Page 19 of Marked for Life

She doesn’t argue. Smart girl. She knows there’s no point in fighting battles she can’t win.

In her suite, I guide her to the window seat, settling beside her. The afternoon sun bathes her in light, highlighting the changes pregnancy has wrought in her—softer curves, a quiet glow, a subtle shift in the way she carries herself.

"Do you want to hear about my plans for us?" I ask, resting my hand on her stomach again. "For our family? For our future?"

She hesitates, weighing her answer. Then, carefully, she says, "Yes."

Satisfaction hums through me. A small submission. An acceptance. A step closer to inevitability.

"We’ll have more children after this one," I tell her, already envisioning it. "A daughter next, maybe. A little girl with your eyes. Your delicate features. Your artistic heart."

My hand moves over her stomach, imagining the future growing beneath my palm.

"One child?" I murmur, voice rich with the promise of forever. "Won’t be enough."

Hannah says nothing. But she doesn’t pull away, either. And that’s enough for now.

CHAPTER 13

Hannah

I'm led into Dante's private study like a lamb to the slaughter, my twenty-three-week-pregnant belly preceding me. The room has changed—furniture pushed aside, a peculiar chair in the center, medical equipment neatly arranged on a steel tray. Anton is here, the tattoo artist who has inked Dante’s name, initials, and family crest onto my skin more times than I care to count. But something is different this time. The chair faces the wrong way. The setup isn’t meant for me.

Dante stands in the center of the room, already shirtless, dark eyes burning with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.

“Hannah,” he says, my name a quiet reverence on his tongue. “Today, we come full circle. Today, I make our bond complete.”

My hand moves instinctively to my belly—a protective reflex that has only grown stronger with each passing week. Our son kicks against my palm, as if sensing my unease, my confusion, my dread about whatever ritual Dante has planned this time.

“What is this?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. “What are you doing?”

Dante steps closer, slow and deliberate, his bare chest gleaming in the dim light. He’s beautiful in a way that still makes my pulse spike—not with admiration, but with fear, with years of conditioning, with the tangled emotions that have festered between us.

“You bear my marks,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing the nape of my neck where his initials are inked—where the tracking chip lies beneath my skin. “My name on your hip. My crest on your back. My ring on your finger.” His hand drifts lower, settling over my belly. “My son inside you. Every mark of ownership. Every claim made permanent.”

He circles me slowly, his touch gliding over my shoulders, down my arm, across the curve of my stomach. “But something is missing. Something remains incomplete.”

He steps back and removes his shirt.

I glance at Anton. At the equipment set up for tattooing. At Dante, his gaze burning with purpose.

And then, I understand.

“You’re going to mark yourself,” I whisper, the realization settling like lead in my stomach.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. “Yes.” His voice hums with pleasure, with certainty. “Your name is already on my chest Above my heart. Where it belongs. But I’m going to make it bigger.”

The floor tilts beneath me, reality warping in the way it always does when Dante pulls me deeper into his world. This isn’t another act of possession. Not another branding of my skin. This is something else. Something new. Something I can’t quite define.

“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. Before I can weigh the consequences of asking.

Dante doesn’t hesitate. “Because you’re mine,” he says simply. “And I am yours. Not in the same way. Not with the same control. But with the same permanence.”

He takes my hand, guiding me to a chair positioned to give me a perfect view. My knees buckle, and I sit—not by choice, but because I suddenly can’t stand.

“This mark,” he continues, lowering himself into the tattoo chair, “is proof of what you are to me. Not just my possession. Not just the mother of my child. But essential. Irreplaceable. Vital in ways I can’t explain.”

Anton moves methodically, disinfecting skin, prepping ink, making sure everything is in place. Then, he turns to me, holding out a sheet of paper.

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