Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Seraphina
I wake slowly, enveloped in warmth and the familiar weight of Knox's arm draped possessively across my waist. Morning light filters through the partially drawn curtains, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets that barely cover our entangled bodies. For one disorienting moment, it feels like the past eighteen months never happened—like I'm still Knox's woman, waking in his bed as I did countless mornings before I found the courage to leave. Then reality crashes in: the interrupted wedding, the helicopter abduction, the pregnancy revelation, and last night…God, last night. My body aches in places that remind me exactly how thoroughly Knox reclaimed what he considers his. And the most terrifying part? How right it feels to be here, how my body curves into his even in sleep, like returning to its natural state after too long forced into an unnatural shape.
I shift slightly, taking inventory of the physical evidence of our night together. My lips feel swollen from his punishing kisses. My breasts are tender, marked with light bruises from his mouth and hands. My inner thighs ache pleasantly, the muscle memory of being wrapped around his waist for hours reawakened. Between my legs, I feel the delicious soreness that comes from being taken thoroughly, repeatedly, by a man who knows exactly how to use his body to drive mine to the edge of madness and back.
Knox's breath warms the back of my neck, his arm tightening unconsciously around me as I move. Even in sleep, he's possessive, unwilling to let me create even an inch of distance between us. His hand splays across my stomach—protective rather than possessive, sheltering the tiny life growing inside me. Our child. The reality of it hits me anew each time I remember.
I'm pregnant with Knox Vance's baby. I'm in his bed, in his mansion, on his private island. Exactly where he wants me, exactly how he planned it. The knowledge should make me furious, should strengthen my resolve to escape his controlling grip. Instead, I feel a treacherous sense of rightness that terrifies me more than any cage.
Because this has always been our problem—not the passion, not the chemistry, not even the arguments that could peel paint from walls. No, our problem has been how easily I lose myself in him, how the boundaries between Seraphina Vale and "Knox's woman" blur until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. How my carefully constructed independence fractures under the weight of his overwhelming presence in my life.
We'd been together for nearly a year before I found the strength to leave. A year of the highest highs and lowest lows. Passionate reconciliations after explosive arguments. Tender moments that made my heart ache followed by controlling gestures that made me feel like a prized possession rather than a partner. Knox giving me everything I could possibly want, except the one thing I needed most—room to breathe, to be myself, to make my own decisions without his shadow looming over me.
Last night was more of the same—overwhelming pleasure that erased my ability to think clearly, to maintain the boundaries I've fought so hard to establish since walking away from him.
Our fingers brush as I try to gently move his hand from my stomach, and I feel a spark—static from the silk sheets against our skin, but it jolts me nonetheless. Knox stirs behind me, his body tensing slightly as he transitions from sleep to wakefulness. I hold my breath, uncertain whether to pretend I'm still asleep or face the morning-after conversation that's inevitable.
"I know you're awake," he murmurs, his voice sleep-roughened and somehow even more seductive for it. "I can feel the tension in your shoulders."
Of course he can. Knox has always been attuned to my body's signals, sometimes reading them better than I do myself.
"I was trying not to wake you," I lie, still not turning to face him.
His laugh is a warm rumble against my back. "No, you were trying to decide whether to run or stay. Whether last night was a mistake or inevitable. Whether giving in to what's between us makes you weak or simply honest."
I stiffen at his accurate assessment of my thoughts. "Stop doing that. Stop acting like you can read my mind."
"Not your mind." His lips brush the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, sending a shiver down my spine. "Your body. It's always been more honest than your words, angel."
I finally turn to face him, needing to establish some semblance of control over this conversation. It's a mistake. Morning Knox has always been my weakness—his hair tousled from sleep and my fingers, his jaw darkened with stubble, his eyes still heavy-lidded but intensely focused on me. He looks like a predator contemplating his next meal, and my body responds embarrassingly quickly to the sight.
