Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
Dante
I spot it from across the garden—Hannah, laughing softly, talking to the new gardener. Her fingers graze his arm, that innocent touch sparking something dark and uncontrollable within me. A wave of heat, thick and possessive, floods my chest, turning my vision red at the edges. My hands go numb, but there’s a fire building deep inside. Not guilt. Pure, raw possession. My woman. Mine. No one else gets to touch what belongs to me.
I move toward them, every step calculated and slow, the calm on my face a stark contrast to the storm brewing in my veins. The gardener notices me first, his easy grin faltering into wary tension. Good. He knows—he feels it—the line he's crossed. Hannah’s smile drops when she sees the shift in his expression, her hand instinctively clutching her stomach as she turns toward me.
"Dante," she says, that voice of hers, neutral, the one she’s perfected over months of knowing her place. "The roses are blooming beautifully. I was just asking about?—"
"Inside," I cut her off, my voice low, carrying that edge that brooks no argument. "Now."
She hesitates, just a flicker, before she turns. One hand stays at her belly, protecting the life growing inside her, the other pressed against her back, a subtle reminder of the weight of her pregnancy. I follow, not touching her, not yet, but close enough for every muscle in my body to be tense with restraint, a struggle to keep my anger in check.
The gardener stays frozen, the air around him thick with fear. I stop, my gaze turning cold as I face him one last time. "You’re dismissed. Pack your things. Leave my property in the next hour. If you're still here when I come back..." I let the threat hang in the air, the silence loud between us. He nods quickly, already backing away, knowing his survival is a matter of luck. But it won’t last. Not with me focused on her. Not after what I just saw.
Inside, I guide Hannah to our room, my hand at her back, firm and unyielding. The staff scurry away, faces averted, their bodies stiff with the familiar fear that always follows when she forgets her place. When she forgets me.
The door shuts with finality behind us, the lock clicking like the sound of fate locking us both into this moment. She stands there, stiff, not cowering but not defiant either—too smart for that. She knows what’s coming.
"Explain yourself," I demand, my voice deceptively soft, that calm before the storm.
"The gardener…he was just showing me the roses," she stammers, her voice steady despite the fear I can feel pouring off of her. "I asked when they bloom. That’s all, Dante. Just flowers."
"You touched him." I don't ask. I state it. Cold. Sharp. I need her to acknowledge it. To feel the weight of what she's done.
Her confusion flickers, and she swallows hard. "I—did I? It wasn't intentional. I didn’t?—"
"Your hand. On his arm. Laughing." I take a step closer, my anger building, each word like a blow. "You gave him something that’s mine. Your touch. Your laughter. Your attention. All of it, it belongs to me. And only me."
She flinches. Not from fear, but from the realization of what she’s done. Her eyes widen, as if she finally understands the magnitude of her mistake.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, regret and fear thick in her voice. "It was…it was a moment. I didn’t mean it. I?—"
"Intentions don’t matter." I take another step, my voice low but commanding, as I circle her, my presence a suffocating force. "Results do. And the result? You gave another man what is mine. And that cannot go unpunished."
I see her pulse quicken, her body tensing, knowing what's next. She’s learned the ritual by now, the way things go when she steps out of line. Her hand moves instinctively to her belly again, like she’s trying to protect the baby. Her baby. Mine.
"Take your dress off," I order, my voice still quiet but laced with an undeniable authority.
She hesitates, just for a moment, the weight of my gaze heavy on her. Then, with trembling hands, she starts to undress. The fabric falls to the floor, pooling at her feet. She's left in just her undergarments, her swollen belly exposed. Her body is marked by my touch, by the tattoos that scream my ownership.
"Everything," I say, my voice flat, a reminder of the ritual. The punishment. The consequence.
She doesn’t hesitate now, dropping her undergarments to the floor. She's standing naked before me, vulnerable in every sense of the word. Her hands cradle our child, but her eyes are filled with that familiar fear. Not for herself. But for what’s coming.
