Page 3 of The Chains that Bind
At the cathedral entrance, the groom has appeared, one arm around Seraphina as if he could protect her. From me. The absurdity would be laughable if the sight of his hand on her waist didn't make me want to tear his arm off.
His mouth moves, probably asking who I am, what I want. As if it isn't obvious. As if the entire wedding party hadn't gone silent the moment I stepped out of the helicopter, the collective intake of breath audible even over the dying rotor wash.
I advance on them, and to his credit, the man—Richard, according to the invitation—steps in front of Seraphina. A gentleman's gesture, completely inadequate against a predator like me.
Some of the guests have their phones out, filming. Good. Let them capture this moment. Let them witness what real possession looks like. Tomorrow my face will be splashed across every tabloid and social media platform. Knox Vance, tech billionaire, crashes wedding. My PR team will have aneurysms. My board might call an emergency meeting. My stock might even take a temporary hit.
I don't care.
Because as I close the distance, I see Seraphina's eyes—those green-gold eyes that have haunted me for eighteen months—and in them, beneath the shock and anger, I see the truth. She's been waiting for this. For me to come and claim what's mine. For me to prove that I will burn down the world before I let her go.
"Knox," she whispers as I reach them, and my name on her lips is like coming home.
Time to remind my woman exactly who she belongs to.
Chapter Three
Seraphina
The world narrowsto a pinpoint when Knox stops in front of me, close enough that his custom cologne—sandalwood and something darker, something uniquely him—floods my senses. eighteen months evaporate like they never existed. My body recognizes him before my brain can catch up, a rush of heat flooding my cheeks and pooling lower, much lower, than is appropriate at my own interrupted wedding. His eyes lock onto mine, midnight dark and burning with possession, and I hate that after everything, after all this time, one look from Knox Vance still makes me feel like I'm the only woman in the world.
"What are you doing here?" I manage, my voice a strangled whisper. The question is ridiculous—his purpose is written in every hard line of his body, in the predatory stillness with which he regards me.
He doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. Behind me, Richard's hand presses against my back, a butterfly touch compared to the gravitational pull Knox exerts just by standing there. He looks exactly the same and completely different—the same powerfulshoulders stretching his black suit jacket, the same ruthlessly sculpted jaw now shadowed with a day's worth of stubble, the same intensity that always made me feel simultaneously seen and consumed. But there's something new in his eyes, something dangerous that wasn't there before. Something that looks like eighteen months of rage.
"You need to leave," Richard says, his voice admirably steady despite the situation. "This is a private ceremony."
Knox's eyes don't even flicker toward him. It's as if Richard doesn't exist in his universe, as if there's only me.
"Seraphina." My name in his mouth is both caress and command. "Time to go."
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from my chest. "Go? I'm in the middle of my wedding, Knox!"
"No," he says simply. "You're not."
Around us, the wedding guests form a horrified audience. I catch glimpses of my mother's ashen face, my father's thunderous expression, my bridesmaids huddled together like frightened birds in their sage green dresses. Phones are out, recording this catastrophe for posterity and probably social media. Tomorrow, this will be everywhere—the gallery director left at the altar, or worse, kidnapped by a tech billionaire with control issues.
"You can't just show up after eighteen months and?—"
"Seventeen months, three weeks, and four days," he corrects me, and the precision of it—the fact that he's counted every single day since I walked out of his penthouse—sends a treacherous shiver down my spine.
Our fingers brush as he reaches for me, and I feel a spark—static from the dry air and silk fabric, but it jolts me nonetheless. His touch has always been electric, always left me feeling branded.
"Don't touch her," Richard steps between us, his shoulders squared in a show of protection that might be commendable if it weren't so futile. Knox doesn't even blink. He simply places one hand on Richard's chest and pushes, sending my fiancé—almost husband—stumbling back several steps.
"Knox!" I hiss, my outrage genuine even as something molten and primal uncurls in my stomach at this display of raw strength. "Stop this! You can't just?—"
His movement is so swift I don't register it until I'm suddenly airborne, the world tilting as my stomach connects with his shoulder and my expensive wedding dress bunches around my thighs. One of his arms bands like steel around the backs of my legs while the other secures my waist.
"Knox Vance!" I shriek, pounding my fists against his back. "Put me down this instant!"
He doesn't even grunt at the impact of my blows. Instead, I feel a rumble against my body that might be laughter, and the hand at my waist slides higher, dangerously close to the side of my breast.
"I love when you say my full name, angel. Makes me feel like a naughty schoolboy being scolded. We'll explore that fantasy later."
"You're insane!" I cry, but the heat spreading through me has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the familiar way his body feels against mine, the easy strength with which he holds me, the absolute certainty of his movements. Knox has always moved like a man who doesn't know the meaning of doubt.
The world bounces and sways as he carries me down the cathedral steps. Gasps and exclamations follow us, along with the unmistakable clicks and flashes of camera phones. Richard is shouting something. Security guards hover uselessly, clearly uncertain whether to tackle a man worth billions.
