Page 35 of Bound in Matrimony
Chapter Twenty
Seraphina
The Caribbean sunpaints Knox in gold as he walks along the shoreline, Claire secure against his chest in the carrier he insists is the safest design in existence. His white linen shirt catches the breeze, billowing slightly around his powerful frame, while his feet leave perfect imprints in the pristine sand. From my position on the veranda of our island home, sketchbook open but forgotten in my lap, I can't tear my eyes away from the sight of them. My husband and daughter, silhouetted against the turquoise water that surrounds our private paradise. Six months since Knox revealed his island purchase, four months since we first visited, and now we're spending the summer here while construction on the main residence nears completion. I watch as Knox crouches to let a gentle wave wash over Claire's tiny feet, her squeal of delight carrying on the salt-tinged air. The scene before me is perfect—magazine-worthy, Instagram-enviable—but it's not the aesthetic beauty that holds me captive. It's the visceral, almost painful surge of possession that floods throughme at the sight of them. Mine, I think with an intensity that startles me. My husband. My child. My world.
The force of the emotion catches me off guard, though perhaps it shouldn't. I've noticed it growing in me for months now—this fierce, consuming need to claim Knox as completely as he's claimed me. It began subtly: a flash of irritation when his assistant called during our family dinner; a surge of pride when I introduced him as "my husband" at gallery events; the satisfied warmth I felt seeing his tattoo—my name over his heart—when we made love.
But lately, the feeling has intensified, crystallizing into something I can no longer ignore or dismiss. Last week, when a woman at a beach restaurant on the mainland couldn't tear her eyes from Knox as he ordered our lunch, I found myself moving closer to him, placing my hand possessively on his chest, precisely over where my name is inked into his skin. The gesture wasn't conscious, but its meaning was unmistakable: He's mine. Back off.
Knox noticed immediately—he notices everything—and the slow, satisfied smile that curved his lips told me he understood exactly what I was doing. What I was feeling. That night, after Claire was asleep, he asked about it, his voice rough with pleasure: "Staking your claim, Mrs. Vance?"
I'd laughed it off, unwilling to examine too closely the primitive surge of territorial instinct that had prompted my actions. But the truth is, I was staking my claim. Marking my territory. Behaving exactly as Knox has from the beginning of our relationship—possessive, territorial, unwilling to share even a fraction of what belongs to me.
A gust of wind lifts the pages of my forgotten sketchbook, reminding me of its presence. I glance down to find I've unconsciously begun drawing Knox's profile, capturing the strong line of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze as he looks at ourdaughter. My artist's eye has always been drawn to him, from that first meeting at the gallery opening where he stood beside me, silently listening to my scathing critique of an installation before offering to buy it if I'd have dinner with him.
I thought I was independent then. Self-sufficient. Immune to the kind of all-consuming attachment that defined my parents' unhappy marriage. I valued my autonomy above all else, carefully maintaining boundaries with previous partners, always ensuring I had an escape route, a way to preserve my separate identity.
And then came Knox Vance, who recognized no boundaries, who pursued me with single-minded determination, who made it clear from the beginning that half measures weren't in his vocabulary. Who claimed me so completely that resistance became not just futile but undesirable.
I watch as he lifts Claire high above his head, her baby laughter a perfect counterpoint to the rhythm of waves meeting shore. His devotion to our daughter mirrors his devotion to me—absolute, uncompromising, fiercely protective. And I realize, with a clarity that takes my breath away, that I feel exactly the same way about him.
I'm obsessed with Knox Vance.
Not just in love with him. Not just committed to him. Obsessed. I need him with the same desperate intensity that he's always needed me. I want to possess him as completely as he possesses me. I would fight to keep him with the same ruthless determination he's always shown in holding onto what matters to him.
The realization should frighten me. The woman I was before Knox—independent, self-contained, wary of emotional extremes—would have run from such intensity. Instead, I feel something like relief. An acknowledgment of a truth that's been growing in me since the day I agreed to become his wife.
I think back to specific moments when this obsession revealed itself, though I refused to name it at the time:
The surge of irrational anger when his ex-girlfriend appeared at a charity gala, her eyes tracking Knox across the room. I'd positioned myself between them all night, my hand never leaving his arm, making it clear that he was thoroughly taken.
The way I searched his skin after business trips, not admitting even to myself that I was checking for evidence of another woman's touch—not because I doubted his fidelity, but because the mere thought of someone else's hands on what was mine sent rage coursing through my veins.
How I've begun to subtly adjust his wardrobe, replacing perfectly good suits with ones that I've selected, ensuring he wears the colors I prefer, the styles I find most attractive on him. Marking him through my choices, just as he marked me by replacing my wardrobe with his name stitched into every piece.
Most telling of all: my reaction when Knox's longtime assistant Margaret made an innocent comment about him working too hard during Claire's first weeks. "You need to make sure he sleeps, Mrs. Vance," she'd said, her tone concerned but familiar—too familiar. "He listens to you."
"I'll take care of my husband," I'd replied, my voice carrying an edge that made Margaret blink in surprise. "You focus on his business calendar." The message was clear: Knox's wellbeing belongs to me. Not to his staff, not to his company. To me alone.
Knox turns, Claire still in his arms, and spots me on the veranda. Even at this distance, the change in his expression is unmistakable—that softening around the eyes, that focus that excludes everything but me. He begins walking toward the house, his stride purposeful, unhurried.
My heart rate increases, my body responding to his approach as it always does—with anticipation, with awareness, with abone-deep recognition. Mine, the primitive part of my brain insists again. Just as I am his.
I've spent the past two years adapting to Knox's possessive nature, finding space within his obsession to maintain my own identity. I've teased him about his controlling tendencies, his need to mark me as his in a hundred different ways. I've accepted that this is who he is—a man who loves absolutely, who claims completely, who knows no middle ground when it comes to what matters to him.
And now I understand: it's who I am too.
The sophisticated art director, the independent woman who valued her autonomy, the person who maintained careful emotional boundaries—she still exists. But alongside her, growing stronger every day, is this other self: a woman capable of the same obsessive devotion that defines her husband. A woman who would fight with teeth and claws to keep what belongs to her. A woman who needs her husband with an intensity that would frighten anyone who hasn't experienced it themselves.
Knox reaches the steps of the veranda, Claire now drowsy against his shoulder after her beach adventure. The sight of them—the two people who constitute my entire world—sends another wave of possessive love crashing through me.
"What are you thinking about so intensely?" Knox asks, joining me on the cushioned lounge. "You've been watching us with that look for the past twenty minutes."
"What look?" I ask, making room for him beside me.
"Like you're seeing something no one else can see." He settles Claire between us, her little body relaxing into sleep, secure in our presence. "Like you're solving a puzzle."
I meet his eyes—those dark, intense eyes that have never wavered in their devotion since the day we met—and decide onhonesty. Knox has always given me his unvarnished truth. He deserves the same from me.