"On the bed," I command. My voice is thick with anticipation. Not of her discomfort, but of the lesson she’s about to learn. The one that will make her remember.
She moves slowly, her body stiff, but she obeys.
Once she's on the bed, I unbuckle my belt, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
Her breath catches, her eyes wide with fear.
She knows what’s coming.
She knows I don’t tolerate disobedience.
"Please..." she whispers, her voice breaking.
"The baby..."
"Will be fine," I say, finishing her thought with cold certainty.
"But you? You’re going to learn something tonight. You’re going to remember what you are. Who you are. Who you belong to."
My belt falls to the floor with a clang, and I reach for Hannah. She doesn’t fight me, though I can feel her questions when I lay her across my lap.
For a moment, I simply stroke her ass, admiring the firm cheeks. My cock hardens painfully, but I ignore it.
I’ve never resorted to corporal punishment before, but maybe it will get through to her. I’m becoming desperate and crazed in my obsession, but fuck me if I can hep it.
I raise my hand and strike, landing on her thigh with precise force. She gasps, her body jerking at the impact.
"This is for talking to anyone else. Smiling at anyone else." Another strike, this time across her hip.
She bites her lip, stifling a cry.
"Do I need to remind you more?" I ask, knowing the answer.
Her silence is an answer in itself.
My hand lands again and again, each strike deliberate, each one a reminder of where she went wrong.
Her skin blooms red under my touch, but I know exactly what she can take. I always do.
When I'm done, I gather her close to me, my hand claiming her body once more, this time gentle, this time with a promise of forgiveness as long as she remembers.
She’s trembling, tears lining her eyes but not falling.
I brush them away with my thumb.
"Did you learn your lesson?" I ask quietly, stroking her hair like I would a child’s.
She nods, her voice hoarse from holding back. "Yes."
"And will you forget it again?"
"No," she chokes out.
"Never."
I pull her close, careful of where I’ve marked her, careful of our unborn child between us.
"Good girl," I murmur into her hair, feeling her relax slowly against me.
And then it’s like a damn breaks free. She grips my shirt tightly and sobs—really fucking sobs—as she clings to me. Call me a sick bastard, but I love that it’s me she’s turning to and clinging to so desperately while she falls apart. Never mind that I’m the reason she’s falling apart of the only one she has to access to.
It’s still happening. Hannah is reaching out to me .
I rock her and stroke her hair until she settles, he cries eventually subsiding. I continue to stroke her hair and back soothingly until she nuzzles closer to my chest like a little kitten.
Maybe this is what she needed all along. This aftercare.
I lift her chin, and she doesn’t resist. Her eyes are wet pools glistening up at me, though they don’t contain the same defiance as before.
They’re completely trusting in a way that causes my chest to ache.
I don’t speak. I kiss her softly, reverently, and for once, she kisses me back.
I have her. Finally, completely, I have her.
The rush is something I can't describe—like the first gasp of air after nearly drowning. Her lips move against mine with a surrender that feels genuine for the first time since I brought her here. Not fear, not calculation. Just Hannah, opening to me.
When I pull back, her eyes remain closed for several heartbeats, lashes wet against her cheeks. I could kill a man for the privilege of watching her like this—vulnerable, marked by my hand, carrying my child. Mine in every possible way.
"Look at me," I command softly.
Her eyes flutter open, and I search them for any hint of the defiance that's been my constant companion since she arrived. There's nothing but exhaustion and something else—acceptance, perhaps. Or resignation. I don't care which. The result is the same.
"Tell me who you belong to." My voice is barely above a whisper, but in the silence of the room, it might as well be a shout.
Her lips part slightly, and I can see her throat work as she swallows. "You," she says, the word hanging between us like a confession.
"Say my name."
"Dante." She exhales it like a prayer. "I belong to Dante Severino."
I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my touch. Her skin is still flushed from her tears, from my punishment, and it makes her look alive in a way that sends heat through my veins.
"And what happens when you forget that?" I ask, needing to hear her acknowledge it.
