Page 31 of Marked for Life

Dante

Ispot it from across the garden—Hannah, laughing softly, talking to the new gardener. Her fingers graze his arm, that innocent touch sparking something dark and uncontrollable within me. A wave of heat, thick and possessive, floods my chest, turning my vision red at the edges. My hands go numb, but there’s a fire building deep inside. Not guilt. Pure, raw possession. My woman. Mine. No one else gets to touch what belongs to me.

I move toward them, every step calculated and slow, the calm on my face a stark contrast to the storm brewing in my veins. The gardener notices me first, his easy grin faltering into wary tension. Good. He knows—he feels it—the line he's crossed. Hannah’s smile drops when she sees the shift in his expression, her hand instinctively clutching her stomach as she turns toward me.

"Dante," she says, that voice of hers, neutral, the one she’s perfected over months of knowing her place. "The roses are blooming beautifully. I was just asking about?—"

"Inside," I cut her off, my voice low, carrying that edge that brooks no argument. "Now."

She hesitates, just a flicker, before she turns. One hand stays at her belly, protecting the life growing inside her, the other pressed against her back, a subtle reminder of the weight of her pregnancy. I follow, not touching her, not yet, but close enough for every muscle in my body to be tense with restraint, a struggle to keep my anger in check.

The gardener stays frozen, the air around him thick with fear. I stop, my gaze turning cold as I face him one last time. "You’re dismissed. Pack your things. Leave my property in the next hour. If you're still here when I come back..." I let the threat hang in the air, the silence loud between us. He nods quickly, already backing away, knowing his survival is a matter of luck. But it won’t last. Not with me focused on her. Not after what I just saw.

Inside, I guide Hannah to our room, my hand at her back, firm and unyielding. The staff scurry away, faces averted, their bodies stiff with the familiar fear that always follows when she forgets her place. When she forgets me.

The door shuts with finality behind us, the lock clicking like the sound of fate locking us both into this moment. She stands there, stiff, not cowering but not defiant either—too smart for that. She knows what’s coming.

"Explain yourself," I demand, my voice deceptively soft, that calm before the storm.

"The gardener…he was just showing me the roses," she stammers, her voice steady despite the fear I can feel pouring off of her. "I asked when they bloom. That’s all, Dante. Just flowers."

"You touched him." I don't ask. I state it. Cold. Sharp. I need her to acknowledge it. To feel the weight of what she's done.

Her confusion flickers, and she swallows hard. "I—did I? It wasn't intentional. I didn’t?—"

"Your hand. On his arm. Laughing." I take a step closer, my anger building, each word like a blow. "You gave him something that’s mine. Your touch. Your laughter. Your attention. All of it, it belongs to me. And only me."

She flinches. Not from fear, but from the realization of what she’s done. Her eyes widen, as if she finally understands the magnitude of her mistake.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, regret and fear thick in her voice. "It was…it was a moment. I didn’t mean it. I?—"

"Intentions don’t matter." I take another step, my voice low but commanding, as I circle her, my presence a suffocating force. "Results do. And the result? You gave another man what is mine. And that cannot go unpunished."

I see her pulse quicken, her body tensing, knowing what's next. She’s learned the ritual by now, the way things go when she steps out of line. Her hand moves instinctively to her belly again, like she’s trying to protect the baby. Her baby. Mine.

"Take your dress off," I order, my voice still quiet but laced with an undeniable authority.

She hesitates, just for a moment, the weight of my gaze heavy on her. Then, with trembling hands, she starts to undress. The fabric falls to the floor, pooling at her feet. She's left in just her undergarments, her swollen belly exposed. Her body is marked by my touch, by the tattoos that scream my ownership.

"Everything," I say, my voice flat, a reminder of the ritual. The punishment. The consequence.

She doesn’t hesitate now, dropping her undergarments to the floor. She's standing naked before me, vulnerable in every senseof the word. Her hands cradle our child, but her eyes are filled with that familiar fear. Not for herself. But for what’s coming.

"On the bed," I command. My voice is thick with anticipation. Not of her discomfort, but of the lesson she’s about to learn. The one that will make her remember.

She moves slowly, her body stiff, but she obeys.

Once she's on the bed, I unbuckle my belt, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

Her breath catches, her eyes wide with fear.

She knows what’s coming.

She knows I don’t tolerate disobedience.

"Please..." she whispers, her voice breaking.

"The baby..."

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