Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
Hannah
I wake to unfamiliar softness, my body sinking into what feels like a cloud. For one disoriented moment, I imagine I've fallen asleep in the art supply store, on those plush demonstration chairs they keep by the expensive easels. Then awareness returns in violent flashes. Dad's face, contorted with shame. Strange men in our house. A needle sliding into my arm. My eyes snap open, heart galloping against my ribs, and I find myself staring into the dark, watchful gaze of the man who bought me like a painting at auction. Dante Severino. He sits beside the bed. It’s a massive, ornate thing that belongs in a museum. His posture is relaxed as if he's been waiting patiently for me to rejoin the world he's dragged me into.
"There you are," he says, his voice smooth as polished stone. "Welcome back."
I scramble away from him, pushing against the mattress until my back hits the ornate headboard. My mouth is desert-dry, my tongue stuck to the roof, and when I try to speak, only a rasp emerges.
"Water?" he offers, lifting a crystal glass from the bedside table as if reading my mind.
I stare at it, parched but suspicious. He sighs, takes a sip himself, then offers it again. My thirst overrides my caution. I snatch the glass, careful not to let our fingers touch, and drain it in desperate gulps. Some spills down my chin, onto my shirt—my shirt from home, still stained with paint. The sight of those familiar blue splatters threatens to undo me.
"Where am I?" I demand, my voice returning with the water. "Why have you brought me here?"
Dante takes back the empty glass, setting it aside with deliberate care. "You're in my home," he says simply. "And you're here because you belong here. With me."
A chill runs through me despite the room's warmth. I glance around, taking in my surroundings for the first time. The room is enormous and obscenely luxurious. All cream and gold and polished wood. Paintings hang on the walls, antiques that look genuine rather than reproductions sit on various surfaces. Through an archway, I glimpse a bathroom that looks larger than my entire bedroom at home.
Home. The thought pierces me like a physical pain.
"I don't belong to anyone," I say, forcing strength into my voice. "You can't just take people. This is kidnapping. My family will call the police. They'll?—"
"Your family," Dante interrupts, "knows exactly where you are."
The words hit me like a slap. Despite what I witnessed—my father's broken expression, his failure to protect me—part of me had been clinging to the hope that this was all a terrible misunderstanding, that my family would be searching for me.
"You're lying," I whisper, but there's no conviction behind it.
Dante leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine. "Your father traded you for his debts, Hannah. A fair exchange, I'd say—though personally, I think I got the better end of the deal." His gaze travels over me, assessing, possessive. "Your family is safe, their financial problems resolved. You should be grateful."
"Grateful?" The word explodes from me. "For being kidnapped? For being treated like property? You're insane!"
I launch myself off the bed, away from him, aiming for what must be the door to this gilded prison. My legs are unsteady from the sedative, but adrenaline pushes me forward. I make it three steps before Dante's hand closes around my wrist, his grip like iron, effortlessly pulling me back.
"That was unwise," he says, his voice still calm but with an underlying coldness that sends ice through my veins. He tugs me closer, until I'm standing directly in front of him, our bodies almost touching. "Let me explain how things work here, since your father clearly failed to prepare you."
I try to pull away, but his grip only tightens. "Let go of me," I demand, my free hand balling into a fist.
His eyes flick to that fist, then back to my face. "Violence will be met with consequences, Hannah. Not pain. I have no desire to damage what belongs to me, but I can make your stay here very uncomfortable if you force me to." He pauses, letting the threat sink in. "Or it can be pleasant. The choice is yours."
"I didn't choose any of this," I spit back.
"No," he agrees, surprising me. "Your father made that choice for you. But you can choose how to adapt to your new reality."
"This isn't reality," I say, my voice breaking despite my efforts to remain defiant. "This is a nightmare. You're a nightmare."
Something flickers in his dark eyes—not hurt, exactly, but perhaps disappointment. "In time, you'll see things differently." His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, feeling my pulse. "Your heart is racing. Are you afraid of me, Hannah?"
"Wouldn't you be?" I counter. "If someone took you from your home, drugged you, locked you up?"
"No one would dare," he says simply.
And there it is. The casual admission of his power, his untouchability. Whoever this man is, he operates outside the rules that govern normal society. The realization makes my situation suddenly, terrifyingly clear. There will be no rescue, no authorities breaking down the door. I am completely at his mercy.
My legs weaken, and I sway slightly. Dante's other hand comes to my waist, steadying me .
"Sit down before you fall," he says, guiding me back to the bed. I sit because standing seems impossible now, my body still heavy from the sedative, my mind reeling with the hopelessness of my position.
Dante remains standing, looking down at me. "These are the rules," he says. "You will stay in this room unless I accompany you elsewhere. You will eat the food provided, wear the clothes provided, and follow my instructions without argument. You will speak to me respectfully. You will not attempt to escape or contact anyone outside this house."
