my name, tracked by the chip embedded in her neck, bound to me in every conceivable way, she still holds on to this small rebellion.

"They’re the same thing," I reply, my tone calm but firm. "What I want is what’s best for us. For our family. For our future."

I stroke her cheek, savoring the softness of her skin beneath my fingers. "You’ll see when it’s finished. Everything perfect for our son. Everything designed for his comfort, his security, his place in the Severino legacy."

Her gaze flickers up to mine, then drops back to where our hands rest on her stomach. There’s conflict in her expression—the growing maternal instinct battling her resistance to me. That pleases me, too. It means the bonds between us are tightening, weaving into something she won’t be able to escape.

"It’s time for your appointment," I say, helping her to her feet, steadying her as she adjusts to the shift in her center of gravity. Pregnancy suits her—the fullness of her breasts, the way she moves differently now, the glow that radiates from her skin. All signs of my claim. My seed growing within her.

The doctor waits in the medical suite I built for Hannah—only the best for what’s mine. Top specialists, the most advanced equipment, constant monitoring to ensure the perfect development of my son.

"Good morning, Mrs. Severino," the doctor greets her with professional detachment, his eyes never straying where they shouldn’t. He learned the hard way that looking too long comes with consequences.

Hannah moves through the appointment with practiced ease—blood pressure checked, measurements taken, questions answered. I never leave her side, my hand clasping hers, a silent reminder of my presence. My control. My ownership.

"Everything looks perfect," the doctor reports, tapping notes into his tablet. "Blood pressure is excellent. Weight gain is on track. All signs point to a healthy pregnancy." He addresses me rather than Hannah, understanding that all information about her passes through me first.

"The ultrasound?" I prompt, anticipation tightening in my chest. I need to see my son. My heir. My living, breathing legacy growing inside the woman who carries my mark.

The doctor nods, prepping the equipment. "We’ll do a full scan today—check all measurements, organ development, positioning."

Hannah lifts her shirt without being asked, exposing the soft curve of her stomach. The doctor spreads the gel, his movements clinical, impersonal. Still, I watch him with sharp eyes, tracking every touch, every motion. No one forgets that she belongs to me.

The screen flickers to life, revealing the shadowy form of my son floating in his private world. A hand raises. Legs kick. His head shifts, as if already searching for something.

"There he is," the doctor says, pointing out the baby’s tiny fingers, the delicate curve of his spine, the steady thump of his heart. "Perfect development at twenty weeks."

Hannah makes a small sound beside me—a quiet, breathless gasp. Her hand tightens on mine, her eyes locked on the screen. There’s something new in her expression, something raw and unguarded. Wonder. Fear. Love.

"That’s our son," I say, my voice softer now, edged with something I don’t name. "Our perfect boy."

She nods, unable to speak past the emotion tightening her throat. Her other hand drifts to her stomach, as if reaching for the baby inside her. The sight stirs something deep, something primal. Proof of her connection to our child, to me, to the future I’ve carved for us.

"Would you like me to explain what you’re seeing?" the doctor asks, his tone carefully neutral.

"Yes," Hannah whispers before I can respond. "Please."

I allow it. Her interest in our son only strengthens the ties that bind us.

The doctor walks her through the images, explaining each detail—the curve of our baby’s developing face, the steady rhythm of his heart, the shape of his hands. Hannah listens, absorbed, her fingers still resting protectively over her stomach.

"He’s beautiful," she murmurs when the doctor finishes. The words are quiet, almost involuntary. Real. Unfiltered.

I smile, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "Perfect," I agree. "Exactly as he should be."

The doctor prints the images, handing them to me. I study them, feeling an unfamiliar warmth settle in my chest. My son. My blood. My claim on Hannah made visible, undeniable, permanent.

"I want these framed," I tell her as we return to her suite. "Displayed where we can see them every day. A reminder ofwhat we’ve created. What we’re building. What will never be undone."

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