Page 4 of Bound in Silk

Soon—very soon—she'll surrender that final resistance. Not because I've forced her, but because fighting what's between us requires more energy than she can sustain. Because the magnetic pull between us has always been stronger than herfears, stronger than my impatience, stronger than any artificial barriers we try to erect.

My phone rings—Gabriel, my head of security. "Sir, Ms. Vale is asking to leave for her appointment. Shall I inform her you'll be joining her?"

"No," I reply, rising from my desk. "Tell her I'll meet her in the garage in five minutes."

I save my work, closing the lingerie atelier's website before heading to the elevator. Today is significant—our first formal medical confirmation of the pregnancy, our first opportunity to see the life we've created together. I've arranged for the best obstetrician in the city, a private entrance to avoid paparazzi, every detail managed to ensure Seraphina's comfort and privacy.

Yet beneath the controlled exterior I maintain, a surprising nervousness flutters. This isn't just another business transaction, another acquisition, another problem to solve with money and influence. This is my child. Our child. A vulnerability I never anticipated when I built my empire, constructed my carefully controlled existence.

The elevator doors open to the private garage where Seraphina waits beside the car, her form-fitting dress—the first I've seen her wear since her body began changing—showcasing the subtle curve of her belly. She's radiant, though tension lines her face, uncertainty evident in her posture. This appointment makes everything more real, more concrete, more permanent than either of us has fully acknowledged until now.

"You look beautiful," I tell her, the words entirely inadequate for the vision before me.

She glances up, surprise flitting across her features at the rawness in my voice. "I'm showing," she says, one hand moving unconsciously to her stomach. "Not much, but..."

"Yes." I reach for her, unable to stop myself from placing my palm against the slight swell where our child grows. "Perfect."

For once, she doesn't pull away from my touch, doesn't maintain the careful physical distance she's established since returning to New York. Instead, her hand covers mine, a gesture so unexpectedly intimate it momentarily steals my breath.

"I'm nervous," she admits, vulnerability breaking through her usual composed exterior. "What if something's wrong? What if?—"

"Nothing's wrong," I assure her, certainty in my voice. "Our child is perfect. Strong. Healthy. Like its mother."

She searches my face, seeking reassurance she won't acknowledge needing. Finding it, she nods once, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

"Let's go," she says, moving toward the car. "Dr. Cameron doesn't strike me as the type who appreciates tardiness, even from you."

I smile at the hint of her usual spirit returning, the momentary vulnerability tucked away again. But it was there—a crack in the armor, a glimpse of the woman who needs me as much as I need her, though she fights so hard against admitting it.

As we drive to the appointment, I allow myself to imagine the future—Seraphina growing more lush and rounded with each passing month, her body a temple housing the miracle we've created together. Seraphina in the custom lingerie I've ordered, the delicate fabrics showcasing rather than concealing her transformation. Seraphina in our bed—not the guest room she's claimed in stubborn defiance—wearing nothing but my hands, my name, my child.

The image is so viscerally satisfying it borders on painful, a physical ache of anticipation for what I know is coming. Because despite her resistance, despite her attempts to maintain emotional distance, Seraphina Vale is already mine again. Herbody knows it. Our child confirms it. Even her mind is gradually accepting it, one small surrender at a time.

The lingerie is just another step in that inevitable progression—a tangible reminder that her changing body isn't something to hide or deny, but something to celebrate, to worship, to desire with an intensity that only grows as she transforms carrying my heir.

My woman. My child. My future.

All exactly where they belong, even if one of them isn't quite ready to admit it yet.

Chapter Three

Seraphina

I wearnothing but a paper gown, perched on the examination table with my heart pounding as the technician moves the ultrasound wand across my still-flat abdomen. Knox stands beside me, his eyes fixed on the screen with an intensity that should be unsettling but somehow isn't. The room is quiet except for the technician's occasional murmurs and the soft whirring of the equipment, the atmosphere charged with an emotion I'm not ready to name. Then it happens—a rapid, rhythmic swooshing fills the room, and the technician smiles. "There's your baby's heartbeat." Knox's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining automatically, the gesture so natural I don't even think to pull away. On the grainy screen, a tiny blob pulses with life—our child, the physical manifestation of a connection I've been fighting since the moment Knox interrupted my wedding. And in that heartbeat, everything changes. This isn't theoretical anymore. This is real. A baby. Our baby. And the man beside me, whose eyes shine with unshed tears as he stares at the screen, isn't just my ex or my captor or the father of my child.He's Knox. My Knox. And that realization terrifies me more than any helicopter rescue or island imprisonment ever could.

"Everything looks perfect," Dr. Cameron says, entering the room and studying the monitor with professional detachment. "Strong heartbeat, appropriate size for gestational age, proper implantation. You're carrying a very healthy baby, Ms. Vale."

Knox's grip on my hand tightens almost imperceptibly. I risk a glance at his face and find him transformed—the hard lines of the ruthless businessman softened, a vulnerability in his expression I've rarely witnessed. It's disconcerting to see him like this, stripped of his usual armor, nakedly emotional in a way that makes it harder to maintain my own defenses.

"When can we know the gender?" Knox asks, his voice steady despite the emotion evident in his eyes.

"Usually around sixteen to twenty weeks," Dr. Cameron replies. "Though with the advanced genetic testing Mr. Vance has arranged, we could know much sooner if you'd prefer."

Of course Knox has arranged advanced testing. Of course he's ten steps ahead, planning, orchestrating, controlling every aspect of this pregnancy. I should be irritated by his presumption. Instead, I find myself oddly comforted by his thoroughness, his determination to ensure our baby has the best of everything from the very beginning.

What's happening to me?

The appointment concludes with prescriptions for prenatal vitamins, dietary recommendations, and a follow-up scheduled for two weeks later. Throughout it all, Knox remains at my side, asking questions I haven't thought of, absorbing information with the same focused intensity he brings to multi-billion-dollar negotiations. For him, this is equally important—perhaps more so.

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