Page 2 of The Chains that Bind
And God help me, I can't look away.
Chapter Two
Knox
My hands gripthe helicopter controls, but inside my chest burns a fire that has nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with rage. Three months of having my security team track her every move, of business meetings cut short when my investigator called, of sleepless nights imagining another man's hands on what belongs to me—all of it ends today. The cathedral comes into view, and I feel my lips curl into something too sharp to be called a smile. Seraphina Vale thinks she can marry some soft-handed art collector? She's about to remember who she really belongs to.
"Sir, there's nowhere to land," my pilot warns, voice tight with the strain of telling me something I don't want to hear.
"The courtyard looks big enough," I reply, not taking my eyes off the stone sanctuary where my woman is trying to give herself to someone else.
"Mr. Vance, that's not?—"
"Take over," I cut him off, releasing the controls. "Circle until I call you." I don't need to look at his face to know he's terrified of disappointing me. Good. Fear keeps people efficient.
The helicopter descends toward the landscaped courtyard that some wedding planner spent thousands of dollars perfecting. Flower arrangements scatter like autumn leaves in the rotor wash. Perfect. Let chaos reign. Let everyone see that their careful plans mean nothing when Knox Vance decides to take what's his.
I received the wedding invitation three weeks ago—not addressed to me, of course. My assistant intercepted it from the inbox of a tech journalist who covers my industry. An oversight on Seraphina's part, or perhaps her future husband's. Either way, a fatal mistake. You don't announce to the world that you're taking something from me without consequences.
The moment I saw her name embossed in gold leaf alongside some nobody called Richard Whittington, something primal cracked open inside me. I've built an empire worth billions, crushed competitors without blinking, survived growing up with nothing but my wits and will, yet seeing her name paired with another man's hollowed me out like nothing else could.
We hover twenty feet above the courtyard now. Through the windows, I can make out the scene inside—guests in formalwear, flowers climbing columns, and at the altar, a vision in white that knocks the breath from my lungs.
Seraphina. My Seraphina.
Her dress clings to every curve I've memorized with my hands and mouth, curves that have haunted my dreams for eighteen months, three weeks, and four days. The bodice hugs her slender waist before the skirt flares dramatically, making her look like something out of a fairy tale. Her honey-blonde hair is twisted up, exposing the delicate nape of her neck where I usedto press my lips until she shivered. She's so fucking beautiful it feels like violence.
And she's wearing that beauty for someone else.
My vision edges with red. That dress—that goddamn wedding dress—should have been only for me. She should be walking toward me, those green eyes that change like the weather focused on me alone. Every crystal sewn into that fabric should be catching light for me, every inch of silk covering skin that belongs under my hands, my mouth, my body.
eighteen months ago, she walked out of my penthouse with tears streaming down her face, claiming I was "too intense," that I "wanted too much." As if there could ever be too much between us. As if I hadn't seen the way she came apart when I pushed her to her limits, when I showed her exactly how much pleasure her body could take when she surrendered control to me.
"I can't do this anymore, Knox," she'd said, voice shaking. "I need someone who sees me as an equal, not a possession."
As if I hadn't worshipped every inch of her. As if I hadn't moved mountains to give her everything she wanted. The gallery space in Chelsea that other directors would kill for? Mine before she even asked. The connection to the Swedish painter she was desperate to represent? Done with one phone call. I gave her the world because she was my world.
But Seraphina Vale has always been a contradiction—desperate for success but afraid of power, craving intensity but running from it, wanting to be cherished and protected but insisting on independence. She walked away from the one man who understood that contradiction, who knew how to give her everything she needed even when she didn't know herself.
And now she's standing next to some pale imitation of a man, about to promise him forever. I can see him from here—bland, safe, probably says "please" and "thank you" during sex, if heeven fucks her properly at all. The kind of man who would ask permission to touch what's freely given. Pathetic.
The pilot brings us lower, and I see her register the sound, see her body stiffen in recognition even before she turns. She knows it's me. Of course she does. Just like I would know her footsteps among thousands. We're connected by something deeper than choice or reason.
"Closer," I order the pilot, who looks at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. "Put us down in the courtyard."
"Sir, we'll damage the?—"
"Does it look like I give a fuck about their landscaping?" I snarl, and he pales, nodding once before adjusting our descent.
The chaos below us intensifies as guests pour out the cathedral doors, pointing upward, mouths open in shock or outrage. One man in a tailored suit—the father of the bride, I recognize from my research—is shouting and gesturing wildly. Security guards appear, uselessly waving their arms as if they could ward off a helicopter with hand signals.
None of them matter. Nothing matters except the woman in white who has emerged from the cathedral doors, her veil gone, her face turned up toward me. Even from this heighteen, I can see the storm in her eyes. Not fear—Seraphina Vale has never feared me—but recognition, resignation, and something else that makes my blood heat. Desire.
She knows why I'm here. She's known from the moment she heard the rotors.
We touch down with a jolt that would have my pilot fired if I had the attention span for such trivialities right now. I unbuckle my harness, straighten my jacket—Tom Ford, black, cut to emphasize the body I've honed through predawn workouts and pure determination—and step out into the wind tunnel created by the still-spinning rotors.
I move through the chaos like it's an extension of myself. People back away, some recognizing me, others simply responding to the force I project with every step. Women clutch at each other. Men try to look ready for confrontation but shrink when my eyes pass over them. I don't bother hiding my purpose—I want everyone to see exactly what happens when someone tries to take what's mine.
