Page 11 of The Chains that Bind
"People love spectacle, Knox. They don't respect women associated with it. I've worked too hard to be taken seriously to become 'that woman' who was kidnapped from her own wedding."
"Rescued," he corrects. "Not kidnapped."
"Is that how you're justifying this to yourself?" I gesture wildly at our surroundings. "That you've rescued me? From what? A man who respected my choices? A relationship where I wasn't constantly fighting for autonomy?"
"From a life half-lived," he says, his voice dropping to that low register that always seems to bypass my ears and hit directlyin my core. "From settling for security instead of passion. From lying to yourself about what you really want."
"What I want," I say through gritted teeth, "is to go home. Now."
"This is your home."
"This is your mansion, Knox. Your island. Your controlled environment where everything happens exactly the way you want it."
"Our island," he corrects, standing again and moving around the counter toward me. I back away, maintaining distance between us. "And yes, I control the environment. Someone has to, since you're so determined to run from what makes you happy."
"Imprisonment doesn't make me happy!"
"No?" He arches an eyebrow. "Then why are your pupils dilated? Why is your pulse racing?" His eyes drop to my throat where my heartbeat betrays me. "Why did you respond to my kiss earlier like a woman starving?"
"Physical chemistry isn't love," I shoot back, continuing my retreat as he advances. "It isn't respect or partnership or any of the things that make a relationship work long-term."
My back hits the wall, trapping me as Knox closes the remaining distance between us, not touching me but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"No, it isn't," he agrees surprisingly. "But it's a hell of a foundation to build on. And we had more than chemistry, Seraphina. We had everything until you got scared and ran."
"I wasn't scared!" The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "I was protecting myself from being completely consumed by you. By this…this obsession you call love."
"Protecting yourself?" He laughs, the sound void of humor. "Is that what you were doing three months ago when you showed up at my penthouse at two in the morning? When youlet me take you against the wall before we even made it to the bedroom? When you begged me to?—"
"Stop." My face burns with the memory I've tried so hard to forget. The night of the Artemis Gallery opening, when my triumph at securing the hottest new sculptor in New York had been dimmed by spotting Knox with some elegant brunette on his arm. The way jealousy had clawed at my insides, making me drink too much champagne. The cab ride to his building, the familiar doorman's knowing look, the elevator ride up to the penthouse I once shared.
Knox had opened the door like he'd been expecting me, like the fifteen months we'd been apart meant nothing. He'd taken one look at me in my black cocktail dress and drawn me inside without a word. We hadn't spoken—not with words, anyway. Our bodies had done all the communicating necessary, relearning each other with desperate hands and hungry mouths.
I'd left before dawn, hating myself for my weakness, vowing it was just closure, just getting him out of my system before committing to Richard. A lie I told myself to sleep at night.
"You ran away again," Knox continues, his voice softer now. "Left while I was sleeping, like a thief. But you took more than you realized, didn't you, Seraphina?"
The strange note in his voice makes me look up sharply. There's something in his eyes—something beyond possession or desire or anger. Something that looks almost like…wonder.
"What are you talking about?"
His hand lifts slowly, hovering near my stomach without touching, the gesture so unexpected it freezes me in place.
"You're carrying my child," he says quietly, with absolute certainty.
The world tilts beneath my feet. "What?"
"Our baby," he clarifies, his eyes never leaving mine. "Conceived that night you came back to me."
"That's impossible," I whisper, mind racing. "We used protection. And I'm on birth control."
"Nothing is foolproof," he counters. "And I think some part of you wanted this to happen. Wanted something that would bind us together permanently."
"You're delusional," I say, but mental calculations are already spinning in my head. My period is late—I'd attributed it to wedding stress. The subtle changes in my body—the tenderness in my breasts, the fatigue, the strange aversions to smells I normally love—all symptoms I'd ignored or rationalized.
"Am I?" His hand finally makes contact, pressing gently against my lower abdomen, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin silk of my slip. "You've been tired. Nauseous in the mornings. Your breasts are fuller." His eyes drop briefly to my chest, then back to my face. "You're pregnant, Seraphina. Withmychild."
I shove his hand away, panic rising like a tidal wave. "No. No, you're wrong. You're just saying this to—to trap me here, to make me think?—"
