Page 6 of Bound in Silk

But as I carefully return the lingerie to its boxes, keeping out the emerald set to wear tomorrow, I can't deny the truth any longer: I'm melting for him. For his attention to detail. For the way he makes me feel beautiful even as my body changes. For his unwavering desire that hasn't diminished with my pregnancy but seems to have intensified, as if watching me grow with his child only makes me more captivating to him.

I dress in comfortable clothes for dinner, but beneath them, I'm acutely aware of what I now know—that resistance is becoming increasingly futile. That Knox is patiently, methodically dismantling every defense I've built against him. That sooner rather than later, I'll find myself back in his bed, back in his arms, back where my body already knows it belongs.

The most terrifying part? I'm starting not to mind.

Chapter Four

Knox

My hands gripthe edge of my desk as I watch the security feed, but inside my chest burns a fire of pure, primitive need. Seraphina moves through her office at the gallery, the outline of the emerald lingerie I sent visible beneath her white silk blouse. She's been wearing my gift for three days now—a different set each day, the lingerie that bears my name against her skin even as she maintains the fiction of emotional distance. I've given her space, allowed her to process the ultrasound, the reality of our child, the inevitability of our reconnection at her own pace. But my patience has limits, and they're rapidly approaching their breaking point. Especially now, watching her unconsciously touch the spot just below her collarbone where I know the emerald lace sits against her skin, where my name is embroidered as a constant reminder of who she belongs to. Tonight, I will reclaim what's mine completely. Tonight, she will acknowledge what we both know is true. Tonight, Seraphina Vale will surrender the last of her resistance and come to me of her own accord.

I close the security feed, leaning back in my chair to consider the strategy that has brought us to this point. Since returning to New York, I've been methodical, patient, calculating in my approach to reclaiming Seraphina. Not through force or demands, but through making myself essential to every aspect of her life. Supporting her career while ensuring her safety. Giving her space while maintaining constant presence. And most recently, acknowledging her changing body not as a limitation but as a transformation to be worshipped, celebrated, desired.

The lingerie was a calculated risk—too possessive and she might retreat further into resistance, too impersonal and the impact would be lost. But I know my Seraphina. Know her insecurities about her changing body, her fear of losing her identity to motherhood. Know how to make her feel both protected and desired, both cherished and owned.

My phone buzzes with a message from Gabriel: "Ms. Vale has left the gallery. En route to the penthouse. ETA 20 minutes."

Perfect. I've arranged to work from home today, ensuring I'll be here when she arrives. Not hovering, not pressuring, simply present and available when she inevitably seeks me out. Because she will—the signs have been there for days. The lingering glances when she thinks I'm not looking. The flush that rises to her cheeks when our hands brush accidentally. The way she pauses outside my bedroom door each night before continuing to the guest room she's stubbornly claimed as her territory.

I rise from my desk, moving through the penthouse with deliberate calm despite the anticipation thrumming through my veins. Everything is prepared—the temperature adjusted to the slight coolness she prefers, the lighting programmed to soften as evening approaches, the bed in the master suite made with the Egyptian cotton sheets she once said felt like sleeping on clouds.

Twenty minutes to wait. Twenty minutes to prepare for the final phase of reclaiming what should never have been lost in the first place.

The elevator chimes its arrival precisely on schedule. I remain in my study, ostensibly reviewing contracts on my tablet, giving her the illusion of choice in seeking me out. Her footsteps move through the foyer, pause, then continue not toward the guest room but toward my study.

"Knox?" Her voice carries a note of uncertainty that feeds something primal in me. "Are you home?"

"In here," I respond, keeping my tone neutral despite the hunger building in my core.

She appears in the doorway, still wearing the white silk blouse and pencil skirt from her day at the gallery. The emerald lingerie remains hidden except for the faintest hint of lace at her collarbone, but knowing it's there—knowing my name is pressed against her skin—makes my blood run hot.

"How was your day?" I ask, setting aside the tablet to give her my full attention.

"Fine. Good, actually." She hesitates, one hand rising unconsciously to where the lace of the bra meets her skin. "The Miyazaki installation is receiving excellent reviews."

"I saw. The Times critic was particularly impressed." I rise from my chair, moving toward her with measured steps. "You've accomplished something significant there."

"Thank you." Her eyes follow my approach, wariness mingling with something darker, more visceral in her gaze. "I…wanted to thank you. For the lingerie."

"You're wearing it." Not a question—I already know the answer. Can see the outline beneath her blouse, can read the awareness in her eyes that I know exactly what's against her skin.

"Yes." A faint blush colors her cheeks. "It's very comfortable. Well-designed for…the changes."

"May I see?" The question is bold, direct, a deliberate push against the boundaries she's established since moving into the penthouse.

Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't immediately refuse—another sign of crumbling resistance. "Why?"

"Because I want to," I answer honestly, stopping directly in front of her. "Because I chose each piece specifically for you. Because I want to see my gift on the body it was designed for."

Our eyes lock in silent battle, her resistance warring visibly with desire. I wait, neither advancing nor retreating, allowing her to make the final choice. This moment is crucial—if she comes to me, it must be of her own volition. The surrender must be given, not taken.

With trembling fingers, she reaches for the top button of her blouse. The sound of my breathing seems unnaturally loud in the silence of the study as she unfastens each button with deliberate slowness, revealing inch by inch the emerald lace beneath. When the blouse hangs open, showcasing the lingerie against her fair skin, she hesitates again.

"Beautiful," I murmur, my voice rougher than intended. "Even more beautiful than I imagined."

Her hands move to remove the blouse entirely, letting it slide down her arms to the floor. The bra cradles her fuller breasts perfectly, the emerald color making her eyes appear more green than hazel in the soft lighting. She's exquisite—the slight changes in her body only enhancing her natural beauty, making her more lush, more feminine, more completely woman than ever before.

"Turn around," I instruct, needing to see all of her, to confirm that my gift lies against every inch of her skin exactly as I envisioned.

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