Page 21 of Marked for Life

The uncertainty drives me out of my chair. I need to see her. To confirm, with my own eyes, my own hands, that she’s still here, still mine.

The hallways are silent as I make my way to her suite. The biometric lock clicks open at my touch, granting me access to the world I built for her. The room is dark, save for the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the reinforced windows.

She’s exactly as she was on the monitor—lying on her side, her hand resting on her stomach. I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel her warmth, to breathe her in. My hand hovers over her face, trembling with the need to touch her, to claim her.

When my fingers finally graze her skin, relief washes over me so strong it’s almost painful. She’s real. She’s here. She’s mine.

My hand drifts lower, over the curve of her throat, feeling the steady pulse beneath my fingertips. Life. Proof. Possession. It soothes something primal inside me, knowing she’s still within my grasp.

I trail my hand down, over her collarbone, lower still, resting against the swell of her belly. The place where my son grows. The ultimate proof of my claim on her.

She stirs, shifting slightly beneath my touch. Even in sleep, she responds to me. And that…that is everything.

"Mine," I whisper. The word is both a promise and a vow. A devotion and a possession. A love so twisted it barely resembles the word at all.

And it will never be enough.

CHAPTER 15

Dante

Iguide Hannah deeper into the mansion, past corridors she's never seen. The air grows thicker with every step, steeped in the ancient history of the Severino name, where stone replaces marble and shadows conceal truths I’ve yet to reveal. Her hand trembles in mine, her body straining as she struggles with each step, her swollen belly a reminder of just how far she’s come—and how far she will go—for me.

She doesn’t know it yet, but the moment we reach the bottom of these stairs, everything between us will be tested. The world will shrink to this room. To this moment. To us.

“Where are we going?” Her voice is small, fragile—tipped with that familiar uncertainty that always stirs something in me.

“Somewhere just for us,” I murmur, my thumb brushing her wrist, feeling the frantic beat of her pulse beneath my skin.

Her steps falter, but she doesn’t protest. She knows, on some level, this is the place where boundaries end and something elsebegins. Where everything shifts to something more—something deeper.

At the bottom, an ancient oak door awaits—heavy, secured by iron bands, sealed tight with a lock that will only open with my touch. The key to this room is in my blood. Only mine.

As the door creaks open, a gust of air sweeps past us, carrying the scent of centuries—stone, dust, power. Inside, a room barren of adornment, save for a single chair worn by generations of use. The space is oppressive, dark, but perfect for what’s to come.

I guide her into the room, my hand warm and possessive at the small of her back. The flicker of resistance in her eyes is evident, though she doesn’t pull away. There’s no room for hesitation here. Not from her. Not from me.

“This place,” she murmurs, her voice thick with confusion as she instinctively wraps her arms around her pregnant belly. “What is this?”

I step to the center of the room, my presence dominating, my every motion deliberate. “This is where loyalty is proven,” I say, my tone heavy with promise. “Where truth rises, and everything else falls away. Where the foundation of what we are—what you are to me—becomes undeniable.”

Her breath catches. I see the fear building, thickening the air between us, but I am unmoved. She knows what is expected. She knows the rules, the stakes.

“Don’t be afraid,” I command softly. "This is about certainty. About truth. The last test. The final proving. Of us."

I gesture to the chair, seated firmly in the center of the room, and her hesitation is almost visible—her body tenses, her instincts fight against the pull of what’s coming.

“Kneel,” I order.

Her breath stutters. The weight of my command hits her like a tide. She’s always obeyed—so naturally, so flawlessly. But this? This is different. She hesitates.

"I can't," she whispers, her voice tight. "I’m?—"

"Sit," I cut her off, my voice cold but controlled. “Lower yourself. Accept what you are to me, without any more games. No more pretending. No more distance.”

Slowly, carefully, she lowers herself. The weight of her belly makes it awkward, difficult, but I don’t help. She’s not here for comfort. She’s here to prove herself—to me.

When she’s finally settled before me, I move closer, my fingers cupping her chin, tilting her face toward me. Her eyes are wide, searching.

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