Each sentence falls like a hammer blow. "And if I refuse?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
"Then your comforts will be reduced until you comply," he replies. "This room can be a sanctuary or a cell, depending entirely on your behavior."
I look around at the opulent surroundings, the beautiful prison he's created for me. "Why me?" I ask, the question that's been burning since I first saw him in my bedroom. "Of all the people in the world, why did you choose me?"
Dante studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Because from the moment I saw you, I knew you were meant to be mine."
The possessiveness in his voice makes me shudder. This isn't just about my father's debts. This is something darker, more personal. He didn't just happen to take me as payment; he wanted me specifically. The thought makes me feel physically ill.
"I'll never be yours," I say, the words quiet but firm. "You can keep me locked up forever, but you can't own me. Not really."
His smile is slow, almost sad. "That's where you're wrong, Hannah. I already own your body, if not yet your mind and spirit. Those will come in time."
He moves closer, and I shrink back against the pillows, but there's nowhere to go. His hand reaches out, touching my hair. I flinch but don't pull away, some instinct warning me that resistance now would be dangerous.
"Such beautiful hair," he murmurs, his fingers combing through the strands. "I've thought about how it would feel since the first time I saw you."
The casual admission that he's been watching me, planning this, makes my skin crawl. "Please don't touch me," I whisper.
He ignores me, his hand continuing its exploration, trailing down to my cheek. "Your skin," he says, almost to himself, "is exactly as soft as I imagined."
I close my eyes, trying to block out his presence, trying to escape in the only way currently available to me. But that just heightens my other senses—the feel of his fingers on my face, the scent of his cologne, subtle but expensive.
"Look at me," he commands.
I keep my eyes shut, this small defiance all I can manage. His fingers tighten slightly on my jaw.
"Look at me, Hannah," he repeats, his voice harder now. "Don't make me ask again."
Slowly, reluctantly, I open my eyes, meeting his gaze. The intensity there is frightening—hunger, possession, and something else, something almost like reverence.
"There you are," he says softly. "Those eyes. I knew they'd be even more beautiful up close."
Before I can react, he leans down and presses his lips to my forehead. It's not a romantic kiss—it's a branding, a marking of territory. I freeze, not even breathing until he pulls back.
"That wasn't so terrible, was it?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Just a small taste of what's to come."
My stomach twists at the implication. "I'll never want you," I say, the words coming out shaky but determined. "No matter what you do, no matter how long you keep me here."
His smile doesn't falter. "We'll see." He stands, smoothing his already-immaculate suit. "You should rest. The sedative will take time to fully clear your system. I'll have dinner sent up in a few hours."
He walks to the door, then turns back. "Oh, and Hannah? The windows are reinforced, the door locks automatically, and there are cameras in every corner of this room. I'll be watching you, even when I'm not physically present." He pauses, his hand on the doorknob. "Sweet dreams."
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click followed by the unmistakable sound of a lock engaging.
Alone, I finally allow myself to break. Tears come in a flood, silent at first, then building to wracking sobs that shake my entire body. I curl into a ball on the luxurious bed, burying my face in a pillow to muffle the sound, though I suspect Dante can hear me anyway. He did say he'd be watching.
The thought of his eyes on me, observing my breakdown, makes me force the tears back. I won't give him the satisfaction. I won't become a spectacle for his entertainment.
But what will I become?
The question echoes in my mind as I stare at the ceiling. My old life—my family, my studies, my dreams of art school—seems impossibly distant now, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. In its place is this new, terrifying reality: I am the possession of a man who sees people as things to be owned.
My hand rises to my forehead, to the spot where his lips touched my skin. I can still feel the imprint, burning like a brand. It was just a kiss—clinical, almost chaste—but the intent behind it was clear. A promise, or perhaps a threat, of what's to come.
I should fight. I should scream and kick and never stop resisting. That's what the heroines in movies would do. But movies end after two hours, and I'm beginning to understand that my captivity stretches before me with no end in sight. How long can anyone maintain that level of defiance? How long before the constant resistance breaks something inside me?
The thought of breaking—of becoming what Dante wants me to be—terrifies me more than physical harm ever could. But I'm already starting to calculate, to strategize. Maybe compliance doesn't mean surrender. Maybe I can pretend, can give him what he wants on the surface while keeping my true self hidden deep inside where he can't reach .
Or is that just the first step toward truly becoming his?
I have no answers, just the growing, chilling certainty that this is my life now. A beautiful room that is still a cage. A man who claims to want me but really wants to own me. And somewhere, a family that traded me away like an unwanted possession.
I curl tighter into myself, a technique I've used since childhood to make myself feel safe. It doesn't work anymore. Nothing about me is safe now—not my body, not my future, perhaps not even my mind.
All I have left is the hope that somewhere inside me exists a strength I didn't know I possessed—a strength that will let me survive whatever Dante Severino has planned.