Page 21 of Bound in Silk

"I need to know why," I continue, finally allowing myself to touch her, one hand coming up to cup her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Not why you needed space—I can understand that, even if I don't like it. But why like this? Why the lies? Why not tell me directly what you needed?"

"Would you have let me go?" she challenges, leaning almost imperceptibly into my touch despite her words. "Would you have given me the space I asked for, or would you have dismissed it as unnecessary, as resistance to be overcome, as another obstacle to your vision of our future?"

The question strikes home with uncomfortable precision. Would I have understood? Accepted? Allowed her the distance she felt she needed?

"I don't know," I admit, matching her honesty with my own. "But you didn't give me the chance to try."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise at my admission, perhaps, or recognition of the genuine hurt beneath my anger.

"I'm sorry," she says finally, the words clearly difficult for her. "Not for needing space, but for how I went about it. For lying. For making you worry."

The apology soothes something raw inside me, though the larger issue remains unresolved. With deliberate care, I take her left hand in mine, my thumb brushing over the ring that still marks her as mine.

"This means something," I say, my voice low and intense. "This commitment I've made to you, that I believed you were making to me. If you're not ready—if you truly need more time before accepting what I'm offering—then tell me directly. But don't run. Don't lie. Don't hide from me when something feels overwhelming or frightening."

Her eyes meet mine, vulnerability matching vulnerability in a rare moment of perfect balance between us. "I'm scared," she confesses, the words barely above a whisper. "Of how completely you consume every aspect of my life. Of how easily I surrender to your will when we're together. Of losing the person I've worked so hard to become in the overwhelming force of your…everything."

"I don't want that person lost," I tell her, cupping her face between my hands now. "I want her beside me, challenging me, balancing me, making me better than I am on my own. That's what 'My equal. My balance. My heart' means, Seraphina. Not possession. Partnership."

She searches my face, looking for deception, for manipulation, for the calculated maneuvering she's come to expect from me. Finding instead raw honesty, genuine emotion, the vulnerability I show to no one but her.

"I need you to trust me," I continue, my thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "To believe that I value your independence, your fire, your determination as much as I value your surrender. That I don't want a woman diminished by my presence but elevated by our connection."

Her hands come up to cover mine, neither pulling away nor fully accepting, simply acknowledging the contact, the connection, the truth in my words.

"I'm trying," she whispers. "But it's hard when everything moves so fast, when your certainty leaves no room for my doubts, when your vision of our future seems to override any alternatives I might consider."

"Then we'll work on that," I promise, the words a concession I would make for no one else in this world. "I'll try to give you the space you need, the time to process, the room to voice doubts without feeling they're being summarily dismissed."

Relief flickers across her features, quickly followed by suspicion. "Just like that? You'll suddenly become patient, accommodating, willing to move at my pace rather than yours?"

"Not suddenly," I correct her with a rueful smile. "Not easily. Not without struggle. But for you—for us—I'll try. Because losing you again is unacceptable. Because finding you here, safe but deliberately hidden from me, showed me exactly how much needs to change if we're going to build something that lasts."

She doesn't respond immediately, processing my words, testing them against her knowledge of me, her experience of my typically unyielding nature. Finally, she nods once, decision made.

"Take me home," she says softly. "We have a lot to talk about."

I release her face, taking her hand instead, my thumb brushing once more over the ring that still marks her as mine. Not a complete victory—not the unequivocal surrender I might have demanded yesterday—but progress nonetheless. Understanding reached, if not perfect agreement. Communication established where silence and deception reigned hours before.

She gathers her few belongings, movements precise and efficient despite the emotional intensity of our confrontation. I watch her, relief gradually replacing the fear and fury that have driven me since discovering her absence. She hasn't rejected me. Hasn't removed my ring. Hasn't declared our future impossible or our connection too overwhelming to sustain.

Instead, she's asking for patience. For understanding. For partnership rather than possession.

It won't be easy. Control is too deeply ingrained in my nature, certainty too fundamental to my worldview, protection too instinctive in my approach to what matters most. But for Seraphina—for the future we can build together—I'll try. I'll learn. I'll adapt.

Because the alternative—losing her again, returning to the hollow existence I endured for eighteen months—is unacceptable.

As we leave the hotel room together, her hand still in mine despite everything, I know with bone-deep certainty that our journey is far from over. That challenges remain, battles loom, adjustments on both sides will be necessary.

But she's coming home with me. Wearing my ring. Carrying my child.

And for now, that's enough.

Chapter Thirteen

Seraphina

I wearthe same casual clothes from this morning, now rumpled from hours in the hotel room, my ponytail loosened and disheveled as I walk beside Knox through the hotel corridor. The silence between us is charged with unresolved tension, with promises of patience that seem fragile against the backdrop of his tightly controlled fury, with my own conflicted emotions about being found so quickly, so thoroughly. His hand at the small of my back doesn't appear possessive to casual observers—just a man guiding his partner—but I feel the slight pressure, the unmistakable message in his touch: Mine. Still mine. Always mine. The hallway seems endless, each step bringing us closer to whatever comes next in this complicated dance between his need to possess and my need for autonomy. Between his absolute certainty and my lingering doubts. Between the future he's designed with such confidence and my fear of losing myself within it.

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