In His Name (Marked for Him Trilogy #2)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
Hannah
I haven't seen sunlight in three days. After the incident with Michael, Dante ordered the automatic blinds on my windows sealed shut—punishment for my "misplaced compassion," as he called it. The darkness is wearing on me, making time stretch and contract in unpredictable ways. My circadian rhythm is unraveling, sleep coming in disjointed patches that leave me disoriented and foggy. I think this is deliberate. Dante understands that physical deprivation—of light, of proper sleep, of regular meals—weakens the mind's defenses. The mental walls I've maintained, the inner sanctuary where the real Hannah still exists, are beginning to show cracks. Like water finding the weakest point in a dam, Dante's influence seeps through, contaminating the only part of me I've managed to keep separate from his possession.
I don't know what happened to Michael. Dante never mentioned him again, and I've been afraid to ask. The not knowing is another form of torture—my imagination conjuring scenarios each more horrible than the last. Sometimes I dream of him, his desperate eyes pleading with me for an intervention I couldn't provide. I wake gasping, drenched in sweat, guilt coiling in my stomach like a living thing.
The door opens without warning, artificial light from the hallway spilling into my darkened room. I squint against the sudden brightness, raising a hand to shield my sensitive eyes. Dante's silhouette fills the doorway, tall and imposing, before he steps inside and closes the door behind him, returning the room to near-darkness. Only the soft glow of a lamp in the corner provides any illumination, casting long shadows that make the familiar space feel alien and threatening.
"Good evening, Hannah," he says, his voice deceptively gentle. "Or perhaps I should say good afternoon. It's difficult to tell in here, isn't it?"
I sit up straighter on the bed where I've been listlessly lying, trying to orient myself. "What time is it?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds, how the simple question reveals my disorientation.
"Does it matter?" Dante approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "Time is just another construct, another way we try to impose order on chaos. In here, there is only us. Only now."
His words send a chill through me. This isn't his usual possessive dialogue. There's something different in his tone, something calculated and methodical that frightens me more than his explosive rage ever could.
"I've been thinking about you," he continues, reaching out to touch my face. I force myself not to flinch. "About us. About your continued resistance."
"I haven't resisted," I say quickly, fear making my heart stutter. "I've done everything you've asked."
His smile is gentle, patronizing. "Physically, yes. Your body has submitted beautifully. But your mind..." His fingers trail down to tap my temple lightly. "Your mind still harbors delusions of escape, of a life beyond these walls, beyond my possession."
I say nothing, terrified by his accuracy. Despite everything, I have clung to the hope of someday being free, of returning to the life that was stolen from me. It's a hope I've kept buried deep, sharing it with no one, barely acknowledging it even to myself.
"Your silence confirms it," Dante says, his hand now moving to stroke my hair, the gesture almost tender. "You still believe that this is temporary, that someday you'll leave me, return to your ordinary little life with your ordinary little family."
"I don't—" I begin, but he presses a finger to my lips, silencing me.
"No lies between us, Hannah. Not tonight. Tonight is about truth, about reality, about acceptance." He stands suddenly, moving to turn on the main lights, flooding the room with harsh brightness that makes me wince. "Look at me."
I raise my eyes to his, blinking against the light. He's dressed impeccably as always, his dark suit tailored to perfection, his hair precisely styled. A man in complete control, not just of himself but of everything—and everyone—around him.
"How long have you been here with me?" he asks.
The question throws me. I've been trying to keep track of time, but the days have blurred together, especially recently. "Eight months," I guess, though it might be more. "Maybe nine."
"Nine months and seventeen days," he corrects. "Almost the length of a full-term pregnancy. Appropriate, in a way—you've been reborn in this time, transformed from the naive girl I claimed into something more refined, more worthy of my attention."
I swallow hard, fighting to maintain my composure. "I'm still the same person," I say, the words coming out stronger than I expected. A small defiance, but one I cling to.
Dante smiles, but the expression doesn't reach his eyes. "Are you? Let's see." He moves to a hidden panel in the wall, pressing his palm against it. The panel slides open, revealing a screen. "I had this compiled for tonight. A reminder of who you were, compared to who you are now."
The screen flickers to life, showing images that make my breath catch in my throat. It's me—but a version of me I barely recognize. I'm laughing with friends on a university campus, my face open and carefree. Another image: painting in an art studio, brow furrowed in concentration. Another: walking down a street with my sister, both of us talking animatedly about something now forgotten.
"That girl," Dante says, gesturing to the images, "no longer exists. She was ordinary, unremarkable, destined for a life of mediocrity. Look at her. Really look."
I can't stop staring at my own face, at the unguarded expressions, the easy smiles, the light in my eyes that has long since been extinguished. It's like looking at a stranger, yet one I desperately miss, one whose absence is a physical ache inside me.
"Now," Dante continues, pressing another button that changes the images. "Look at who you've become."
The new pictures are surveillance footage from the mansion. Me walking through the halls, eyes downcast. Me sitting at dinner, posture perfect but expression vacant. Me in bed with Dante, his body covering mine, my face turned away from the camera but the resignation in my body language unmistakable.
"You see the difference?" he asks, moving to stand behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders. "The girl in the first images was nothing—a sketch, an outline waiting to be filled in. What you are now has depth, significance. You exist because I give you existence. You matter because I decided you matter."
"That's not true," I whisper, but doubt creeps in, insidious and cold. The Hannah in those first images feels impossibly distant, like a character from a movie I watched long ago rather than the person I once was. "I had a life before you. I had people who loved me, dreams, plans?—"
"Did you?" he interrupts, his voice still gentle but with an edge that cuts. "Let's examine that. Your family sold you to pay a debt. Your father traded you for his own financial salvation. Your mother didn't stop him. Your siblings haven't searched for you."
