Page 33 of Marked for Life

The rush is something I can't describe—like the first gasp of air after nearly drowning. Her lips move against mine with a surrender that feels genuine for the first time since I brought her here. Not fear, not calculation. Just Hannah, opening to me.

When I pull back, her eyes remain closed for several heartbeats, lashes wet against her cheeks. I could kill a man for the privilege of watching her like this—vulnerable, marked by my hand, carrying my child. Mine in every possible way.

"Look at me," I command softly.

Her eyes flutter open, and I search them for any hint of the defiance that's been my constant companion since she arrived. There's nothing but exhaustion and something else—acceptance, perhaps. Or resignation. I don't care which. The result is the same.

"Tell me who you belong to." My voice is barely above a whisper, but in the silence of the room, it might as well be a shout.

Her lips part slightly, and I can see her throat work as she swallows. "You," she says, the word hanging between us like a confession.

"Say my name."

"Dante." She exhales it like a prayer. "I belong to Dante Severino."

I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my touch. Her skin is still flushed from her tears, from my punishment, and it makes her look alive in a way that sends heat through my veins.

"And what happens when you forget that?" I ask, needing to hear her acknowledge it.

She doesn't hesitate. "You remind me."

Christ. The simplicity of those three words nearly undoes me. I gather her closer, careful of her tender skin, and breathe in the scent of her hair. She smells like vanilla and salt from her tears, and underneath it all, something uniquely Hannah that I've come to crave more than air.

"I will always remind you," I promise, pressing my lips to her temple. "However many times it takes."

She nods against my chest, her breathing evening out as she relaxes further into my embrace. I wonder what she's thinking—if she's plotting even now, or if she's finally surrendered that part of herself too. The part that believes escape is possible.

I hope not. I need this woman like I’ve never needed anything else. I just need her to realize that.

"Are you hungry?" I ask, suddenly aware that she hasn't eaten since breakfast.

She nods again, and I lift her carefully, setting her on her feet.

She winces slightly as her weight settles, and I feel a twinge of—not regret, never that—but awareness that I should be mindful of her condition. Her hand drifts unconsciously to her stomach, and the sight of it makes something primal roar inside me.

"I'll have Maria prepare something light," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Hannah's eyes flicker up to mine. "Can I..." she starts, then hesitates.

"Speak."

"Can I help? In the kitchen?" Her voice is small but steady. "I used to cook with my mother. Before."

Before I took her. Before I owned her life. The unspoken hangs between us.

I consider it. Part of me wants to refuse—the kitchen has knives, heavy pans, a hundred potential weapons. But the other part, the part that's winning lately, wants to see her move around my space willingly. Wants to watch her create something rather than simply exist in my presence.

"Yes," I decide. "But I'll be there."

Relief floods her features, and it's like watching the sun break through clouds. I've given her this small thing, and the gratitude in her eyes is intoxicating.

I lead her downstairs, my hand at the small of her back. She moves gingerly, no doubt feeling the sting of my discipline with each step. Good. Let her body remember what her mind might try to forget.

Maria looks surprised when we enter the kitchen together, her eyes darting between us before settling on Hannah's flushed face.

"We'll take it from here," I tell her. "You can go."

Maria nods once and disappears, leaving us alone in the gleaming kitchen.

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