"Last night doesn't change the situation," I say, trying to sound firm despite the flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with morning sickness. "I'm still angry about how you brought me here. I still don't agree with your methods. And I'm still not convinced we can build anything healthy together, baby or no baby."
Instead of arguing, he simply traces his finger along my collarbone, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "And yet your body welcomed me back like I never left. Like it's been waiting eighteen months for me to claim it again."
"Sex isn't the problem between us, Knox. It never was."
"No," he agrees, surprising me. "The problem is your fear of surrendering control, and my fear of losing you if I give you too much freedom. Two opposing forces, constantly at war."
The simple truth in his assessment catches me off guard. I hadn't expected him to acknowledge his part in our dysfunction so readily.
"And now there's a third person to consider," I say softly, my hand moving unconsciously to my still-flat stomach. "A child who deserves parents who aren't constantly in a power struggle."
Knox covers my hand with his, the gesture unexpectedly tender. "Or parents who finally figure out how to balance those opposing forces for something more important than their own fears."
The hope in his voice—so unlike the demanding certainty he usually projects—makes something twist painfully in my chest. Because part of me wants to believe him, wants to believe we could find that balance, could forge something healthy from the beautiful disaster that is us.
"You kidnapped me from my wedding," I remind him, needing to hold onto my anger as a shield against the dangerous softness spreading through me. "Locked me on your island. Told me I'm not leaving until I accept I'm yours. That's not exactly promising behavior for a healthy co-parenting relationship, Knox."
"I rescued you from a mistake," he corrects, though without his usual arrogance. "Brought you home. And yes, I'm keeping you here until you admit what we both know is true—that we're meant to be together. That everything else is settling for less than what we could be."
"And if I never admit that?" I challenge, though we both know it's becoming harder for me to deny with each passing hour.
His smile is slow and knowing. "Then I suppose we'll grow old together on this island, raising our children in paradise while you stubbornly insist you're just waiting for the right moment to leave."
"Children? Plural?" I arch an eyebrow. "Getting ahead of yourself, aren't you?"
His hand moves from my stomach to my hip, drawing me closer until our bodies align perfectly. "I've never wanted just one of anything worth having, Seraphina. Why would our family be any different?"
The possessive certainty in his voice should anger me. Instead, it sends a flood of warmth through my core, my body responding to the promise of being claimed again, of being the vessel for his children, of being the center of his overwhelming focus and attention.
And that's what terrifies me most—not Knox's possessiveness, but how much a part of me craves it. How easily I could surrender to the security of being completely his, of letting him arrange our lives, make our decisions, shape our future according to his vision.
How dangerously close I am to forgetting why I left in the first place.
"I need to shower," I say abruptly, pulling away from his heat before I do something stupid like press myself against him, like invite him to take me again, like admit that waking in his arms feels more like home than the apartment I've lived in for the past year.
Knox releases me, but the knowing look in his eyes tells me he's not fooled by my sudden retreat. He's always seen through my defenses too easily.
"Use the rainfall shower," he suggests as I slide out of bed, wrapping the sheet around me in a belated attempt at modesty that seems ridiculous after everything we did last night. "The jets will help with any soreness."
Heat floods my cheeks at the implication, at the reminder of how thoroughly he used my body—and how eagerly I let him. "I'm fine," I lie, though the pleasant ache between my thighs tells a different story.
His smile says he knows exactly how I feel, can probably read the evidence of his possession in the careful way I move. "If you say so, angel."
I gather what's left of my dignity and head to the bathroom, feeling his eyes on me every step of the way. In the mirror, I confront the physical evidence of the night we spent together—the marks on my neck and breasts, the slight swelling of my lips, the satisfied glow that no amount of righteous anger can quite erase.
I look like a woman thoroughly claimed. Marked. Possessed.
And the most terrifying part? How right it feels. How much a part of me—a part I've spent eighteen months trying to silence—wants to go right back to that bed, curl into Knox's arms, and let him take control of everything.
My body is honest, he said. More honest than my words.
If that's true, then I'm in even more trouble than I thought.