"They can't," I protest, the words feeling hollow even to my own ears. "They don't know where I am, they're probably afraid?—"
"They know exactly where you are," Dante says, his grip on my shoulders tightening slightly. "I've sent them pictures. Updates. Proof of life, as they say. They could have gone to the police. They could have made a public spectacle, demanded your return. They didn't."
This can't be true. My family wouldn't abandon me, wouldn't accept my disappearance so easily. But a seed of doubt takes root—my father's guilty expression as I was taken, the financial troubles that were never fully explained, the quiet desperation that had hung over our home in the months before my abduction.
"You're lying," I say, but there's no conviction in my voice.
"Am I?" Dante moves around to face me, crouching to bring his eyes level with mine. "Hannah, I've never lied to you. I've taken you, claimed you, marked you as mine—but I've never deceived you. Your family made their choice. They chose financial security over you. They've moved on. Your father's debts are paid. Your mother has a new car. Your sister Emma is applying to universities without the burden of tuition concerns."
Each detail lands like a physical blow. How would he know these things if he hadn't been in contact with them? The thought of my family continuing their lives, accepting material improvements purchased with my freedom, makes me physically ill.
"Your friends have moved on too," Dante continues relentlessly. "That girl—what was her name? Lily? She has a new best friend. Your professors barely noticed your absence. There's always another eager art student to replace the ones who drop out. The world didn't stop when you left it, Hannah. It didn't even pause."
I close my eyes, unable to bear his gaze any longer, but he takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look at him. "No retreating," he says. "No hiding. Face the truth. No one is coming for you. No one is searching. No one is waiting for your return. There is only me. Only us."
"Please stop," I whisper, tears welling despite my determination not to cry in front of him.
"I'm not being cruel, Hannah. I'm being kind. The greatest kindness is truth, even when it hurts." His thumb brushes away a tear that escapes despite my efforts. "Once you accept that your old life is truly gone, that those people have moved on without you, you can finally embrace what you are now. What we are together."
The worst part is that his words resonate with fears I've tried to suppress. As months passed with no rescue, no intervention, I've wondered if I've been forgotten, if my absence has healed over like a wound in the lives of those I left behind. The thought is unbearable, yet increasingly plausible as time stretches on.
"Even if what you say is true," I manage, my voice trembling, "it doesn't change who I am. Inside, I'm still me. I still have my thoughts, my memories, my?—"
"Your what?" Dante interrupts. "Your identity? Let's examine that too. What made you 'Hannah' before? Your studies? Abandoned. Your art? You haven't created anything in months. Your relationships? Severed. Your independence? Surrendered." He leans closer, his breath warm against my face. "The Hannah you're clinging to is a ghost, a memory fading more each day. The only real Hannah is the one sitting before me now—my Hannah, my possession, my wife."
I shake my head, but the denial feels weak, unconvincing even to myself. Who am I now, if not Dante's captive? What defines me beyond the boundaries he's set, the role he's forced upon me? My sense of self feels suddenly fragile, insubstantial, like fog that dissipates when grasped.
"I can see you understanding," Dante says, his voice softer now, almost hypnotic. "I can see the acceptance beginning. It's beautiful to witness, Hannah. Your surrender not just of body but of mind."
"No," I whisper, but it's a reflexive protest, lacking conviction. "I'm not just…I can't be just..."
"Just mine?" He completes the thought, smiling. "But you are. Wholly, completely, irrevocably mine. And once you truly accept that, you'll find peace. The struggle is what causes your suffering, Hannah. The resistance, the clinging to a past that no longer exists, to a self that has been transformed."
His words wrap around me like silk cords, beautiful and suffocating. There's a terrible logic to them, a persuasive power that finds purchase in the cracks of my already weakened defenses. What if he's right? What if everyone has moved on? What if the only reality that matters now is the one Dante has created for me—for us?
"I want to show you something else," Dante says, rising to retrieve something from his pocket. He returns with a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a delicate gold locket. "This is for you. A gift to mark this moment of clarity."
He removes the locket, opening it to show me what's inside. On one side is a tiny photograph of me, taken recently within the mansion. On the other side, an engraving: "Dante Severino’s.”
"To remind you of the truth," he says, moving behind me to fasten it around my neck. "To help you when doubt creeps in, when the old delusions try to reassert themselves."
The necklace feels heavy against my skin, the metal cold. Another marking, another claim, but this one seems to reach deeper, to touch not just my body but my sense of self. Property. Is that truly all I am now?
"Say it," Dante urges, his hands on my shoulders again, his lips close to my ear. "Say what you are."
I remain silent, some last vestige of resistance holding the words back. His grip tightens, not painfully but with unmistakable intent.
"Say it, Hannah. Accept it. Embrace it."
"I am..." My voice breaks, the admission feeling like surrender of something fundamental, something I've protected through all the physical violations. "I am yours."
"My what?" he presses, relentless.
A tear slides down my cheek, unchecked. "Your property."
His arms encircle me from behind, pulling me against his chest in a parody of comfort. “No,” he breathes, satisfaction evident in his voice. “You are my everything . Mine in every way. And you always will be."
As he holds me, as his words sink into my consciousness, I feel something essential crumbling inside me—the core of resistance, of identity, of hope that has sustained me through these months of captivity. The Hannah who entered this mansion—bright, defiant, certain of herself and her future—seems increasingly distant, increasingly unreal. In her place is someone new, someone shaped by Dante's will, someone for whom resistance feels not just futile but increasingly meaningless.
And the most terrifying thought of all creeps in, unwelcome but persistent: What if this is all there is? What if Dante is right, and acceptance is the only peace I'll ever know again?