Page 15 of The Chains that Bind
"Is that what you think I want? A possession?" He moves closer, and I hold my ground though everything in me wants to retreat. "I want a partner, Seraphina. Someone strong enough to stand beside me, not behind me. But you confuse strength with isolation, independence with disconnection."
"That's not true." But even as I deny it, part of me wonders if there's a grain of truth in his accusation. Have I been so determined to prove my independence that I've rejected genuine connection?
No. That's his voice in my head, not mine. Knox has always been skilled at making me doubt my own perceptions.
Our fingers brush as he reaches for me, and I feel a spark—static from the silk slip against my skin, but it jolts me nonetheless. I step back, needing physical distance to maintain emotional clarity.
"This baby deserves parents who can provide a healthy environment," I say, trying a different angle. "Not two people locked in a power struggle. Not a father who imprisons its mother on an island."
"I haven't imprisoned you," Knox counters. "I've brought you home, away from outside influences, while you come to terms with our new reality."
"Our new reality," I repeat flatly. "You mean your version of reality, where I docilely accept that you know best, that your way is the only way, that your need to control trumps my need for freedom."
"My need to protect," he corrects, and for the first time, I see something like vulnerability flash in his eyes. "There's a difference, Seraphina."
"Not when it looks exactly the same from my end."
We stand there, eyes locked in silent battle, the air between us charged with anger, frustration, and the undeniable current of attraction that's always been our blessing and curse.
"I won't be the kind of mother who surrenders her identity," I say finally, my hand unconsciously moving to my stomach. "And I won't raise a child to think that love means possession."
"And I won't be the kind of father who watches from a distance," Knox responds, his voice low and intense. "I won't be a weekend parent or a name on a check. I will be present, involved, completely committed to my child's life. And that means being completely committed to its mother's life too."
"That's not how co-parenting works," I argue. "Millions of people raise children together without being in a relationship."
"We're not millions of people." Knox steps closer again, and this time when I try to retreat, my back hits the wall. "We're Knox and Seraphina. And we don't do anything halfway."
That, at least, is true. From the moment we met, everything between us has been intense, all-consuming. Even our arguments crackle with an energy most couples never experience in their most intimate moments.
"The pregnancy doesn't change the fundamental problems between us," I insist, even as his proximity makes it harder to think clearly. "Your need to control. My need for independence. They're incompatible, Knox."
"They're complementary," he counters. "You need boundaries to push against. I need someone worth protecting. We balance each other, Seraphina. We always have."
"That's not balance. That's dysfunction."
"Is it?" His hand comes up to cup my face, and despite my determination to stay strong, I don't pull away. "Then why have these eighteen months apart left both of us hollow? Why did you come to me that night, if not because you recognized that what we have is rare? Worth fighting for?"
"I came because I was weak," I whisper, the admission painful. "Because I wanted closure."
"You came because your body knows what your mind refuses to accept," he corrects, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. "That we belong together. That everything else is just settling."
Part of me wants to lean into his touch, to surrender to the magnetic pull that's always existed between us. It would be so easy. So tempting to believe that the intensity between us is special rather than toxic, that his possessiveness is love rather than control, that my resistance is fear rather than self-preservation.
But the rest of me—the part that fought to build a career on my own terms, that values my hard-won independence—recoils from the simplicity of his worldview. The baby complicates everything, but it doesn't erase our fundamental incompatibility.
"This changes nothing," I say, trying to inject certainty into my voice despite the turmoil inside me. "The pregnancy is real. We'll figure out co-parenting. But you and me? That's still over."
His smile is slow, confident, infuriating. "Keep telling yourself that, angel. Maybe eventually you'll believe it."
I push past him, needing to escape the intensity of his presence, the knowing look in his eyes that suggests he can see through every defense I've built.
"I'm going to shower," I announce, heading back toward the bathroom. "And then I'm going to sleep. Alone. In this room, since apparently I have no choice but to stay here for now. But this conversation isn't over, Knox."
"Of course it isn't," he agrees, his voice following me as I retreat. "We have about seven months of conversations ahead of us, Seraphina. And a lifetime after that."
I close the bathroom door firmly behind me, leaning against it as if I can physically hold back the future he's so confidently predicting. My hand drifts to my stomach again, to the tiny life that's changed everything in the space of an hour.
"I won't let him win," I whisper to my unborn child. "But I won't let him go, either. For your sake."
