Page 35 of Marked for Life

She tenses slightly but continues stirring the pasta. "Mostly painting. Some sculpture." A pause, then, "I was good at it."

The past tense doesn't escape me. I place my hand on the counter beside her, boxing her in without quite making contact.

"You still are," I say. "Good at it."

Hannah turns her face slightly toward me, eyes questioning. "How would you know?"

"I've seen what you do with the sketchbook I gave you." I reach past her to turn down the heat on the stove, my chest brushing against her back. "You think I don't check your room when you're sleeping?"

She stiffens, and I can almost feel her mind racing through what else I might have seen, what private thoughts I might have invaded. I don't tell her that I've memorized every line she's drawn, every shadow she's rendered. That I've seen the way she draws the gardens outside her window with a precision that borders on desperation, as if capturing every detail might somehow set her free.

"They're just sketches," she says quietly. "To pass the time."

"They're more than that." I reach up to brush her hair away from her neck, letting my fingers trail along her skin. "They're pieces of you. The parts you don't share when we talk."

She shivers under my touch but doesn't pull away.Progress.

"The pasta's done," she says instead of acknowledging my words.

I step back, giving her space to drain the pasta in the colander waiting in the sink. Steam rises between us like a veil, momentarily obscuring her face. When it clears, she's looking at me with those hazel eyes that see too much.

"I want to keep painting," she says suddenly, her voice stronger than it's been all day. "Real painting, not just sketches."

I consider her request. It would mean supplies, a space to work, more freedom in some ways. It would also mean giving her something she values, something I could take away if necessary.

"I can arrange that," I say, watching hope flicker across her face. "If you continue to be good."

The hope dims but doesn't extinguish entirely. She nods and turns back to finishing our meal, adding the pesto and tomatoes to the pasta, the movements of her hands precise and controlled.

When she's done, she plates the food with an artistry that doesn't surprise me. Even in this small task, her eye for beauty asserts itself. She hands me my plate without meeting my gaze.

"Thank you," I say, deliberately using the words I rarely bother with. Courtesy is a currency I spend sparingly, but tonight feels different. Tonight, feels like the beginning of something new.

Something I only dared dream of.

CHAPTER 21

Hannah

Isit by the window that no longer opens, my eyes tracing the world outside that’s just out of reach. Three days have passed since Dante found me talking to the gardener. Three days of silence, broken only by his visits, his touch—possessive, insistent, a constant reminder of who I belong to. My reflection stares back at me in the glass, a stranger’s face—hollow eyes, a swollen belly, thirty-two weeks pregnant with the child he’s claimed. My hair is a mess, a tangled mess of unwashed waves, and my lips? Always pulled tight, always in that permanent line of surrender. I barely recognize this woman anymore.

The bruises from Dante’s punishment have faded, but the mental scars remain. They throb just beneath the surface, constant reminders of the price I paid. Not physical harm—he would never dare damage what belongs to him—but the ache of knowing that I’ll be locked in this cage until our son is born. No more walks in the garden. No more fresh air. No more thoughtsof escape. I’m trapped here. In this beautiful prison he’s created for me.

I glance over at the art supplies he had brought to me and a faint smile touches my lips. He’s softening, though.

I press my palm against the cool glass, feeling the cold barrier that separates me from the world. Once, that touch would have been full of desperation—of plans to escape, of the belief that this life wasn’t mine. But now? Now it’s just a simple recognition. The world outside has become a distant memory, a fading dream, while the reality he’s made for me has grown so real that it’s impossible to imagine anything else.

My other hand rests on my belly, feeling our son shift beneath my skin. He’s active today, kicking with that restless energy of a child who doesn’t yet know his place in this twisted reality. The heir to Dante’s obsession. His possession. A child born into a world where everything is his to control.

“What kind of life will you have?” I whisper to my unborn son, the words leaving my mouth without thought. My voice trembles with more than just fear. There’s a cold awareness there too. His life, like mine, will be defined by Dante’s control. His every breath, his every step, his entire existence, will belong to Dante. There’s no escaping that.

The question lingers in the air, unanswered. The silence of this room presses against me, an ever-present weight, a reminder that isolation has become my companion. I didn’t always feel this way. Once, I fought against it with everything I had—against being owned, against being locked away, against the reality that Dante had taken from me. I fought to the bitter end, believing I deserved more than this nightmare.

But something has to change. If I want my child to have a good life—well, as normal of a life as I can give him here with his obsessive father.

My fingers trace the tattoo on my hip. Dante’s name. Again. It’s a constant reminder of my captivity. The marks on my skin aren’t just tattoos. They’re his claim on me. His proof of possession.

Something’s shifted inside me since that last failed escape. Something’s changed in the way I view this life, in the way I view him. The fight is gone. The resistance, the defiance? Gone. And what’s left is something twisted. Something that feels like surrender. Or maybe…maybe it’s something more. Something darker, more complicated. Something that I can’t quite name.

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