Page 28 of Bound in Silk

But with that love comes terror—not of Knox himself, never that, but of what loving him means. Of surrendering to a connection so all-consuming it threatens to erase the boundaries between us, to blur where he ends and I begin. Of losing the independence, the self-sufficiency, the carefully constructed identity I've spent years building.

Knox stirs beside me, his body unconsciously seeking mine even in sleep, one arm draping over my waist to draw me closer. I allow it, my body melting against his with the automatic response that has always existed between us, that bypasses my mind's objections and hesitations.

How do I reconcile these contradictions? The love that grows stronger with every day and the fear that accompanies it? The desire for connection and the need for autonomy? The woman who thrives under Knox's possessive attention and the woman who needs space to breathe, to think, to be herself?

His eyes open, immediately alert despite having just woken, finding mine with unerring precision. No gradual transition from sleep to wakefulness for Knox Vance—he's fully present the moment consciousness returns, his gaze already assessing, analyzing, cataloging whatever he finds in my expression.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. His hand moves to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone in a gesture that manages to be both possessive and tender. "What is it?"

The question, so simple yet so loaded, breaks something open inside me—a dam holding back emotions I've been fighting since our reunion, perhaps since our original relationship. Tears fill my eyes, surprising us both. I'm not a crier, have always prided myself on emotional control, on maintaining composure even in difficult situations.

"Seraphina?" Concern replaces the sleepy contentment in his expression, his body shifting to prop himself on one elbow, fully focused on me now. "What's wrong?"

"Everything," I whisper, the tears spilling over despite my efforts to contain them. "Nothing. I don't know."

His hand moves to my hair, stroking with uncharacteristic gentleness. "Talk to me," he urges, patience in his voice that few people have ever heard from Knox Vance. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."

Together.The word that represents both promise and threat, both salvation and danger. Together with Knox means safety, security, passion beyond anything I've experienced with anyone else. But it also means surrendering to an intensity that terrifies me, to a connection that threatens to consume my carefully constructed independence.

"I'm scared," I admit, the words torn from somewhere deeper than conscious thought. "Not of you. Never of you. But of this—of us. Of how completely I could disappear inside what's between us."

Understanding dawns in his eyes—not dismissal, not impatience, but genuine recognition of the fear that's driven my resistance from the beginning.

"You think loving me means losing yourself," he says, not a question but a statement of fact. The accuracy of it steals my breath, forces more tears I can't seem to control.

"Yes," I whisper, the admission both relief and terror. "And the worst part is, part of me wants exactly that. Wants to surrender completely, to let you take over, to exist inside the certainty of your love where nothing bad can touch me. And that terrifies me even more than the fear of losing myself."

His expression softens in a way I've rarely witnessed, vulnerability matching vulnerability in a moment of perfect equilibrium between us. "That's not love, Seraphina. That'sdependency. That's escape. That's abdication. And it's not what I want from you—not what I've ever wanted."

I search his face, looking for deception, for manipulation, for the calculated maneuvering I've come to expect from him. Finding instead raw honesty, genuine emotion, a depth of feeling that makes my heart ache with its intensity.

"What do you want, then?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His hand cups my face again, thumb brushing away tears with infinite tenderness. "I want partnership with a woman strong enough to stand beside me, not behind me. I want challenge from a mind sharp enough to question me, to make me better than I am alone. I want the fire that burns in you—not extinguished, not contained, but joining with mine to create something neither of us could be separately."

The words echo what he's told me before, but something in his expression, in the vulnerability he's showing, makes them land differently this time. Makes me hear them not as strategic reassurance but as fundamental truth.

"I love you," I say finally, the words escaping before I can reconsider, before I can analyze or qualify or limit their impact. Simple truth, unvarnished and complete. "I love you, and it terrifies me because I've never felt anything like this before. Never been so completely consumed by another person. Never wanted to lose myself in someone else's certainty, someone else's strength."

His breath catches audibly, his eyes darkening with an emotion too complex to name. For all his confidence, for all his assertions about what exists between us, I realize he's never heard those words from me—not during our original relationship, not since our reunion. I've shown my feelings through actions, through surrender, through acceptance of hisplace in my life. But never named them, never made the verbal declaration that makes them undeniable.

"Say it again," he urges, his voice rough with emotion. "Just those three words."

"I love you." Easier the second time, the admission bringing relief alongside vulnerability. "Despite everything—the kidnapping, the control, the possessiveness that should repel me but somehow does the opposite. I love you, Knox, with an intensity that frightens me."

His forehead presses against mine, his hand tightening in my hair, his breathing uneven in a way Knox Vance's breathing is never uneven. Always controlled, always measured, always precisely what he intends it to be. This unsteadiness, this raw reaction, tells me more than any words could how deeply my declaration has affected him.

"I've waited to hear that," he confesses, his lips brushing mine with exquisite gentleness. "Believed it from your actions, from your body's responses, from the way you've gradually surrendered to what's between us. But hearing the words..."

He doesn't finish the thought, doesn't need to. I understand completely—the difference between knowing something intellectually and hearing it confirmed, between belief and certainty, between hope and fulfillment.

"I'm still scared," I admit, needing the honesty between us to be complete. "Still afraid of losing myself in you, in us. Still uncertain how to balance my need for independence with the overwhelming connection between us."

"I know," he acknowledges, surprising me with his ready acceptance of my fear. "And I'm still learning how to love you without controlling you, how to protect what matters most without suffocating it, how to trust that you won't disappear if I loosen my hold."

The simple admission of his own struggles, his own learning curve, soothes something restless inside me. This isn't just my journey, my challenge, my adaptation. It's ours—both of us figuring out how to love each other in ways that strengthen rather than diminish, that elevate rather than consume.

"I'm sorry I ran," I say, the apology genuine despite my continued belief that I needed that space, that clarity. "Sorry I lied about where I was going. Sorry I made you worry."

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