Page 7 of Marked for Life

Alone, I allow myself a moment of anticipation. Since the day Hannah told me she was carrying my child, the need to claim her—completely, without question—has burned hotter than ever. The child is proof of my possession, growing inside her with every passing day. But the ink, the crest, will solidify it. External proof that she belongs not just to me, but to my bloodline. My dynasty.

I make my way to my chambers, each step measured, my intent clear. When I enter, she’s perched on the edge of the bed, clad in the simple white shift I selected for today. Her handscradle her still-flat stomach, her gaze distant until she senses my presence.

“Stand,” I say, my tone leaving no room for hesitation.

She does, immediately. The swift obedience soothes something primal in me. Yet I see the flicker of wariness in her eyes. She’s learned to read the undercurrents of my possessiveness. Good. She should.

“Do you know what today is, Hannah?” I ask, stepping closer, savoring the moment.

She hesitates. “Tuesday?” Then, under my unblinking stare, she corrects herself. “The sixteenth.”

“The anniversary of my father’s death,” I tell her quietly. “The day I inherited the Severino family.” My hand slides to the small of her back, where her skin is still unmarked—soon to change. “And today, you become more than my wife. You become Severino.”

A subtle tremor runs through her, but she doesn’t pull away. I’m pleased. “Come.”

I guide her through the mansion, my hand firm at her back—precisely where my crest will soon reside. We don’t speak as we walk. There’s no need. The weight of what’s coming hangs thick in the air.

When we reach the east wing study, I pause, turning her to face me. “What happens today is significant, Hannah. More significant than our wedding, more than the marks you already bear. This will bind you to my family for all time.”

Her throat works as she swallows. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Not to you,” I correct softly. “For you. I’m giving you a place in my bloodline. I’m ensuring no one ever questions where you belong.”

Pushing open the door, I guide her inside. Anton stands ready, his equipment laid out with surgical precision. The chair—designed specifically for this—waits in the center of the room. Candlelight flickers, casting long shadows against the walls. The atmosphere is deliberate. Ritualistic.

“A tattoo,” she breathes, resignation in her voice.

“The final one,” I confirm, though we both know that’s a lie. My need to mark her has only deepened over time. This, however—this crest—is the most important. The one that binds her to my family’s name, my legacy.

I lead her to the chair, my touch never leaving her skin. “Remove the shift and lie face down.”

Her hesitation is brief, but it’s there. I wait, letting the silence stretch. Slowly, she peels the shift over her head and drapes herself over the chair. Vulnerable. Exposed. Mine.

I hand Anton the design. “Exactly as shown. No deviations. And use the ink I provided.”

He doesn’t question it. He knows better. As Anton prepares the stencil, I kneel beside Hannah, brushing her hair away from her face. “The Severino crest dates back to sixteenth-century Sicily,” I murmur. “The lion represents protection through strength. The roses—beauty, surrounded by thorns. Dangerous to touch. Like you.”

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t respond.

Anton presses the stencil to her skin, and when he peels it back, the outline remains—an echo of my family’s legacy waiting to be made permanent.

“The ink contains my blood,” I tell her quietly, my mouth near her ear. “Mixed with ash from family documents dating back centuries. It will bind you to my lineage, through more than just name or marriage. This is permanent, Hannah. Unbreakable.”

Her head turns slightly. “Your blood?”

“Yes.” Satisfaction hums through me. “My blood in your skin. My child in your womb. My name etched into your flesh. Every bond imaginable.”

The tattoo machine hums to life, and Hannah tenses as the needle bites into her skin. I remain beside her, my hand cradling her head, both restraint and comfort. “Accept the pain,” I instruct. “It’s part of your transition into this family.”

Hours pass. She doesn’t cry out, though I feel her body jolt occasionally beneath the sharp burn of the needle. I watch, riveted, as the crest takes shape—thorned roses curling possessively around the lion’s snarling face. My blood is in that ink. My will, carved into her flesh. By the time Anton finishes, I’m nearly vibrating with satisfaction.

“Perfect,” I murmur. The crest gleams dark and raw against her skin. A physical manifestation of my claim.

Anton steps back, silently awaiting dismissal. I barely notice. My attention is wholly on Hannah—marked, claimed, Severino in every possible way.

“Mine,” I whisper, running my thumb over the fresh ink. She shudders beneath my touch.

And deep down, I know this will not be the last mark I place on her.

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