Page 17 of Marked for Life

"Hannah."

The way he says my name — low, possessive, heavy with ownership — has become a trigger I cannot control. He crosses the room with that same predatory grace, his dark eyes finding mine in the mirror. His hands come to rest on my shoulders, casual yet unmistakably possessive. I force my body to remain still, unresisting, compliant. Fighting only ever makes things worse.

"The renovations are moving along nicely," he says, his fingers beginning a slow, deliberate massage. "The connecting door will be installed tomorrow. By the end of the week, I’ll be sleeping just beyond that wall."

I say nothing. My silence doesn’t bother him — he doesn’t expect conversation. Dante speaks to reaffirm his own decisions, to remind me of the life he’s crafted around me. My role is not to engage, only to receive.

His hands slide from my shoulders to my hair, fingers weaving through the strands as if savoring the texture. "You look beautiful tonight," he murmurs, voice dipping to that familiar register — the one that signals what’s coming. The one that means possession.

"Thank you," I respond automatically, my voice hollow. It doesn’t matter what I say. The words are expected, not believed.

His gaze in the mirror darkens. He notices the emptiness behind my tone, the lifeless way I offer gratitude. His grip on my hair tightens slightly — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who holds control. His other hand moves to my throat, fingers resting against my pulse like he’s measuring my fear.

"Stand up," he says.

I do. Immediately. Instinctually. Resistance is long gone now. My body has learned compliance because disobedience always comes with consequence. Dante steps back, letting hiseyes drag over me, lingering on the curve of my stomach, the delicate marks his teeth left on my neck from his last claiming. I feel stripped even while clothed, like his gaze alone can peel my skin away.

"The doctor says everything is progressing perfectly," he says, his hand sliding possessively over my stomach. "Our son is developing just as he should."

My heart stops. "A…son?" I ask, my voice barely audible.

"Yes." His thumb rubs a slow circle against my abdomen. "The blood tests confirmed it last week. A boy. The first of many, perhaps."

A son. A child who will bear Dante's name, his legacy, his darkness. My body locks up. I can't breathe. A boy who will be raised in this nightmare — taught that love means control, that dominance is devotion, that ownership is affection. My stomach churns at the thought.

Dante watches me closely, gauging my reaction. I force my expression to remain neutral, knowing any visible resistance will only provoke him. He mistakes my silence for awe, his hand pressing more firmly against my stomach.

"He'll be strong," Dante says, his voice thick with pride. "Like his father. Beautiful, like his mother. Perfect, like the union that created him."

Union. What a delicate word for something so violent. So brutal. So monstrous. But I say nothing. I keep my face blank, my mouth shut, my hands still.

Dante moves to my side, his hand shifting from my stomach to my hip, then to the back zipper of my dress. "I want to see you," he says quietly, but there’s no mistaking it as anything but a command. "All of you. I want to see how my son is changing you."

My throat tightens. My fingers stay limp as he pulls the zipper down, allowing the fabric to pool at my feet. I standthere in my undergarments, my rounded stomach exposed — undeniable proof of what’s been forced upon me. His gaze devours me like I'm a canvas he painted, something created entirely by him, for him.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his hand skimming the curve of my belly. "You were made for this, Hannah. Made to carry my child. Made to belong to me. Every part of you, transformed by my touch."

I don't respond. I can't.

Dante doesn't notice — or maybe he does and simply doesn't care. His hands continue exploring, removing the remaining barriers of fabric between us until I'm standing bare before him. Vulnerable. Exposed. Owned. His touch is slow, methodical, as if savoring his work. I know what comes next. It always comes next.

"I'll be gentle," he promises, his own clothing falling away effortlessly. "For our son's sake."

It’s a kindness laced with cruelty. I don't resist. I never do anymore. Resistance only feeds his desire to break me further, to remind me that my body no longer belongs to me.

And so I lay there, unresisting, as Dante claims his me once again—reinforcing, through touch and thrust and orgasm and whispered devotion, that my captivity is love, my child is proof, and my silence is consent.

And the worst part?

My body responds. Despite everything—despite the horror, the hatred, the deep ache of violation—my body reacts. Months of forced intimacy have conditioned it to. And Dante notices. He always does.

"See?" he whispers against my skin. "You were made for this."

Tears burn my eyes. I don’t let them fall.

CHAPTER 12

Dante

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