Page 36 of The Chains that Bind
I move silently to the bed, sitting carefully on the edge to avoid waking her. In sleep, all her defenses are down,the stubborn pride and fierce independence replaced by a vulnerability that feeds something primal in me. My fingers brush a strand of honey-blonde hair from her face, and her lips curve in an unconscious smile, her body recognizing my touch even in sleep.
She's surrendered enough. Proven that she understands the consequences of recklessness, of putting herself and our child at risk. The island has served its purpose—removing her from outside influences, stripping away the distractions that kept her from facing the truth about what's between us. But we can't stay here indefinitely. Real life awaits us in New York—my empire to run, her career to maintain, and a child to prepare for.
Besides, keeping her isolated here feeds her narrative about my controlling nature. I don't want a prisoner; I want a partner. A woman who chooses to stay because she recognizes the rightness of our connection, not because she has no other options.
I've spent the morning making arrangements—the jet fueled and waiting, the New York penthouse prepared, my security team briefed on the new protocols that will govern Seraphina's movements once we return. Not restrictions, but protections. A framework that gives her the freedom she needs while ensuring her safety and that of our child.
Her eyes flutter open as if sensing the weight of my thoughts, confusion giving way to recognition as she focuses on my face.
"What time is it?" she murmurs, voice husky with sleep.
"Just after ten," I reply, my hand moving to rest on her stomach in what has become an unconscious habit. Our child grows beneath my palm, still too small to show but very much present in my every calculation. "How are you feeling?"
She stretches, wincing slightly as her muscles protest. "Sore. For obvious reasons." The faint blush that colors her cheeks tells me she's remembering exactly why she's sore—the hours Ispent demonstrating that restraint can be pleasure as much as punishment, that surrender can be liberation rather than defeat.
"Pack your things," I tell her, offering no preamble. "We're leaving the island."
Her eyes widen, suddenly fully alert. "Leaving? To go where?"
"Home. New York. My penthouse." I watch her reaction carefully, noting the flickers of surprise, suspicion, and—most promising—relief that cross her expressive face. "Time to rejoin the real world."
"Just like that?" She pushes herself to a sitting position, the sheet slipping to reveal the marks my mouth left across her collarbone last night. "After everything you said about keeping me here until I 'accepted the inevitable'?"
"You've made progress," I acknowledge, fighting the urge to push her back against the pillows and refresh those marks, reclaim her body yet again. "And there are practical considerations. I have a company to run. You have a gallery to direct."
Her eyebrows rise in genuine surprise. "You're going to let me go back to work?"
"Of course." I take her hand, running my thumb across the faint marks on her wrist. "I never intended to interfere with your career, Seraphina. It's part of who you are, part of what makes you the woman I want beside me."
Suspicion clouds her eyes. "But?"
"But there will be security protocols," I concede, seeing no point in hiding what she'd discover soon enough anyway. "Non-negotiable ones, given your pregnancy and your... propensity for reckless decisions."
She pulls her hand from mine, wariness replacing the momentary softness. "What kind of 'protocols'?"
"A security detail. Cain, specifically. He's discreet, professional, and has specific training in executive protection for pregnant women." I see the objection forming and continue before she can voice it. "He won't interfere with your work. Won't come between you and your artists or patrons. But he will ensure that no harm comes to you or our child while you're out of my direct protection."
Her lips press into a thin line of displeasure. "A babysitter."
"A guardian," I correct. "One who reports to me, yes, but whose primary function is your safety, not your surveillance."
She studies my face, searching for the lie, the manipulation, the hidden agenda. Finding none, because there is none. I've never lied to Seraphina—controlled, maneuvered, orchestrated, yes. But never lied.
"And if I refuse this 'guardian'?" she challenges, though with less heat than I expected.
"Not an option," I reply simply. "Consider it the price of your freedom of movement. A reasonable compromise between locking you away for your own protection and allowing you to wander New York unprotected while carrying my heir."
Something flickers in her eyes at the word "heir"—not quite acceptance, but recognition of the reality that's shaped all my decisions since discovering her pregnancy. This isn't just about possession or control. It's about protecting my family. Our family.
"Fine," she concedes with surprising ease. "When do we leave?"
"As soon as you're packed. The jet is waiting."
Two hours later, we're airborne, Manhattan bound. Seraphina sits across from me in the private cabin, wearing a simple sundress that makes her look younger, more vulnerable than the sophisticated gallery director New York knows. She's been quiet since we boarded, staring out the window as theCaribbean falls away beneath us, lost in thoughts she hasn't chosen to share.
I don't press her. Let her process this shift, this next phase in our reconnection. Instead, I use the time to handle the business that's accumulated during my absence, firing off emails and taking calls that can't wait. Demonstrating that I can focus on my empire while keeping her firmly in my peripheral vision—always aware, always attentive, but not suffocating.
The balance I failed to strike eighteen months ago, leading to her flight.
