Page 22 of Bound in Silk

The elevator descends with mechanical precision, the only sound the soft hum of machinery and our measured breathing.Knox stands close—too close for the empty space, his body angled toward mine as if to prevent any possibility of further escape. His reflection in the polished metal doors shows a man barely containing powerful emotions—jaw tight, eyes focused with laser intensity, shoulders rigid beneath his impeccably tailored suit.

"Your security team," I say finally, breaking the tense silence. "They're waiting outside?"

"Yes." The single syllable reveals little, though I detect the undercurrent of still-simmering anger beneath his controlled exterior.

"And the press? Will they be there too?" The question isn't idle. If Knox found me so quickly, others may have picked up the trail as well—paparazzi hungry for the next chapter in the dramatic saga of the gallery director kidnapped from her own wedding, now wearing the ring of the billionaire who took her.

"Possibly." His gaze shifts to me briefly before returning to the descending floor numbers. "The Vogue exclusive created interest. Our engagement is news."

Our engagement. The phrase still sends a flutter of panic through me despite the ring on my finger, despite my decision to return with him, despite the genuine connection I can't deny exists between us. An engagement I never formally accepted but somehow find myself in the middle of nonetheless—Knox's will shaping reality as it always does.

The elevator doors open to the hotel lobby, revealing a space busier than when I checked in hours ago. Business travelers with rolling luggage, tourists consulting maps on phones, hotel staff moving with practiced efficiency. And across the marble expanse, near the revolving doors that lead to the street, two men in dark suits radiating the unmistakable alertness of security personnel—Gabriel and another member of Knox's team.

Knox's hand presses more firmly against my back as we cross the lobby, guiding me toward the exit with a deliberate pace that allows no hesitation, no second thoughts. I can feel eyes turning toward us—Knox Vance commands attention in any space he occupies, his presence too forceful, too magnetic to go unnoticed.

"There are photographers outside," Gabriel informs Knox quietly as we approach, his professional expression betraying nothing of what he might think about retrieving his boss's runaway fiancée. "At least three that we've identified."

Something shifts in Knox's demeanor—a slight tensing of his shoulders, a recalculation happening behind those dark eyes. I recognize the signs of Knox Vance formulating a strategy, adjusting his approach to changing circumstances. It should make me wary. Does make me wary.

"How did they find us?" I ask, voice low enough that only Knox and Gabriel can hear.

"They follow me routinely," Knox answers, his attention now on the glass doors and whatever waits beyond them. "The Vogue announcement elevated interest. Our departure from the gala last night was noted. And now..."

He doesn't finish the thought, doesn't need to. And now they've scented drama—the newly engaged billionaire tracking down his missing fiancée, a potential scandal too juicy to ignore. Whatever happens next will be photographed, documented, splashed across gossip sites and social media within minutes.

"Knox," I say, warning in my voice as I sense his intention forming. "Whatever you're thinking?—"

Before I can finish, before I can protest or prepare, Knox moves with the fluid grace that always catches me off guard despite knowing what he's capable of. One moment I'm standing beside him; the next I'm airborne, his shoulder pressing intomy stomach as he lifts me with insulting ease, one arm banded securely around the backs of my thighs.

"Knox!" I gasp, the indignity of the position momentarily stealing more articulate protest. "Put me down!"

"No," he responds calmly, already moving toward the exit with determined strides, Gabriel clearing a path before us. "Not until we reach the car."

The absolute audacity—to throw me over his shoulder like a caveman, to physically assert his claim in the most primitive way possible, to transform what should be a private reconciliation into a public spectacle of possession. Fury floods through me, hot and clarifying after hours of emotional confusion.

"This is outrageous," I hiss, hands pressing against his back in futile resistance. "You can't just?—"

"I can and I am," he interrupts, pushing through the revolving doors into the afternoon sunlight. "Hold still unless you want to give the photographers an even better show."

The camera flashes hit immediately—strobing bursts of light accompanied by shouted questions that blend into meaningless noise. Through my upside-down perspective, I see curious pedestrians stopping to stare, phones raised to capture the spectacle of Knox Vance carrying a woman over his shoulder like some trophy, some conquest, some possession being reclaimed.

"Mr. Vance! Is there trouble in paradise already?"

"Seraphina! Are you leaving him?"

"Knox! Comment on the engagement?"

The questions penetrate my outrage, highlighting the public nature of this humiliation. Heat floods my face, partly from the blood rushing to my head in this undignified position, partly from the mortification of being carried through midtown Manhattan like a rebellious child.

"I will never forgive you for this," I promise, my voice low enough that only Knox can hear despite the fury infusing each word. "Never."

His hand tightens slightly where it grips my thighs, the only acknowledgment of my threat. He continues forward with unwavering purpose, each stride eating up distance between the hotel entrance and the black SUV waiting at the curb, Gabriel moving ahead to open the rear door.

The journey feels eternal though it can only be thirty or forty feet. With each step, my outrage transforms, shifts, deepens into something more complex. Because beneath the humiliation, beneath the righteous anger at being handled like property, lies a treacherous heat that I can't deny. A primal response to Knox's raw display of possession, to the strength with which he carries me, to the absolute certainty with which he claims me before the world.

I hate myself for it. Hate the part of me that responds to this caveman display, that finds something darkly thrilling in being so thoroughly claimed, so publicly marked as his. It's antithetical to everything I believe about equality, about autonomy, about modern relationships based on mutual respect rather than primitive possession.

Yet it's there—that heat, that response, that shameful thrill at being the woman Knox Vance would throw over his shoulder in broad daylight, before cameras and strangers, to assert his claim.

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