Page 20 of The Chains that Bind
And that's when I finally admit the truth to myself, the realization I've been fighting since the moment I heard the helicopter at my wedding: fighting Knox Vance is futile not because he's stronger or more determined or more resourceful—though he is all those things. It's futile because part of me doesn't want to fight. Part of me has been waiting for him to come and claim me, to override my carefully constructed rationalizations with the undeniable evidence of what my body already knows.
That I burn for him. That I've never stopped burning for him. That everything else—Richard, my almost-marriage, my insistence on independence—has been a pale substitution for the consuming fire that is loving Knox Vance.
The admission terrifies me. Because surrendering to that fire means risking being completely consumed by it. Again.
And this time, I'm not just risking my heart, my identity, my carefully constructed life.
I'm risking our child's future too.
Chapter Twelve
Knox
My hands aresteady as I clear our plates from the counter, but inside my chest burns a fire of pure, primitive need. Watching Seraphina eat—the delicate movement of her throat as she swallows, the unconscious dart of her tongue to catch a crumb on her lower lip—is a special form of torture I've denied myself for eighteen months. She's wearing the emerald silk robe I had placed in the closet, the color making her eyes gleam like jungle cats' in the dim kitchen lighting. There's a new softness to her movements, a slight relaxation in her shoulders that tells me what she won't admit aloud—she's weakening. Her mind still fights, still clings to the fiction that she doesn't belong with me, but her body knows better. And soon, very soon, I'm going to remind that beautiful body exactly who it belongs to.
"You didn't have to clear the plates," she says, watching me from her perch on the barstool, one slender leg crossed over the other, the silk robe riding up to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of thigh. "I'm perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself."
"I know you are." I load the dishes into the dishwasher, a mundane task that feels strangely intimate in this context. "But being capable doesn't mean you should have to. Not when I'm here to take care of you."
She makes a small sound, half-sigh, half-scoff. "There you go again, assuming I need or want your care."
I close the dishwasher and turn to face her fully, leaning back against the counter. "Your mind may not want it, but your body does. It always has."
"My body and mind aren't separate entities warring for control, Knox." She tucks a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. "They're both part of me, and both telling you the same thing—I don't want to be controlled."
"Protected," I correct, pushing away from the counter and moving toward her slowly, giving her time to track my approach. "There's a difference."
"Not when it looks exactly the same from my perspective." She doesn't retreat as I come closer, doesn't slide off the stool or put distance between us. Another sign of weakening resistance.
I stop directly in front of her, close enough to smell the light vanilla scent of her skin, to feel the heat radiating from her body. "Then perhaps I need to change your perspective."
Her pupils dilate, those green eyes darkening as her body responds to my proximity despite her mind's protests. "And how do you propose to do that?"
Instead of answering with words, I reach out and trace my finger along the delicate line of her collarbone, exposed by the V of the robe. Her sharp intake of breath is all the encouragement I need.
"You think I want to control you," I say, letting my finger trail down the center of her chest, stopping just before the swell of her breasts. "But what I want is to cherish you. To worshipyou. To show you that surrendering control doesn't mean losing yourself—it means finding freedom in knowing someone else is holding the reins."
"Pretty words," she whispers, her voice slightly breathless despite her attempt at dismissiveness. "But actions speak louder."
"Then let me show you."
My hand slides behind her neck, pulling her forward as I capture her mouth in a kiss completely different from our earlier encounters. Not claiming or possessive, but tender. Reverent. I take my time, coaxing rather than demanding, showing her without words that I can be gentle when the situation calls for it.
When I pull back, her eyes remain closed for a moment, lips slightly parted, a flush spreading across her cheeks. Beautiful.
"Knox," she says softly, my name a question and a warning all at once.
"Let me worship you, Seraphina," I murmur, my thumb stroking the racing pulse at her throat. "Let me show you what it means to be truly cherished."
She should say no. Push me away. Retreat behind the walls she's so carefully reconstructed during our time apart. But something has shifted in her—I saw it in her eyes when I returned to the kitchen, heard it in her voice when she asked me to stay for dinner.
"This doesn't change anything," she says, but her hands are already reaching for me, sliding up my bare chest to curl around my shoulders.
"It changes everything," I correct her, lifting her effortlessly from the stool. Her legs wrap around my waist automatically, muscle memory from the countless times I've carried her this way. "It reminds you of what you've been missing. What that poor substitute could never give you."
"Don't talk about Richard," she says against my neck as I carry her from the kitchen, her lips brushing my skin with each word. "Not now."
I smile at the implied admission—that there is a "now" happening between us, something significant enough to exclude mentions of the man she nearly married. Progress.
