Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
Hannah
D ays blend into one another in this golden prison. I've lost track of how long I've been here—weeks, certainly, though it feels like years. My body still aches from that night, from Dante's claiming of me. I wasn't ready; he didn't care. The physical pain has faded to a dull reminder, but the violation remains, a shadow that follows me from room to room in this luxurious cage. I avoid mirrors now. I don't recognize the girl who stares back—hollow-eyed, pale as the sheets Dante insisted on changing himself, preserving the evidence of what he'd taken from me. I curl deeper into the window seat, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. It's bulletproof, he told me once, with a smile that suggested he was sharing a secret rather than reminding me of my imprisonment.
The door opens without warning. It always does, my privacy another thing that belongs to Dante now. I don't turn around. I know who it is; no one else ever enters this room.
"Good morning, Hannah," his voice slides across the space between us, smooth as polished stone. "You haven't touched your breakfast."
I haven't touched food in days, surviving on sips of water and the occasional cup of tea when the emptiness in my stomach becomes too painful to ignore. It's not a conscious rebellion. I simply can't stomach anything more.
"I'm not hungry," I reply, the words automatic, mechanical. I've learned to respond when spoken to. The consequences of silence are worse than the effort of speech.
His footsteps approach, deliberately loud. He moves silently when he wants to, another method of control. The window seat dips as he sits beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and subtle that I've come to associate with dread .
"Look at me," he instructs, his voice gentle but brooking no argument.
I turn, meeting his gaze because I must. His eyes are dark, almost black in certain lights, currently filled with what someone who didn't know better might mistake for concern.
"You need to eat," he says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. I don't flinch anymore; it's a pointless expenditure of energy. "I won't have you making yourself ill."
"Yes, Dante,” I respond, empty words to placate him.
He studies me, his expression thoughtful. "You're still processing what happened between us," he says, as if discussing a business transaction rather than a violation. "That's understandable. The first time is significant for a woman."
I say nothing. What is there to say? That he took something I can never get back? That I feel hollow, carved out, diminished? He knows all this and considers it a victory.
"Today is important," he continues, his hand moving to rest on my knee, a casual claiming of territory. "Today, we make our arrangement more…permanent."
Something in his tone sends a fresh wave of fear through me, breaking through the numb fog I've been living in. "What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
His smile is pleased, satisfied that he's provoked a genuine reaction. "I've brought someone to mark you," he says, his fingers tightening slightly on my knee. "To ensure that anyone who sees you knows exactly who you belong to."
For a moment, I don't understand—or perhaps my mind refuses to understand. Then reality crashes in, and I feel the blood drain from my face. "A tattoo," I whisper, the word feeling foreign on my tongue.
"Very good," he nods, approval warming his voice. "My name, here." He touches my hip, just below the curve of my waist. "Where only I will see it, unless I choose to display you otherwise."
"No." The word escapes before I can stop it, a reflex of self—preservation in a situation where preservation is no longer possible. "Please, no."
Dante's expression doesn't change, but something hardens in his eyes. "This isn't a negotiation, Hannah. The artist is waiting in the adjoining room. This will happen today, whether you accept it gracefully or not."
I try to stand, to put distance between us, but his hand clamps down on my knee, holding me in place with effortless strength. "You can't do this," I say, knowing even as the words leave my mouth how meaningless they are. He can do anything he wants. He's proven that already.
"I can and I will," he says simply. "The only choice you have is how difficult you make the process." He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Fight, and I'll have you sedated. The tattoo will be larger, more elaborate. Comply, and it will be relatively small, discreet. Your decision."
It's no decision at all, and he knows it. I close my eyes, trying to find some reservoir of strength, some argument that might sway him. There is nothing.
"Yes, Dante,” I finally whisper, defeat tasting like ash in my mouth.
"Excellent," he says, standing and offering his hand to help me up. I take it because refusing would be pointless, another battle I cannot win. "Come. Everything is prepared."
He leads me through a door I've never noticed before, concealed in the paneling of my prison. Beyond is a smaller room, clinically bright compared to the warm glow of my suite. A man waits there, standing beside what looks like a modified massage table. Tattoo equipment is arranged on a nearby tray, the needles catching the light, menacing in their precision .
"This is Anton," Dante introduces, his hand at the small of my back, guiding me forward. "He's very skilled, very discreet. He'll make this as painless as possible."
Anton nods, his face professionally blank. He's older, with graying temples and steady hands. He doesn't meet my eyes, doesn't acknowledge me as a person. To him, I'm just a canvas, another job, a favor done for a powerful man.
"Please remove your dress and lie on the table," Dante instructs, his voice still gentle but firm. "On your side, facing away from me."
My fingers tremble as I reach for the hem of my dress—another one chosen by Dante, pale blue silk that falls just above my knees. I hesitate, suddenly conscious of the stranger's presence.
