Page 8 of Marked for Life

Because it will never be enough.

I need every part of Hannah.

CHAPTER 5

Hannah

The crest burns beneath the bandage, a constant reminder of my newest chain. Three days since Dante marked me with his family symbol, and the pain has dulled to a persistent throb that matches the rhythm of my heart. I stand before the bathroom mirror, slowly peeling back the protective covering to examine what I've become. The Severino family crest—thorned roses surrounding a lion with a sword—now permanently etched into the small of my back. Not just Dante's possession anymore. Now I'm branded as belonging to his entire bloodline, his legacy, his dynasty. The tattoo might as well spell out the word "trapped" for how effectively it binds me to this life I never chose.

I twist my body to get a better view, wincing as the movement pulls at tender skin. The tattoo is beautiful in its way—I can admit that much. Anton's skill is undeniable. The lines are crisp and clean, the details intricate, the entire design balanced and precise. If it were something I'd chosen myself, under differentcircumstances, I might even admire it. But knowing what it represents—this permanent declaration that I belong to a family, a history, a future that was forced upon me—makes my stomach turn.

The memory of the tattooing ceremony floods back as I stare at my reflection. Dante's voice carrying that reverent tone I've come to dread, explaining the significance of each symbol as if bestowing a profound honor rather than another violation. The weight of his hand in my hair as Anton's needles pierced my skin again and again. The bizarre ritual aspect he created around the whole process—candles, ceremonial words, even his admission that the ink contained his blood.

His blood. Mixed into the ink that now permanently marks my body. The thought makes me shudder. Another boundary crossed, another line between us blurred. His blood in the ink, his child in my womb, his name tattooed in multiple places on my skin. The thoroughness of his possession is staggering, each new claim building on the last until I'm drowning in his ownership.

This tattoo feels different from the others somehow. The initials on my neck and wrist were Dante's personal claim—possessive, yes, but intimate in their way. The tattooed ring on my finger is a mockery of marriage, but at least marriage is a relationship between two people, however twisted ours might be. But this…this family crest extends beyond Dante himself. It claims me for something larger, something that will outlive both of us. It binds me not just to the man but to his entire world, his history, his future lineage.

I press my palms against the cool marble of the sink, steadying myself as a wave of dizziness passes through me. Twelve weeks pregnant now, the morning sickness mostly faded but still making surprise appearances when emotions run high. My body is changing in subtle ways—a slight fullness to mybreasts, a barely perceptible rounding of my previously flat stomach. Another claiming I can't escape, can't remove, can't deny. The child grows inside me just as Dante's marks multiply across my skin, both reshaping me according to his obsessive vision.

Is there anything left of me that's still mine? I search my reflection for signs of the girl I used to be. Hannah Brightley—art student, daughter, sister, friend. The face looking back at me is recognizable but changed. Thinner, paler, with shadows beneath eyes that have witnessed things that Hannah Brightley could never have imagined. My hair is longer now, grown to Dante's preferred length. My posture has adapted to perpetual vigilance. Even my expressions have been recalibrated to reveal nothing, to protect what little remains of my inner self from his insatiable need to possess every aspect of my existence.

And now this—the Severino crest declaring to anyone who might see it that I belong to his legacy. That I am, as he put it during the ceremony, "Severino in blood and ink."

The bedroom door opens, interrupting my grim reflection. I quickly readjust my robe to cover the tattoo, though I know it's pointless. Everyone in this household is aware of Dante's latest marking—the staff probably knew his plans before I did.

One of the maids enters, her eyes carefully lowered as she places fresh towels on the shelf. "Excuse me, Mrs. Severino. I didn't realize you were in here."

"It's fine," I say, the words automatic. Everything is always "fine" in this gilded prison.

She moves efficiently around the bathroom, replacing items, straightening things that don't need straightening. Her gaze flickers to me briefly, then away just as quickly. But not before I catch the momentary widening of her eyes as she notices the edge of the tattoo visible where my robe has slipped.

"Is there anything else you need, Mrs. Severino?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral, betraying nothing of what she might think about the man who marks his wife like property.

"No, thank you." The polite exchange feels surreal against the backdrop of my reality—this pleasant fiction of normalcy maintained despite the evidence of possession written permanently on my skin.

After she leaves, I drop the robe completely, turning once more to examine the crest. The thorned roses, Dante explained, represent beauty that can only be possessed at great risk. The lion with a sword signifies protection through strength. To him, these symbols encapsulate our relationship—his dangerous obsession with possessing me, his violent "protection" that destroys anyone who dares approach what he considers his.

I trace the outline of the design with my fingertips, feeling the slightly raised skin, the permanent alteration to my body. For four centuries, according to Dante, only those born to the Severino name were permitted to bear this mark. I am the exception—"not born to the name but chosen to bear it." He presented this as an honor, a distinction, a privilege. As if I should be grateful for this marking, this claiming, this erasure of whatever identity I had before he decided I belonged to him.

My hand moves from the tattoo to my stomach, resting over the place where our child grows. Another Severino, being created inside me even as the family symbol burns on my skin. These dual bonds—the baby and the brand—feel like the final locks on a door that was already sealed against escape.

How does anyone run from this? The question echoes in my mind as I dress slowly, wincing as fabric brushes against the still-tender tattoo. Even if I somehow managed to get away from the mansion, from Dante's surveillance, from his obsessive control—which seems increasingly impossible with each passingday—how would I escape these permanent marks of his possession?

The tattoos could theoretically be removed with enough laser sessions, enough pain, enough time. But the child? My hand presses more firmly against my stomach. This innocent life, created without my consent but not responsible for the circumstances of its conception. I've already begun to feel protective of this baby, already begun to separate my resentment of Dante's forced pregnancy from the child itself.

If I ever escaped, Dante would never stop hunting us. The baby would ensure that, even if the tattoos didn't already make me instantly identifiable as his missing possession. He would tear apart continents to find what he considers his property, would destroy anyone who helped me, would never rest until he reclaimed both me and his child.

The Severino crest seems to throb in response to these thoughts, as if the ink itself can sense my desperate consideration of impossible escape. Dante's blood mixed into the pigment, binding me to him through some twisted version of sympathetic magic. It sounds insane—is insane—but after months in Dante's world, the boundaries between rational and irrational have blurred beyond recognition.

I finish dressing, choosing clothes that cover all my tattoos, that hide the evidence of pregnancy still invisible to casual observation. These small concealments are pointless, I know. Everyone in this household is aware of my status as Dante's possession, as the vessel for his child, as the canvas for his obsessive marking. But the act of covering feels like the tiniest reclamation of self, the smallest assertion that these marks may be on my body but they don't define the entirety of who I am.

A knock at the bedroom door announces Dante's arrival—he knocks now sometimes, another "privilege" granted for good behavior, though we both know he'll enter regardless of myresponse. I straighten my posture, compose my expression into the careful neutrality I've perfected, and turn to face him.

"How is it healing?" he asks without preamble, his eyes automatically going to the place where his family crest now permanently marks my skin, though it's covered by my dress.

"Fine," I reply, the single word revealing nothing of the storm raging inside me.

He approaches with that predatory grace that still makes my pulse quicken with instinctive fear, circling behind me. His hands go to the zipper of my dress, lowering it enough to expose the tattoo. I remain perfectly still as his fingers trace the design, proprietary satisfaction evident in his touch.

---