Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
Dante
S he moves differently now, as if the knowledge of carrying my child has already begun to change her. There’s a subtle protectiveness in the way she places her hands, a delicate curve to her posture, even though her stomach is still flat. Only six weeks along, and yet the pregnancy has altered something in her—softened her edges, brightened her skin, and filled out her breasts in a way that tests every ounce of my restraint. I watch her from the doorway as she sits by the window, reading one of the books I’ve approved, completely unaware of my presence.
Mine.
The word hums through my veins, a steady, unrelenting truth. Mine in every conceivable way—body, name, future. And now, in the most primal, irrevocable sense—carrying my child. My legacy. Proof of my claim rooted inside her.
But something’s shifted since we confirmed the pregnancy. There’s a distance in her eyes I can’t quite touch, a retreat I can feel but not see. Physically, she yields without resistance, but something within her has withdrawn, erecting invisible walls between us. It burns in my chest like a slow, steady fire, the knowledge that some part of her—no matter how small—still exists beyond my reach. Unacceptable. Every part of her belongs to me. Her body. Her mind. Her focus. There can be no distance, no division. She is mine. Completely.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear—a simple, absentminded gesture—and it’s enough to snap my control. She did that the first time I saw her, at that wretched community fundraiser where her father grovelled to find someone—anyone—willing to bail him out of his debts. I had watched her then, watched her perform that same delicate movement without realizing it had sealed her fate. Now she does it again, here in my home, with my child inside her, and still she tries to preserve something of herself from me.
I step into the room, letting my footsteps announce my presence. She startles slightly, then composes herself, smoothing her hand over her stomach—a gesture that both pleases and infuriates me. Pleased that she protects what’s mine. Infuriated that she thinks anything belonging to me would ever need protection from me.
“Dante,” she says softly, closing the book. Her voice is polite, measured. The carefully constructed neutrality she’s perfected over the last few weeks. It’s another barrier. Another form of distance.
“Put the book aside,” I say, my tone rougher than intended, betraying the simmering need beneath my control. “Come here.”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second—long enough for the rage to flare—before obeying, setting the book down and rising gracefully. She moves toward me with the quiet, learned compliance of someone who understands resistance is futile. Yet even as she approaches, I can see it in her eyes—that part of her that remains untouched. Hidden.
Unacceptable.
I circle her slowly, letting my gaze rake over her. The dress she wears—chosen by me—clings to her curves, thin enough to reveal the marks on her neck and the tattoo on her hip that declares my ownership. Her hair is long, falling past her shoulders, exactly as I prefer it. Her posture is perfect, head slightly bowed, hands folded in front of her. On the surface, she is the picture of submission. But I know better.
I stop in front of her, tilting her chin up so her eyes meet mine. “Where are you?” I demand quietly. “Your body is here. But your mind?”
Confusion flashes briefly before she smooths it away. “I’m right here,” she answers softly. “I was just reading.”
A lie. Small, but still a lie. Her thoughts were somewhere else—somewhere separate from me. And that is intolerable.
“No,” I murmur, my grip tightening on her chin. “You’re drifting. Holding something back. Creating space where there should be none.” My other hand slides to her waist, pulling her against me with enough force to make her gasp. “I don’t accept distance, Hannah. Not from you. Not ever.”
Her breath quickens. “I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t apologize,” I cut her off coldly. “Correct it.”
Her throat works as she swallows. Good. Fear. Fear is honest. Fear is reverence. And if fear is what it takes to shatter that last remaining piece of independence, then so be it.
Without another word, I scoop her up, cradling her like something fragile yet entirely mine, and carry her to the bed. She doesn’t struggle. She’s learned not to. I deposit her onto the mattress with controlled force, my body humming with the need to eliminate every trace of separation between us.
“Dante, I?—”
“Silence,” I snap, already stripping off my jacket, my tie. “No words. No thoughts. Only submission. Complete submission.”
I undress with methodical precision, watching her face as her breathing shallows, her pupils dilate. I’ve trained her body to respond to me this way—to fear and desire in equal measure. But it’s not enough. Not while her mind still shelters somewhere I cannot touch.
“Stand,” I command once I’m bare. She does, shaky but obedient. “Remove the dress.”
Her hands tremble slightly as she obeys, peeling the fabric away and letting it pool at her feet. She’s left in the simple white undergarments I selected—deliberately innocent, a stark contrast to the complete dominance I impose upon her.
“All of it,” I clarify darkly.
The last barrier falls. She stands naked, vulnerable, branded with my name and my child, and yet—still—some part of her remains out of reach. I see it in her eyes. The distance. The unyielding sliver of independence. And I know, with cold certainty, that tonight I will obliterate it.
“On the bed. On your back.”
She complies immediately, her breath shuddering as she positions herself for me. But her eyes drift toward the ceiling—away from me. Another small act of defiance. Another sign of distance.
I’m on her in seconds, my body caging hers, my hand gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at me. “Eyes on me, Hannah. Always.”
Her gaze snaps back, wide and full of the fear she tries to conceal. Better. Fear is something I can use. Fear ensures compliance. Fear bridges the distance.
“Who am I to you?” I demand, my voice a low growl against her lips.