"Would you prefer privacy?" Dante asks, reading my reluctance. A small kindness, or the illusion of one.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Anton, step outside for a moment," Dante commands. The man obeys instantly, leaving us alone. "Better?"
It's not better, not really, but it's a degree less terrible. I pull the dress over my head, standing in just my underwear. Simple white cotton, the only small comfort he's allowed me in my captivity. Dante's eyes travel over my body, possessive and appreciative, but there's nothing I can do about his gaze. I climb onto the table, positioning myself as instructed, my back to him, my hip exposed.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hand tracing the curve of my waist, down to where his name will soon be permanently etched. "You were made for this, Hannah. Made to carry my mark."
I say nothing, focusing on controlling my breathing, on not letting the tears that burn behind my eyes fall. I will not cry. Not for this. Not when there will likely be so much worse to endure.
Dante calls Anton back, and the preparations begin. The cold sting of alcohol as my skin is cleaned. The buzz of the tattoo machine being tested. Dante's voice, low and authoritative, describing exactly what he wants. His name in elegant script, the letters an inch high, positioned just where his hand rests on my hip.
"This will hurt," Anton warns, the first words he's spoken directly to me. "Try to remain still."
"She will," Dante answers for me, his hand finding mine, gripping it in what might appear to be support but feels like another form of restraint. "Won't you, Hannah?"
"Yes, Dante,” I whisper, because what other answer is there ?
The first touch of the needle is a shock—a burning, stinging sensation that makes me gasp. I try to pull away instinctively, but Dante's hand tightens around mine, his other moving to my shoulder, holding me in place.
"Breathe," he instructs. "Focus on my voice. This pain is temporary, but what it represents is eternal. You're becoming truly mine."
The needle continues its work, etching his ownership into my flesh one agonizing letter at a time. I fix my gaze on the wall opposite, trying to detach, to float somewhere above my body as I've done during other violations. But the pain anchors me, makes escape impossible.
D—A—N—T—E. Five letters that will mark me forever, that I'll carry until death. The needle seems to work slower with each letter, drawing out the process, the pain, the humiliation of being branded like cattle.
Throughout, Dante speaks softly, words of encouragement and possession mingling together. "You're doing so well…The pain makes the marking more significant…Everyone will know you belong to me…This connects us in ways no one can break..."
When it's finally finished, Anton cleans the area, applying some kind of ointment and a clear bandage. "Keep it covered for two days," he instructs, speaking to Dante rather than me. "Clean it as I've shown you. It will heal quickly if cared for properly."
Dante nods, dismissing the man with a wave. Anton packs his equipment and leaves without another glance in my direction, his role in my nightmare completed.
I remain on the table, not trusting my legs to support me, not wanting to look at what's been done to my body. Dante's hand strokes my hair, a perversion of comfort.
"Let me see it," he says, helping me sit up, turning me so the light falls perfectly on his handiwork. He peels back the edge of the bandage, his intake of breath sharp with pleasure. "Perfect. Exactly as I envisioned."
Against my will, I look down. His name stands out in stark black against my pale skin, the area around it red and inflamed. DANTE. Five letters that might as well spell OWNED.
Something breaks inside me at the sight—some last barrier of hope or resistance. This is real. This is permanent. I am marked, claimed, reduced to property with a brand that can never be removed.
"Why?" I ask, the word escaping on a breath, barely audible .
He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Because you need to understand that there is no escape, Hannah. No future that doesn't include me. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can find peace in your new reality."
I close my eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his stare, the conviction behind his words. He believes what he's saying. That's the truly terrifying part. In his mind, this violation is a gift, a certainty in an uncertain world.
"Get dressed," he says, helping me from the table with unexpected gentleness. "Rest today. The area will be tender for a while."
I pull my dress back on with mechanical movements, my mind struggling to process what's just happened. This isn't like the taking of my virginity—painful, violating, but ultimately invisible to the outside world. This is permanent, undeniable proof of his ownership, something I'll see every time I bathe or dress, something I'll feel every time cloth brushes against it.
Back in my suite, Dante leads me to the bed, urging me to lie down. I comply because fighting seems impossible now, my energy drained by pain and despair. He sits beside me, stroking my hair as one might soothe a frightened animal.
"This is just the beginning," he says, his voice soft but filled with conviction. "There will be other marks, other ways I claim you. Each one will help you understand your place in my life more fully."
The promise—or threat—hangs in the air between us. Other marks. Other claims. A future stretching endlessly before me, filled with nothing but Dante and his obsession.
As he leaves, locking the door behind him, I curl into myself, hand hovering over the bandage but not quite touching it. The pain pulses beneath my fingers, a constant reminder of what's been done to me.
I used to dream of leaving marks on the world through my art, creating beauty that might outlive me. Instead, it's my body that's become the canvas, marked permanently with another's claim to ownership. And something tells me this is just the first brushstroke in Dante's masterpiece of possession.