Page 6 of Marked for Life

A command. I have to answer. But not in the way he wants. "The nursery should be neutral colors." My voice is flat. Detached. Minimal compliance. Maximum defiance.

Dante’s entire body tenses. He wants more. Needs more. And my refusal to give it is breaking him. "Not just words," he grits out. "I want you. All of you. Emotion. Presence. The part of you you're deliberately hiding from me."

I meet his gaze, my voice quiet but firm. "I can't give you what doesn't exist anymore."

The silence that follows is suffocating. His face doesn't change, but I can feel the rage simmering beneath his controlled exterior. I’ve crossed a line.

"Explain," he finally says, the word a threat in itself.

I should lie. I know I should. But something reckless stirs in me. Maybe it’s the baby. Maybe it’s the numbness. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I’ve already lost everything—what more can he take?

"You wanted everything," I say quietly. "You took everything. My body. My freedom. My mind. There's nothing left to give you, Dante. Just this shell."

For a moment, I think I’ve broken him. His stillness is terrifying. And then—calm. I know that calm. It’s the stillness before the storm.

"You think you can withdraw from me." His voice is soft, deadly. "You believe you can keep some part of yourself separate. Untouched. Unowned." He rises slowly, deliberate, controlled. "You're wrong, Hannah. Profoundly wrong."

Dread curls in my stomach. "Dante?—"

He cuts me off. "Come with me."

Not a request. A command. I rise, heart hammering, and follow him through the mansion. It isn’t until we turn the corner toward the isolation wing that I understand.

"No," I whisper, panic breaking through my numbness. "The baby?—"

"Will be safe," he says coldly. "This isn't punishment. It’s recalibration." He doesn’t look at me. "You need time to remember that you belong to me—every part of you. Including your silence."

We reach the isolation room. My prison. Soft, luxurious, and utterly designed to break me. I stumble, dread thick in my throat. "Dante, please?—"

He opens the door, gesturing inside. "Three days," he says simply. "No books. No distractions. Just you. And the reality of your place here."

I turn, desperate. "It won't work," I whisper. "You can’t force me to feel something that’s gone."

His mouth curves in a chilling smile. "You underestimate me, Hannah."

And then the door closes. And I am alone.

CHAPTER 4

Dante

The Severino family crest rests heavy in my hand, its design sketched on fine parchment—an intricate pattern of thorned roses encircling a lion clutching a sword. Symbols of beauty, protected by lethal force. Fitting, I think, for what Hannah has become in my life—the one beautiful thing I will defend with unrelenting violence. Today, she becomes something more than my wife, more than my possession. Today, she becomes Severino in blood and ink, bound to my family legacy as deeply as she is bound to me.

The original crest—the one cast in ancient silver—remains locked in my family vault. This version, though, has been transferred to paper, prepared for Anton's needle to mark into Hannah’s skin. My fingers trace the design one last time before folding it carefully and slipping it into my jacket pocket. I’ve already decided where the mark will go—on the small of her back, just above the curve of her hip. Private enough that only I will see it regularly, yet still visible if I choose to display her. Adeclaration of ownership more profound than the tattooed band around her finger or my initials carved into her neck. Those were personal claims. This is dynastic. Eternal.

Her pregnancy has reached twelve weeks now. The sickness has faded, leaving her skin radiant in a way that only heightens her beauty. But something else has settled in its place—silence. Withdrawal. As though some small part of her still clings to the idea that she belongs to herself. Today will change that. The crest will not merely mark her skin; it will burn away the last remnants of her resistance. Some lessons require permanence to be truly understood.

I straighten, summoning Marco with a brief flick of my hand. He appears, as efficient as ever. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, sir. Anton is in the east wing study. The room has been prepared according to your instructions.”

“And Hannah?”

“Waiting in your chambers. Vincent is with her.”

I nod, pleased. “Ensure Anton uses the ink I provided.”

Marco doesn’t ask why I specifically requested ink mixed with my own blood, or why ash from ancient Severino family documents was added to the blend. He simply nods and departs to ensure my orders are carried out precisely. The significance of today is not his concern. It’s mine.

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