“My husband,” she breathes, barely audible.
“More.” My fingers tighten, my control slipping. “What else?”
Her hesitation is infuriating, but eventually, she breaks. “My owner,” she whispers. “The man who owns me.”
Satisfaction floods me like wildfire. “Yes,” I murmur darkly, my mouth descending on hers. “And I will own you, Hannah. Completely. There will be no part of you left unclaimed. No thought. No desire. No distance. Only me.”
And tonight, I will make certain of it.
Satisfaction floods me like wildfire. "Yes," I murmur darkly, my mouth descending on hers. "And I will own you, Hannah. Completely. There will be no part of you left unclaimed. No thought. No desire. No distance. Only me."
And tonight, I will make certain of it.
Her pulse flutters beneath my fingertips as I trace the delicate line of her throat. She's afraid—I can taste it on her skin, sweet as honeyed wine—but there's something else there too. Desire. Surrender. The inevitable recognition that she belongs to me.
"Look at me," I command, tilting her chin upward. Those hazel eyes, flecked with gold and defiance, meet mine reluctantly. "Do you understand what you are to me? Not a possession, Hannah. That's too simple. You're my oxygen. My redemption."
She tries to turn away. I don't allow it.
"You think I'm a monster," I whisper against her ear, feeling her shiver. "Perhaps I am. But monsters can worship too."
My hands map her body with reverent precision, memorizing every freckle, every scar. That delicate ankle with its childhood reminder. The soft curve where her waist meets her hip. The constellation of beauty marks across her left shoulder blade that I've counted in the darkness a hundred times while she slept.
"I've built empires," I tell her, lowering her to the silk sheets that cost more than her father's monthly salary. "I've broken men with a word. I've accumulated wealth that would make kings envious. And none of it—" my voice breaks unexpectedly "—none of it matters compared to this . To you."
Her fingers clutch the sheets as I move lower, pressing kisses down the valley between her breasts. "Dante," she breathes, uncertainty clouding her voice.
"Let go," I growl, frustration edging my tone when I feel her tense. "Stop fighting what we both know is inevitable."
"I can't just?—"
"You can. You will." My mouth finds her center, and her protest dissolves into a gasp. I work her methodically, reading her body's responses like a book I've studied for years. When she tries to squirm away, overwhelmed, I pin her hips firmly to the mattress.
"Please," she begs, though whether she's pleading for release or reprieve, I don't care to determine.
"Surrender to me," I demand against her heated flesh. "Give me everything."
When her first climax hits, her back arches like a perfect bow, my name tearing from her throat in a scream that satisfies something primal within me. But I don't stop. I continue my relentless worship, bringing her to the edge again, watching her face contort with pleasure bordering on pain.
"Too much," she sobs, trying to push me away.
I capture her wrists in one hand, pressing them above her head. Her resistance excites me more than her surrender ever could. This delicate dance between us—her futile attempts to deny what belongs to me, my absolute certainty in claiming it—it's what makes her different from all the others.
"Nothing with you is ever too much," I tell her, my voice rough with need. "I want you mindless. Shattered. So thoroughly consumed that you forget where you end and I begin."
Her chest heaves with rapid breaths, tears glistening in the corners of those defiant eyes. Beautiful. So goddamn beautiful it makes something in my chest ache.
"I hate you," she whispers, but her body betrays her. She's wet against my fingers as I slide them inside her, watching her eyelids flutter.
"No you don’t," I reply, working her slowly, deliberately. "Your body says otherwise."
When I enter her, the sound she makes—half sob, half moan—is my undoing. I've had countless women in my bed, but none have ever felt like Hannah. None have ever made me feel this desperate, this unhinged.
"Look at me," I command again as I move within her. "I want to see you when you come apart."
Reluctantly, she opens her eyes, and for a moment—just one fleeting moment—the walls she's built against me crumble. I see everything: her fear, her desire, her confusion, and something dangerously close to understanding.
That's what terrifies me most about Hannah Brightley and what I think inspires my deep obsession with her. Not her resistance, but the moments when she sees through the monster to the man beneath. The man I've spent decades burying.
I increase my pace, driving us both toward oblivion. Her nails score my back, marking me as surely as I've marked her. When her release crashes through her, I follow immediately, my control shattered by the sight of her undoing.
After, as our breathing slows, I gather her against me. She doesn't fight this—she never does afterward, when exhaustion makes her pliant. I trace lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, feeling possessiveness surge through me.
"You'll never leave me," I murmur into her hair, not entirely certain if it's a promise or a threat. "I'd burn this city to the ground before I let you go."
She stiffens slightly in my arms. "What happens when you get tired of me?" Her voice is small, uncertain.
The question infuriates me. I roll her beneath me, pinning her with my weight, forcing her to meet my gaze.
"You still don't understand, do you?" My fingers tangle in her hair, not gently. "This isn't some passing obsession. You're carved into my soul, Hannah. The only way you leave me is in death—and even then, I'd follow you."
Fear flashes in her eyes, but beneath it, I catch something else—a flicker of dark satisfaction that she wields this power over me. She might be my captive, but in moments like these, I'm equally enslaved.
"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.