Page 18 of The Chains that Bind
I place a finger against her lips, silencing her protest. "It means exactly what it means, Seraphina. Your body remembers what your mind is trying to forget. And I'm going to keep reminding you until you stop fighting the inevitable."
"The inevitable," she echoes, a question in her voice.
I smile down at her, brushing damp hair from her forehead with surprising tenderness given the possessive fire still burning in my veins.
"Us," I state simply. "You and me. And our child. A family. The way it was always meant to be."
I see the arguments forming behind her eyes, the objections rising to her lips. But they're weaker now, undermined by her body's betrayal, by the undeniable evidence that whatever issues stand between us, physical compatibility has never been one of them.
"Rest," I tell her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "We have all the time in the world to continue this conversation."
I leave her then, our positions reversed from earlier—now she's the one watching me walk away, confusion and frustration in her eyes. But it's a strategic retreat. I've made my point. Reminded her body of what it's been missing. The first crack in her resistance has formed.
And I've always been very, very good at exploiting weaknesses.
Chapter Eleven
Seraphina
My body humswith residual pleasure, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as shame. Not guilt—I refuse to feel guilty for responding to a touch that my body remembers all too well. But shame at how easily Knox bypassed all my defenses, at how quickly my resistance crumbled under his expert hands. I curl onto my side in the massive bed, still naked, still tingling from his touch. The sheets smell like him—that custom cologne that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. Even his scent is an assault on my senses, a reminder of how deeply he's embedded in my memory, my desires, my very skin.
"Weak," I whisper to myself, the word hanging in the air-conditioned silence of the room. "Pathetic."
But even as I berate myself, my treacherous body still pulses with aftershocks of pleasure. Knox didn't even undress. Didn't even enter me. Just used his hands and mouth with surgical precision, dismantling my protests with each practiced touch. And I let him. More than let him—I begged him. Moaned hisname. Surrendered completely, just like I swore I never would again.
This is exactly why I left eighteen months ago. This loss of self, this drowning in sensation, this addiction to a man who knows exactly how to play my body like a finely tuned instrument. When I'm with Knox, the boundaries between us blur until I can't tell where he ends and I begin. Until his will becomes my desire, his commands my relief.
It terrified me then. It terrifies me now.
I press my palms against my still-flat stomach, trying to connect with the life growing inside me. A baby. Knox's baby. The reality of it still feels dreamlike, impossible. Yet the positive tests don't lie, and my body has been trying to tell me for weeks now with subtle changes I've stubbornly ignored.
A memory surfaces unbidden: Knox and me, tangled in these very sheets during our first visit to the island, his head resting on my stomach, his voice uncharacteristically soft.
"I want children with you," he'd said, tracing patterns on my hipbone. "Little girls with your eyes and my determination. Boys with your smile and my drive."
I'd laughed, threading my fingers through his hair. "Already planning our dynasty?"
"Planning our future," he'd corrected, looking up at me with an intensity that made my breath catch. "Everything I build is for us, Seraphina. For the family we'll create together."
I'd been both thrilled and terrified by his certainty, by the absolute conviction in his voice. Knox never doubts. Never wavers. Once he decides on something—whether it's a business acquisition or a relationship—he pursues it with single-minded focus until it's his.
And now I'm pregnant with his child, locked in his island mansion, my body still humming from his touch. As if theuniverse itself is conspiring to fulfill his vision, to bring his certainty to life.
With a frustrated groan, I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. This is absurd. One incredible orgasm doesn't erase the fundamental issues between us. Physical compatibility was never our problem—it was everything else. His need to control, to possess. My need for autonomy, for room to breathe.
A baby doesn't fix that. If anything, it will amplify those differences. Knox will be even more controlling when it comes to his child, even more convinced that his way is the only way. And I'll be fighting not just for my independence but for our child's right to develop its own identity outside of Knox's carefully orchestrated plans.
And yet...
Yet some treacherous part of me wonders if I've been running from more than just Knox's controlling nature. If I've been running from the intensity of what I feel for him, from the terrifying vulnerability of surrendering to something bigger than myself. From the knowledge that loving Knox Vance means accepting that nothing will ever be halfway again—not passion, not conflict, not commitment.
"Stop it," I tell myself firmly, sitting up and reaching for the towel discarded on the floor. I need to get dressed, to armor myself against whatever's coming next. Knox never makes a move without having three more planned in advance. The orgasm was a strategy, not an end in itself.
I wrap the towel around me and head to the closet, knowing it will be empty but needing to move, to do something other than lie in bed marinating in conflicted emotions. To my surprise, the walk-in closet isn't empty after all. Several silk robes hang from the hooks, and the drawers contain basic essentials—underwear, sleep shirts, casual clothes that look roughly my size.
Of course. Knox would never leave something as important as my immediate comfort to chance. He probably had these items flown in while he was busy kidnapping me from my wedding.
I select a silk robe in deep emerald green—a shade Knox always said brought out my eyes—before I can stop myself. Even my clothing choices are influenced by him, by the knowledge of what he likes to see on me. The realization makes me want to throw the robe across the room, but practical necessity wins out. I'm not going to wander around naked just to spite him.
