Page 34 of Marked for Life

Hannah moves toward the refrigerator with hesitant steps, looking back at me for permission. I nod, leaning against the counter to watch her. She opens it and surveys the contents, something shifting in her posture. For a moment, I see the woman she was before—purposeful, confident in at least this small domain.

"Pasta," she says softly. "With pesto and cherry tomatoes?"

"Whatever you want."

She gathers ingredients, moving around the kitchen with growing ease. I watch her hands—delicate but sure as they chop basil, crush garlic. When she reaches for a knife, her eyes flick to mine, questioning.

"Go ahead," I say, not moving from my position. "I trust you."

It's a lie. I don't trust her. But I want her to think I do. Want her to believe there's a path forward that doesn't involve constant resistance.

She slices tomatoes with careful precision, the knife glinting under the kitchen lights. I imagine, briefly, what she might do if she turned that blade on me. Would she have the courage? The strength?

But she only continues preparing our meal, and something like domestic bliss rears its head inside me. I fantasize what it would be like. My wife cooking for me, willing,happy.

I watch her as she works, mesmerized by the rhythm of her movements. There's a strange peace in this moment that I didn't anticipate—Hannah in my kitchen, pregnant with my child, preparing food for us both. It's almost laughably normal.Almost.

The knife catches the light as she chops, and I find myself studying her face more than her hands. Her eyes are focused, lost in the task, and for these few minutes she seems to have forgotten what came before. Forgotten the marks I left on her skin. Forgotten that she's here against her will.

Or maybe she hasn't forgotten at all. Maybe this is just the eye of the storm, this quiet acceptance.

She glances up, catches me watching her. Something flickers in her expression—not fear, not hatred, but something I can't quite name. Then she looks away, continuing her work.

"My mother taught me to cook when I was twelve," she says suddenly, her voice so soft I almost miss it. "She said every woman should know how to feed herself, so she doesn't have to depend on anyone else."

The irony isn't lost on me. Hannah depends on me for everything now—food, shelter, clothing. Her very life. But I don't point this out.

"And what did your father teach you?" I ask instead, curious despite myself about the life I tore her from.

Her hands still for just a moment before resuming their work. "To be brave," she says simply. "To stand up for myself."

I feel a smile tug at my lips. "You've certainly mastered that lesson."

She doesn't smile back, but there's a subtle shift in her posture. Pride, perhaps. Or defiance carefully banked beneath the surface.

"What about you?" she asks, surprising me. "What did your parents teach you?"

I consider lying. Consider shutting down this dangerous path of conversation that threatens to make us human to each other. But something in her eyes—that genuine curiosity—pulls the truth from me.

"My father taught me that the world belongs to those strong enough to take what they want," I say, watching her reaction carefully. "And my mother taught me nothing. She was gone before I could remember her face."

Hannah's expression softens in a way that makes my chest tighten uncomfortably. It's not pity—I would fucking hate that—but understanding. As if she's piecing together the broken parts of me, making connections I'd rather she didn't.

"The water's boiling," she says after a moment, turning back to the stove.

I watch as she adds the pasta, the way her hair falls forward when she leans over the pot. The urge to touch her is overwhelming, to brush those strands back and feel her warmth under my fingers. But I restrain myself, not wanting to break whatever fragile thing is building between us.

"I never asked," I say suddenly, "what you were studying. Before."

Of course I already know, but I haven’t asked. Haven’t shown interest in her interests. I need that to change if I’m ever going to get her to open herself to me fully.

She stirs the pasta slowly, her back to me, and for a moment I think she won't answer. When she does, her voice holds a wistfulness that cuts deeper than I expected.

"Art," she says.

I study her profile, the delicate curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose. She would make a beautiful subject herself.

"What kind?" I ask, moving closer. Not touching her, but close enough that she must feel my presence at her back.

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