Page 32 of Marked for Life

"Will be fine," I say, finishing her thought with cold certainty.

"But you? You’re going to learn something tonight. You’re going to remember what you are. Who you are. Who you belong to."

My belt falls to the floor with a clang, and I reach for Hannah. She doesn’t fight me, though I can feel her questions when I lay her across my lap.

For a moment, I simply stroke her ass, admiring the firm cheeks. My cock hardens painfully, but I ignore it.

I’ve never resorted to corporal punishment before, but maybe it will get through to her. I’m becoming desperate and crazed in my obsession, but fuck me if I can hep it.

I raise my hand and strike, landing on her thigh with precise force. She gasps, her body jerking at the impact.

"This is for talking to anyone else. Smiling at anyone else." Another strike, this time across her hip.

She bites her lip, stifling a cry.

"Do I need to remind you more?" I ask, knowing the answer.

Her silence is an answer in itself.

My hand lands again and again, each strike deliberate, each one a reminder of where she went wrong.

Her skin blooms red under my touch, but I know exactly what she can take. I always do.

When I'm done, I gather her close to me, my hand claiming her body once more, this time gentle, this time with a promise of forgiveness as long as she remembers.

She’s trembling, tears lining her eyes but not falling.

I brush them away with my thumb.

"Did you learn your lesson?" I ask quietly, stroking her hair like I would a child’s.

She nods, her voice hoarse from holding back. "Yes."

"And will you forget it again?"

"No," she chokes out.

"Never."

I pull her close, careful of where I’ve marked her, careful of our unborn child between us.

"Good girl," I murmur into her hair, feeling her relax slowly against me.

And then it’s like a damn breaks free. She grips my shirt tightly and sobs—really fucking sobs—as she clings to me. Call me a sick bastard, but I love that it’s me she’s turning to and clinging to so desperately while she falls apart. Never mind that I’m the reason she’s falling apart of the only one she has to access to.

It’s still happening. Hannah is reaching out tome.

I rock her and stroke her hair until she settles, he cries eventually subsiding. I continue to stroke her hair and back soothingly until she nuzzles closer to my chest like a little kitten.

Maybe this is what she needed all along. This aftercare.

I lift her chin, and she doesn’t resist. Her eyes are wet pools glistening up at me, though they don’t contain the same defiance as before.

They’re completely trusting in a way that causes my chest to ache.

I don’t speak. I kiss her softly, reverently, and for once, she kisses me back.

I have her. Finally, completely, I have her.

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