"And if I choose neither? If I walk out that door alone anyway?"
A muscle ticks in his jaw, the only visible sign of tension in his otherwise controlled expression. "You know exactly what will happen if you defy me on this, Seraphina. I made myself perfectly clear yesterday."
"Remind me," I push, wanting—needing—to hear him say it again.
His hand comes up to cup my face, the gesture both tender and controlling. "I will tie you to our bed if that's what it takes to keep you and our child safe. Don't test me on this, angel. You won't like the result."
The threat—the promise—sends a treacherous shiver down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly. I should be horrified. Instead, I'm aroused, my body responding to his dominance with a primal recognition that bypasses all rational thought.
"Maybe I need to test you," I say, my voice lower than intended. "Maybe I need to know if there are any limits to your control. Any boundaries you won't cross."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, along with something darker, more predatory. "This isn't about going for a walk at all, is it? You're deliberately provoking me."
I don't deny it. Can't deny it when he reads me so easily.
"Be careful what you wish for, Seraphina," he warns, his thumb tracing my lower lip in a gesture that's somehow both threat and promise. "If it's boundaries you're looking for, you may not like what you discover."
"I need to know," I insist, not entirely sure what I'm asking for anymore. "I need to understand what this is—what we are."
For a long moment, he simply looks at me, as if weighing options, calculating outcomes the way he approaches every challenge in his life. Then, with deliberate calm, he steps back.
"Go for your walk," he says, his tone neutral. "Alone."
Caught off guard by this unexpected capitulation, I hesitate. "What?"
"You heard me. Go. Walk the grounds. Alone." His eyes never leave mine. "Show me I can trust you. Show me you're not going to do anything stupid that risks your safety or our child's."
It's a challenge, wrapped in the appearance of concession. And suddenly, I understand: this is how Knox Vance maintains control—by making you think you have a choice when you don't. By presenting options that inevitably lead to the outcome he's already determined.
Which leaves me with my own choice: accept his apparent concession, or force his hand.
"Thank you," I say with exaggerated politeness. "I won't be long."
I turn and descend the stairs, feeling his eyes boring into my back with every step. The main door opens easily under my hand, the tropical heat enveloping me as I step outside. For a moment, I consider actually just taking a walk—proving him wrong about my intentions, showing that I can be trusted.
But that wouldn't answer the question burning inside me. Wouldn't define the boundaries I'm so desperate to understand.
So instead of taking the main path toward the gardens, I deliberately turn toward the boathouse where I found the boat yesterday. Not trying to be stealthy, not trying to hide my direction. Making my choice as clear as possible.
I've gone perhaps fifty yards when I hear him behind me, his footsteps measured but fast. I don't turn around. Don't acknowledge him. Just keep walking steadily toward the one place on this island he's explicitly forbidden me to go alone.
His hand closes around my upper arm, spinning me to face him. The controlled mask has slipped, revealing the storm beneath—anger, determination, and something darker, more primitive.
"Enough," he growls, his grip firm but not painful. "You've made your point."
"Have I?" I challenge, not trying to pull away. "What point is that, exactly?"
"That you're determined to push me until I demonstrate exactly how serious I am." His voice drops to a dangerous register. "Consider this your final warning, Seraphina. Turn around and walk back to the house with me now, or face the consequences."
It's my last chance to back down, to retreat from this dangerous game I've initiated. A rational woman would take it. A sensible woman would recognize the fire she's playing with and step back before being consumed.
I've never claimed to be either rational or sensible when it comes to Knox Vance.
"No," I say simply, meeting his gaze with defiance. "I'm going to the boathouse."
Something shifts in his expression—resignation mixed with a dark anticipation that sends another treacherous thrill throughme. Without another word, he bends and lifts me over his shoulder in a move so smooth it takes my breath away.
"Knox!" I gasp, the world tilting as blood rushes to my head. "Put me down!"
