Page 5 of Marked for Life

"You'd destroy yourself for me?" she whispers, her voice carrying a new edge I haven't heard before.

"Without hesitation." The admission burns my throat. Weakness isn't something I've allowed myself since I was a boy watching my father's blood pool on our kitchen floor. Yet here I am, confessing it to the one person who could use it against me.

Her fingers reach up, hesitantly tracing the scar that runs along my jawline. "You're insane," she says, but the venom has left her tone.

"Only for you." I catch her hand, pressing my lips to her palm. "Only because of you."

She turns her face away, but not before I glimpse the conflicted emotions warring there.Good.Let her wrestle with it. Let her feel the same madness that's consumed me since the moment I first saw her, oblivious to my existence while I calculated exactly how much her father owed me.

CHAPTER 3

Hannah

I've discovered a new kind of power—silence. For three days now, I've only spoken when absolutely necessary. One-word answers to direct questions. Nothing more. My voice has become something I no longer offer freely to Dante. It's the one thing I can still control, a part of myself I can withhold, even as he claims everything else. I move through the mansion like a ghost, following the rules, doing what’s expected, but inside—I’m hollow. Just a vessel for his child. Nothing more. The numbness has become my armor, a protective barrier between me and the reality of my existence. Behind it, there's a part of me he can't touch, can't own, can't destroy. And Dante knows it. I can feel his eyes on me constantly, his frustration growing with every quiet, unacknowledged moment. He doesn’t understand this defiance. He can’t punish it. And it’s driving him insane.

It started after the last time he took me—violently, possessively, like he was trying to erase any part of me that didn’t belong to him. I don’t know what triggered it. Maybe itwas the way I looked at him, the way my mind had already begun to drift to some faraway place he couldn’t reach. But his response was brutal. Desperate. As if sheer force could bridge the emotional chasm growing between us. It didn’t. Instead, something inside me simply…shut off. Like a switch. A door closed. And I stopped feeling anything.

In that void, I found an unexpected strength.

I didn't plan this silence—it just happened. In the aftermath of what he did, words felt meaningless. I realized that if I couldn’t control my body, my freedom, or my life, I could still control my voice. So I stopped speaking. Stopped engaging. Stopped giving him any part of myself he didn’t forcibly take. By the second day, I realized what I was doing. And I embraced it. This is my rebellion now—the only one I can afford. A rebellion without words, without confrontation. Just silence. And it's driving him mad.

The child changes things too. Eight weeks now. Still invisible to the world, but undeniable inside me. I didn’t want this baby. But now, I protect it fiercely—like it’s the only pure thing left in my life. My silence protects the baby too. It creates a thin but vital barrier between Dante’s darkness and this innocent life. And I’ll cling to that silence as long as I can.

"Hannah."

Dante's voice cuts through my thoughts. I’m in the sitting room, allowed to read for the morning. I glance up, meeting his gaze briefly before dropping it back to my book. I don’t speak.

"You're quiet today." He steps into my line of vision, blocking my view. "You've been quiet for days now."

I meet his gaze again, forcing my expression to remain blank. There was no question—only an observation. So I don’t respond. Silence is not defiance, I remind myself. It’s survival.

His eyes narrow slightly. "Are you unwell? Morning sickness?"

A direct question. I have to answer. "No." One word. Minimum compliance.

He watches me carefully, predator assessing prey. "Then explain your silence."

Another direct question. Another forced response. "Nothing to say." Three words. Controlled. Emotionless.

The flicker of tension in his jaw is subtle, but I catch it. I’ve learned his tells—the microexpressions that warn of danger. He’s angry. Frustrated. And it’s growing.

"You've never been 'just quiet' before," he says, voice deceptively calm. "This feels deliberate." His head tilts slightly. "Almost like resistance."

The accusation hangs in the air. I don’t confirm it. But I don’t deny it either. "Perhaps." One word. Purposefully ambiguous.

His temper flares—just a flash—but he tamps it down with iron control. "I see." He moves to sit across from me, too casual to be genuine. "How long do you intend to keep this up?"

I don’t answer. No direct question. No response required. Silence.

For the rest of the day, Dante watches me like a wolf circling wounded prey. He tries to bait me into conversation—asking about the nursery, my books, the weather. I offer only the bare minimum of response. Yes. No. Fine. Nothing more. With every passing hour, his patience wears thinner. His control cracks. I can feel the storm building.

By dinner, it breaks.

"This ends now," he says, setting his fork down with deliberate force. His voice is still quiet, still measured, but the tension in his body betrays his fury. "This silence. This withholding of yourself from me."

I meet his gaze, expression vacant. Silent.

"Speak, Hannah," he demands, his voice sharp despite its softness. "Tell me about your day. Your thoughts. Your feelings. End this distance you’re creating between us."

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