She doesn't hesitate. "You remind me."
Christ. The simplicity of those three words nearly undoes me. I gather her closer, careful of her tender skin, and breathe in the scent of her hair. She smells like vanilla and salt from her tears, and underneath it all, something uniquely Hannah that I've come to crave more than air.
"I will always remind you," I promise, pressing my lips to her temple. "However many times it takes."
She nods against my chest, her breathing evening out as she relaxes further into my embrace. I wonder what she's thinking—if she's plotting even now, or if she's finally surrendered that part of herself too. The part that believes escape is possible.
I hope not. I need this woman like I’ve never needed anything else. I just need her to realize that.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, suddenly aware that she hasn't eaten since breakfast.
She nods again, and I lift her carefully, setting her on her feet.
She winces slightly as her weight settles, and I feel a twinge of—not regret, never that—but awareness that I should be mindful of her condition. Her hand drifts unconsciously to her stomach, and the sight of it makes something primal roar inside me.
"I'll have Maria prepare something light," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Hannah's eyes flicker up to mine. "Can I..." she starts, then hesitates.
"Speak."
"Can I help? In the kitchen?" Her voice is small but steady. "I used to cook with my mother. Before."
Before I took her. Before I owned her life. The unspoken hangs between us.
I consider it. Part of me wants to refuse—the kitchen has knives, heavy pans, a hundred potential weapons. But the other part, the part that's winning lately, wants to see her move around my space willingly. Wants to watch her create something rather than simply exist in my presence.
"Yes," I decide. "But I'll be there."
Relief floods her features, and it's like watching the sun break through clouds. I've given her this small thing, and the gratitude in her eyes is intoxicating.
I lead her downstairs, my hand at the small of her back. She moves gingerly, no doubt feeling the sting of my discipline with each step. Good. Let her body remember what her mind might try to forget.
Maria looks surprised when we enter the kitchen together, her eyes darting between us before settling on Hannah's flushed face.
"We'll take it from here," I tell her. "You can go."
Maria nods once and disappears, leaving us alone in the gleaming kitchen.
Hannah moves toward the refrigerator with hesitant steps, looking back at me for permission. I nod, leaning against the counter to watch her. She opens it and surveys the contents, something shifting in her posture. For a moment, I see the woman she was before—purposeful, confident in at least this small domain.
"Pasta," she says softly. "With pesto and cherry tomatoes?"
"Whatever you want."
She gathers ingredients, moving around the kitchen with growing ease. I watch her hands—delicate but sure as they chop basil, crush garlic. When she reaches for a knife, her eyes flick to mine, questioning.
"Go ahead," I say, not moving from my position. "I trust you."
It's a lie. I don't trust her. But I want her to think I do. Want her to believe there's a path forward that doesn't involve constant resistance.
She slices tomatoes with careful precision, the knife glinting under the kitchen lights. I imagine, briefly, what she might do if she turned that blade on me. Would she have the courage? The strength?
But she only continues preparing our meal, and something like domestic bliss rears its head inside me. I fantasize what it would be like. My wife cooking for me, willing, happy .
I watch her as she works, mesmerized by the rhythm of her movements. There's a strange peace in this moment that I didn't anticipate—Hannah in my kitchen, pregnant with my child, preparing food for us both. It's almost laughably normal. Almost.
The knife catches the light as she chops, and I find myself studying her face more than her hands. Her eyes are focused, lost in the task, and for these few minutes she seems to have forgotten what came before. Forgotten the marks I left on her skin. Forgotten that she's here against her will.
Or maybe she hasn't forgotten at all. Maybe this is just the eye of the storm, this quiet acceptance.
She glances up, catches me watching her. Something flickers in her expression—not fear, not hatred, but something I can't quite name. Then she looks away, continuing her work.
"My mother taught me to cook when I was twelve," she says suddenly, her voice so soft I almost miss it. "She said every woman should know how to feed herself, so she doesn't have to depend on anyone else."
