Page 15 of Bound in Silk

Seraphina

My fingers brushagainst Knox's as I pass him his morning coffee, and I feel a spark—that same electric connection that has always existed between us, that I've been fighting since the moment he interrupted my wedding. I pull back quickly, carefully maintaining physical distance across the kitchen island. The morning after the gala, after Knox's unprecedented emotional vulnerability in the Egyptian wing, after his declaration of love I'm still not ready to fully process. I've spent the night in his arms, comforted by his presence despite my lingering insecurities, but in the harsh light of morning, self-preservation has reasserted itself. Alessandra's cruel assessment may have been driven by jealousy, by a desire to wound, but it touched on fears I've harbored since the beginning of our relationship. Fears that Knox's impassioned denial hasn't entirely erased. And so I find myself retreating, rebuilding walls that had begun to crumble, creating distance that feels necessary for my emotional survival even as it clearlyconfuses and frustrates the man watching me with those too-perceptive dark eyes.

"You're quiet this morning," Knox observes, his tone casual though nothing about his attention is ever truly casual. He misses nothing—not my deliberate physical distance, not the way I've avoided eye contact since waking, not how I slipped from bed earlier than usual to shower alone.

"Just thinking about the day ahead," I respond, the lie transparent even to my own ears. "I have meetings at the gallery all afternoon."

He sips his coffee, studying me over the rim of the mug. "Last night was significant," he states, not a question but a prompt. An invitation to discuss what happened at the gala, his rare display of emotional vulnerability, the declarations made in the quiet of the Egyptian wing.

"It was a lovely event," I deflect, busying myself with rinsing my own empty cup. "The foundation will be pleased with the fundraising results."

"Seraphina." Just my name, but weighted with meaning, with warning. Knox has never tolerated evasion, has always demanded direct engagement even when it's uncomfortable. Especially when it's uncomfortable.

I turn to face him fully, summoning the gallery director composure that's served me well in difficult professional situations. "I appreciate what you said last night. How you defended me. It was…unexpected."

"But?" he prompts, hearing the unspoken qualification in my voice.

"But I need some time to process everything." I straighten my shoulders, forcing myself to maintain eye contact despite the intensity of his gaze. "I think I should move back to the guest room for a few days. Give myself some space to think clearly."

The temperature in the kitchen seems to drop several degrees. Knox's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes—a darkening, a narrowing of focus that reminds me of a predator recalculating its approach to cornered prey.

"No," he says simply, the single syllable carrying absolute finality.

"No?" I repeat, indignation flaring despite my attempt at emotional distance. "That's not a request that requires your permission, Knox. I'm stating what I need."

"What you think you need," he corrects, setting down his coffee mug with deliberate care. "What you're actually doing is retreating because Alessandra's words scared you. Because my emotional honesty last night scared you even more. Because it's easier to run than to face what's happening between us."

His accuracy is infuriating, his ability to read me a violation and comfort in equal measure. "I'm not running," I argue, though we both know it's at least partially untrue. "I'm creating necessary space to maintain perspective. To ensure I don't lose myself in…in this."

I gesture vaguely between us, unable to adequately name what "this" is—this magnetic pull, this emotional intensity, this connection that seems to transcend my best efforts at independence.

Knox moves around the island with the fluid grace that always reminds me of his underlying physical power. I back up instinctively, my lower back pressing against the counter as he stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching.

"Space is the last thing you need," he says, his voice softening though losing none of its conviction. "What you need is reassurance. Certainty. Proof that what I said last night wasn't just words meant to comfort you in the moment."

"You can't possibly know what I need better than I do myself," I counter, the argument familiar territory in our ongoing power struggle.

"Can't I?" His hand rises to cup my face, the touch gentle despite my attempt to maintain distance. "Haven't I proven, time and again, that I understand what you need even when you fight it? Even when you deny it to yourself?"

I try to turn away, but his other hand comes up, framing my face between his palms, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Stop running, Seraphina. Stop hiding. If Alessandra's assessment frightened you, tell me why. If my emotional honesty last night was too much, tell me how. But don't retreat behind walls we've spent weeks breaking down. Don't go backward when we've finally started moving forward."

"I'm scared," I admit, the truth torn from me by his relentless pursuit, by the genuine concern I can read in his expression despite his commanding tone. "Not just of what Alessandra said, but of how much it hurt to hear it. Of how much power you have over me. Of how completely I could lose myself in you if I'm not careful."

Something softens in his eyes—recognition, understanding, perhaps even a flash of his own vulnerability. "You think I'm not equally terrified?" he asks, surprising me. "You think it was easy for me to expose myself the way I did last night? To admit how essential you are to me? How hollow my life was without you in it?"

Our eyes lock, mutual vulnerability creating a different kind of intimacy than the physical connection we've reestablished in recent weeks. This is deeper, more dangerous—the exposure of fears and needs usually kept carefully guarded.

"The difference," I say softly, "is that you have all the power in this relationship. You always have. Your wealth, yourinfluence, your absolute certainty. Your ability to simply take what you want, as you did when you interrupted my wedding."

"You think I have the power?" Something like disbelief colors his voice. "When you could devastate me with a single word? When your absence left me incomplete in ways I didn't even understand until you were gone? When the mere thought of losing you again makes me willing to risk everything I've built, everything I am?"

His honesty is disarming, his admission of vulnerability at odds with the controlling, possessive man who carried me from the altar, who kept me on his island until I acknowledged what was between us, who orchestrated my gradual surrender with strategic precision.

"Moving to the guest room won't change what's between us," he continues, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones in a gesture so tender it makes my throat tight with emotion. "Creating artificial distance won't give you clarity. It will only feed your fears, give power to Alessandra's poisonous assessment, undermine the progress we've made."

"And if I need that distance anyway?" I challenge, a last effort at asserting independence even as I feel my resolve weakening beneath his touch, his words, his unwavering focus.

"Then I'll respect it," he says, surprising me again. "If, after honest reflection, you truly believe sleeping apart will help you rather than hurt you, I won't force the issue. But I'm asking you to consider whether retreat is really what you need right now, or if it's simply what feels safest."

---