Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
Hannah
I 'm led into Dante's private study like a lamb to the slaughter, my twenty-three-week-pregnant belly preceding me. The room has changed—furniture pushed aside, a peculiar chair in the center, medical equipment neatly arranged on a steel tray. Anton is here, the tattoo artist who has inked Dante’s name, initials, and family crest onto my skin more times than I care to count. But something is different this time. The chair faces the wrong way. The setup isn’t meant for me.
Dante stands in the center of the room, already shirtless, dark eyes burning with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“Hannah,” he says, my name a quiet reverence on his tongue. “Today, we come full circle. Today, I make our bond complete.”
My hand moves instinctively to my belly—a protective reflex that has only grown stronger with each passing week. Our son kicks against my palm, as if sensing my unease, my confusion, my dread about whatever ritual Dante has planned this time.
“What is this?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. “What are you doing?”
Dante steps closer, slow and deliberate, his bare chest gleaming in the dim light. He’s beautiful in a way that still makes my pulse spike—not with admiration, but with fear, with years of conditioning, with the tangled emotions that have festered between us.
“You bear my marks,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing the nape of my neck where his initials are inked—where the tracking chip lies beneath my skin. “My name on your hip. My crest on your back. My ring on your finger.” His hand drifts lower, settling over my belly. “My son inside you. Every mark of ownership. Every claim made permanent.”
He circles me slowly, his touch gliding over my shoulders, down my arm, across the curve of my stomach. “But something is missing. Something remains incomplete.”
He steps back and removes his shirt.
I glance at Anton. At the equipment set up for tattooing. At Dante, his gaze burning with purpose.
And then, I understand.
“You’re going to mark yourself,” I whisper, the realization settling like lead in my stomach.
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. “Yes.” His voice hums with pleasure, with certainty. “Your name is already on my chest Above my heart. Where it belongs. But I’m going to make it bigger.”
The floor tilts beneath me, reality warping in the way it always does when Dante pulls me deeper into his world. This isn’t another act of possession. Not another branding of my skin. This is something else. Something new. Something I can’t quite define.
“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it. Before I can weigh the consequences of asking.
Dante doesn’t hesitate. “Because you’re mine,” he says simply. “And I am yours. Not in the same way. Not with the same control. But with the same permanence.”
He takes my hand, guiding me to a chair positioned to give me a perfect view. My knees buckle, and I sit—not by choice, but because I suddenly can’t stand.
“This mark,” he continues, lowering himself into the tattoo chair, “is proof of what you are to me. Not just my possession. Not just the mother of my child. But essential. Irreplaceable. Vital in ways I can’t explain.”
Anton moves methodically, disinfecting skin, prepping ink, making sure everything is in place. Then, he turns to me, holding out a sheet of paper.
“The design,” Dante says. “See for yourself.”
I force myself to look.
My name—Hannah—scripted in elaborate ink, surrounded by thorned roses that mirror the Severino crest tattooed on my back. But beneath it, smaller text chills me to the bone:
My heart. My soul. Mine eternal.
My breath catches.
“Do you approve?” Dante’s voice is soft, but there’s nothing gentle in the way he watches me, every flicker of emotion on my face analyzed, cataloged.
What choice do I have? What answer won’t lead to punishment? To consequences I can’t afford?
I nod.
Dante exhales, satisfaction curling around the edges of his words. “Proceed, Anton.”
The tattoo gun hums to life. Dante remains perfectly still as the needle presses into his skin, ink embedding itself into flesh, blood welling in its wake. But his gaze never leaves mine.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, the words slipping out unbidden.
“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “Pain is part of marking. Part of claiming. Part of proving what cannot be undone.”
I say nothing. There’s nothing to say.
Minutes stretch into hours. Letter by letter, my name takes shape on his chest. Roses bloom around it, sharp and beautiful. Blood mixes with ink, sealing me into his skin the way he has sealed himself into my life.
All the way Dante’s eyes never leave me. He stares at me obsessively. Pain never registers on his face. Only…devotion.
When it’s finally done, Dante rises, stepping toward the mirror. He studies his reflection, fingers grazing the fresh tattoo, eyes dark with satisfaction.
“Perfect,” he murmurs.
And somehow, I know he isn’t talking about the ink.