Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Seraphina
The world narrows to a pinpoint when Knox stops in front of me, close enough that his custom cologne—sandalwood and something darker, something uniquely him—floods my senses. eighteen months evaporate like they never existed. My body recognizes him before my brain can catch up, a rush of heat flooding my cheeks and pooling lower, much lower, than is appropriate at my own interrupted wedding. His eyes lock onto mine, midnight dark and burning with possession, and I hate that after everything, after all this time, one look from Knox Vance still makes me feel like I'm the only woman in the world.
"What are you doing here?" I manage, my voice a strangled whisper. The question is ridiculous—his purpose is written in every hard line of his body, in the predatory stillness with which he regards me.
He doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. Behind me, Richard's hand presses against my back, a butterfly touch compared to the gravitational pull Knox exerts just by standing there. He looks exactly the same and completely different—the same powerful shoulders stretching his black suit jacket, the same ruthlessly sculpted jaw now shadowed with a day's worth of stubble, the same intensity that always made me feel simultaneously seen and consumed. But there's something new in his eyes, something dangerous that wasn't there before. Something that looks like eighteen months of rage.
"You need to leave," Richard says, his voice admirably steady despite the situation. "This is a private ceremony."
Knox's eyes don't even flicker toward him. It's as if Richard doesn't exist in his universe, as if there's only me.
"Seraphina." My name in his mouth is both caress and command. "Time to go."
A hysterical laugh bubbles up from my chest. "Go? I'm in the middle of my wedding, Knox!"
"No," he says simply. "You're not."
Around us, the wedding guests form a horrified audience. I catch glimpses of my mother's ashen face, my father's thunderous expression, my bridesmaids huddled together like frightened birds in their sage green dresses. Phones are out, recording this catastrophe for posterity and probably social media. Tomorrow, this will be everywhere—the gallery director left at the altar, or worse, kidnapped by a tech billionaire with control issues.
"You can't just show up after eighteen months and?—"
"Seventeen months, three weeks, and four days," he corrects me, and the precision of it—the fact that he's counted every single day since I walked out of his penthouse—sends a treacherous shiver down my spine.
Our fingers brush as he reaches for me, and I feel a spark—static from the dry air and silk fabric, but it jolts me nonetheless. His touch has always been electric, always left me feeling branded.
"Don't touch her," Richard steps between us, his shoulders squared in a show of protection that might be commendable if it weren't so futile. Knox doesn't even blink. He simply places one hand on Richard's chest and pushes, sending my fiancé—almost husband—stumbling back several steps.
"Knox!" I hiss, my outrage genuine even as something molten and primal uncurls in my stomach at this display of raw strength. "Stop this! You can't just?—"
His movement is so swift I don't register it until I'm suddenly airborne, the world tilting as my stomach connects with his shoulder and my expensive wedding dress bunches around my thighs. One of his arms bands like steel around the backs of my legs while the other secures my waist.
"Knox Vance!" I shriek, pounding my fists against his back. "Put me down this instant!"
He doesn't even grunt at the impact of my blows. Instead, I feel a rumble against my body that might be laughter, and the hand at my waist slides higher, dangerously close to the side of my breast.
"I love when you say my full name, angel. Makes me feel like a naughty schoolboy being scolded. We'll explore that fantasy later."
"You're insane!" I cry, but the heat spreading through me has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the familiar way his body feels against mine, the easy strength with which he holds me, the absolute certainty of his movements. Knox has always moved like a man who doesn't know the meaning of doubt.
The world bounces and sways as he carries me down the cathedral steps. Gasps and exclamations follow us, along with the unmistakable clicks and flashes of camera phones. Richard is shouting something. Security guards hover uselessly, clearly uncertain whether to tackle a man worth billions.
"My parents!" I gasp, suddenly thinking of the humiliation they must be feeling. "Richard! You can't do this to them!"
"Already did," he replies, not breaking stride. The sunlight hits us as we exit the cathedral's shadow, momentarily blinding me. I catch a glimpse of my mother actually fainting into the arms of my aunt, of my father red-faced and bellowing, of Richard standing frozen in disbelief.
"I'll sue you," I threaten, my legs kicking fruitlessly against his iron grip. "I'll press charges for kidnapping. I'll—" My words end in an undignified yelp as his hand delivers a stinging slap to the curve of my ass.
"You'll do no such thing," he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "Because you want this as badly as I do."
"I do not!" I protest, even as my body betrays me, softening against him despite my mind's outrage. "I was getting married!"
"No," he repeats, "you were making a mistake. I'm fixing it."
The absurd arrogance of this man—to decide what's best for me, to interrupt my wedding, to carry me off like some caveman—should have me spitting with fury. And I am furious. But something else trembles alongside the anger, something that recognizes the terrible truth in his words. I was making a mistake. I've known it for months, maybe from the moment Richard proposed. I just didn't have the courage to admit it.
But that doesn't excuse this...this kidnapping.
"The reporters," I gasp as we near the helicopter, suddenly realizing that the crowd has swelled to include more than just wedding guests. Of course. A mysterious helicopter landing at a society wedding would draw media attention like sharks to blood. And Knox's face is recognizable enough to ensure maximum coverage.
"Let them look," he says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Let everyone see who you belong to."
"I don't belong to anyone!" I cry, finally managing to land a solid blow between his shoulder blades. It earns me another slap on my backside, this one harder, the sting of it radiating through the layers of my dress.
"Keep telling yourself that, angel."
We reach the helicopter, its rotors already spinning up again. The pilot keeps his eyes diplomatically forward as Knox shifts me in his arms, momentarily cradling me against his chest before depositing me none-too-gently on a leather seat. Before I can scramble away, he's beside me, one arm like an iron bar across my lap.
"Seatbelt," he says, as if we're about to embark on a pleasant Sunday drive.
I stare at him, speechless with rage and something else I refuse to name. His dark eyes burn into mine, his jaw set in that stubborn expression I know too well.
"Now, Seraphina."
My hand moves automatically to the buckle, muscle memory responding to that commanding tone before my brain can intercede. I hate myself for it, hate him for knowing exactly how to trigger my compliance.
Outside, chaos has erupted. Richard has finally found his courage, running toward the helicopter with two security guards flanking him. Too little, too late. The rotors spin faster, the wind keeping them at bay. Cameras flash continuously, capturing this moment for tabloids and gossip sites worldwide.
"You've ruined my life," I say, blinking back tears that are equal parts fury and relief. "Again."
Knox leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. "I've saved you," he corrects, one hand sliding up to cup my cheek, forcing me to look at him. "And I'm never letting you go again."
The helicopter lifts, the ground falling away beneath us, taking with it the life I'd carefully constructed after leaving Knox. The wedding, the safe fiancé, the predictable future—all receding as we rise into the clear blue sky, leaving behind nothing but shocked faces and camera flashes.
And despite everything—the humiliation, the outrage, the sheer audacity of what he's done—I can't ignore the treacherous flutter in my chest, the part of me that whispers: Finally.