Page 3 of Bound in Silk

The car stops in front of the building, and Knox helps me out, his hand warm against mine. Our fingers brush, and that same electric awareness races through me, undimmed by proximity or familiarity.

In the elevator, he stands close but doesn't touch me, respecting the emotional distance I've tried to maintain all evening. But as the doors open to the penthouse foyer, I findmyself reaching for him, drawn by some force greater than my pride or reservations.

"Knox," I begin, not entirely sure what I'm trying to say. That he's making it impossible to fight this? That his gradual infiltration of every aspect of my life is both terrifying and oddly comforting? That despite everything—the high-handedness, the controlling tendencies, the sheer audacity of his certainty—I'm starting to remember why I fell for him in the first place?

He waits, patient, giving me space to find the words. When they don't come, he simply brushes his knuckles against my cheek, a touch so gentle it almost undoes me completely.

"I know," he says softly. "I feel it too."

And that's the most infuriating part of all—that he does know, that he can read me so easily, that all my carefully constructed walls might as well be glass to his penetrating gaze. That he's making it impossible to maintain the emotional distance I've fought so hard to preserve, not through force or manipulation, but through a steady, relentless campaign of...care. Of anticipating my needs. Of removing obstacles. Of making my life better in ways I can't deny, even as I struggle against the implications.

I step back, needing physical distance to maintain some semblance of emotional clarity. "I'm going to bed. Alone."

He nods, accepting this small assertion of independence without argument. "Sleep well, Seraphina."

As I retreat to the guest room I've insisted on using despite Knox's objections, I can't escape the knowledge that he's winning. Not through coercion or ultimatums, but through persistence. Through knowing exactly when to push and when to yield. Through making himself so essential to every aspect of my life that imagining a future without him becomes increasingly impossible.

And the most terrifying realization of all? Part of me doesn't want to fight it anymore. Part of me wants to surrender to this inevitable gravitational pull, to stop exhausting myself swimming against a current too powerful to resist.

Part of me wants to go home—not to the guest room or my old apartment, but to Knox's bed. To his arms. To the place where, despite everything, I've always felt most completely myself.

That weakness, that yearning, frightens me more than any of his controlling tendencies ever could.

Chapter Two

Knox

My hands move deftlyacross the keyboard as I place the order, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize not as guilt but as possessive pride. Seraphina is entering her second trimester, the slight changes in her body visible only to someone who studies her as thoroughly as I do. The subtle fullness of her breasts, straining against bras that no longer fit quite right. The barely perceptible curve of her abdomen where our child grows. She's been hiding these changes beneath loose clothing, as if denying the physical evidence of our connection might somehow preserve the emotional distance she's fighting so hard to maintain. But I see everything—every transformation, every new curve, every sign that her body is nurturing the life we created together. And I intend to worship those changes, to make her feel not just accepted but desired, cherished, adored as her body transforms with my child inside her.

The lingerie atelier's website is exclusive, accessible only to their most discerning clients. No mass production here, onlybespoke pieces created specifically for the woman who will wear them. I scroll through their maternity collection, examining each design with critical attention to detail. Seraphina deserves only the finest—silks that will caress her increasingly sensitive skin, lace delicate enough to honor her natural elegance, support structured to cradle her changing body without constraint.

I select a dozen designs, each one chosen with specific stages of her pregnancy in mind. For now, pieces that celebrate the subtle changes only I can see—slightly fuller cups to accommodate her more generous breasts, waistlines that forgive the early expansion of her midsection. For later, more specialized designs engineered to support and showcase a more pronounced baby bump, to make her feel beautiful and desirable as her body transforms more dramatically.

The color palette is carefully considered. Emerald green to complement her eyes. Deep burgundy that makes her honey-blonde hair glow like spun gold. Midnight blue that turns her fair skin luminous. And black—always black—because nothing makes Seraphina look more like the goddess she is than black lace against her creamy skin.

My finger hesitates over the "Special Requirements" field on the order form. This is where I can provide specific instructions, customizations beyond the standard designs. What I want to request feels too intimate to type, too personal to share even with the discreet professionals who will craft these garments. Yet the image in my mind—Seraphina draped in silk and lace, rounded with my child, wearing my name embroidered into the very fabric caressing her skin—is too compelling to ignore.

I type: "Each piece to include 'Vance' embroidered discreetly in matching thread. Interior waistbands only, not visible when worn."

A small detail, invisible to anyone but her and me. A constant reminder against her skin of who she belongs to, of whose childshe carries, of the inevitability I've been so patiently working toward since bringing her back into my life.

The total appears on screen—a sum that would buy a luxury car, perhaps excessive for undergarments that will be worn for a relatively brief period. I click "Confirm" without hesitation. Nothing is excessive when it comes to Seraphina. Nothing is too much to ensure she feels beautiful, desired, worshipped during this transformative time.

The order confirmed, I lean back in my chair, allowing myself to indulge in thoughts of how she'll look wearing each piece as her pregnancy progresses. I imagine her initial resistance—the flash of indignation in those green eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw as she prepares to refuse such an intimate gift. Then the inevitable curiosity as she examines the quality, the craftsmanship, the thoughtfulness behind each selection. Finally, the surrender to sensation as she feels the luxury against her skin, as she sees herself transformed not into someone diminished by pregnancy but elevated, glorified by it.

Seraphina has always been beautiful. But Seraphina carrying my child? That's a beauty beyond description, a primal satisfaction that resonates in the most ancient part of my being.

My phone chimes with a calendar alert: her first official prenatal appointment with the specialist I've arranged. Another milestone, another thread connecting us more permanently. She resisted at first, insisting on using her own doctor, but eventually conceded that Dr. Cameron's expertise in high-risk pregnancies—though hers isn't high-risk, I'm taking no chances—made him the logical choice.

These small victories accumulate day by day. Her resistance eroding not through force but through persistence, through demonstrating that my control isn't about domination but protection, care, absolute dedication to her wellbeing and our child's.

I check the time, calculating when to present the first pieces of lingerie. Not today—today we have the doctor's appointment, possibly our first ultrasound. That experience will be emotional enough without complicating it with my gift. Tomorrow, perhaps, after she's had time to process seeing our child, hearing its heartbeat, accepting the concrete reality of our connection.

The timing must be perfect. Too soon, and she'll see it as another attempt to control, to claim, to mark territory. With the right preparation—the doctor's confirmation of a healthy pregnancy, the emotional impact of seeing our baby, the growing discomfort of undergarments that no longer fit properly—she'll be more receptive, more likely to accept the gift in the spirit intended.

This has always been the challenge with Seraphina—timing. Knowing when to push, when to yield, when to surprise, when to retreat. During our first relationship, I miscalculated, pushed too hard too fast, failed to give her the space her independent nature required. I won't make that mistake again. This time, I'm playing a longer game, each move carefully considered, each reaction anticipated and planned for.

The fact that she's still sleeping in the guest room is a minor setback, not a defeat. She's been in the penthouse for three weeks now, gradually adjusting to our shared life, to my constant presence, to the inevitability of our reconnection. The physical distance she maintains is her last line of defense—one that grows more tenuous with each passing day, with each small intimacy we share over breakfast, each brush of fingers when I hand her something, each moment of eye contact that lasts a beat too long to be casual.

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