The irony isn't lost on me. Hannah depends on me for everything now—food, shelter, clothing. Her very life. But I don't point this out.
"And what did your father teach you?" I ask instead, curious despite myself about the life I tore her from.
Her hands still for just a moment before resuming their work. "To be brave," she says simply. "To stand up for myself."
I feel a smile tug at my lips. "You've certainly mastered that lesson."
She doesn't smile back, but there's a subtle shift in her posture. Pride, perhaps. Or defiance carefully banked beneath the surface.
"What about you?" she asks, surprising me. "What did your parents teach you?"
I consider lying. Consider shutting down this dangerous path of conversation that threatens to make us human to each other. But something in her eyes—that genuine curiosity—pulls the truth from me.
"My father taught me that the world belongs to those strong enough to take what they want," I say, watching her reaction carefully. "And my mother taught me nothing. She was gone before I could remember her face."
Hannah's expression softens in a way that makes my chest tighten uncomfortably. It's not pity—I would fucking hate that—but understanding. As if she's piecing together the broken parts of me, making connections I'd rather she didn't.
"The water's boiling," she says after a moment, turning back to the stove.
I watch as she adds the pasta, the way her hair falls forward when she leans over the pot. The urge to touch her is overwhelming, to brush those strands back and feel her warmth under my fingers. But I restrain myself, not wanting to break whatever fragile thing is building between us.
"I never asked," I say suddenly, "what you were studying. Before."
Of course I already know, but I haven’t asked. Haven’t shown interest in her interests. I need that to change if I’m ever going to get her to open herself to me fully.
She stirs the pasta slowly, her back to me, and for a moment I think she won't answer. When she does, her voice holds a wistfulness that cuts deeper than I expected.
"Art," she says.
I study her profile, the delicate curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose. She would make a beautiful subject herself.
"What kind?" I ask, moving closer. Not touching her, but close enough that she must feel my presence at her back.
She tenses slightly but continues stirring the pasta. "Mostly painting. Some sculpture." A pause, then, "I was good at it."
The past tense doesn't escape me. I place my hand on the counter beside her, boxing her in without quite making contact.
"You still are," I say. "Good at it."
Hannah turns her face slightly toward me, eyes questioning. "How would you know?"
"I've seen what you do with the sketchbook I gave you." I reach past her to turn down the heat on the stove, my chest brushing against her back. "You think I don't check your room when you're sleeping?"
She stiffens, and I can almost feel her mind racing through what else I might have seen, what private thoughts I might have invaded. I don't tell her that I've memorized every line she's drawn, every shadow she's rendered. That I've seen the way she draws the gardens outside her window with a precision that borders on desperation, as if capturing every detail might somehow set her free.
"They're just sketches," she says quietly. "To pass the time."
"They're more than that." I reach up to brush her hair away from her neck, letting my fingers trail along her skin. "They're pieces of you. The parts you don't share when we talk."
She shivers under my touch but doesn't pull away. Progress.
"The pasta's done," she says instead of acknowledging my words.
I step back, giving her space to drain the pasta in the colander waiting in the sink. Steam rises between us like a veil, momentarily obscuring her face. When it clears, she's looking at me with those hazel eyes that see too much.
"I want to keep painting," she says suddenly, her voice stronger than it's been all day. "Real painting, not just sketches."
I consider her request. It would mean supplies, a space to work, more freedom in some ways. It would also mean giving her something she values, something I could take away if necessary.
"I can arrange that," I say, watching hope flicker across her face. "If you continue to be good."
The hope dims but doesn't extinguish entirely. She nods and turns back to finishing our meal, adding the pesto and tomatoes to the pasta, the movements of her hands precise and controlled.
When she's done, she plates the food with an artistry that doesn't surprise me. Even in this small task, her eye for beauty asserts itself. She hands me my plate without meeting my gaze.
"Thank you," I say, deliberately using the words I rarely bother with. Courtesy is a currency I spend sparingly, but tonight feels different. Tonight, feels like the beginning of something new.
Something I only dared dream of.