Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Seraphina
I wear the same casual clothes from this morning, now rumpled from hours in the hotel room, my ponytail loosened and disheveled as I walk beside Knox through the hotel corridor.
The silence between us is charged with unresolved tension, with promises of patience that seem fragile against the backdrop of his tightly controlled fury, with my own conflicted emotions about being found so quickly, so thoroughly.
His hand at the small of my back doesn't appear possessive to casual observers—just a man guiding his partner—but I feel the slight pressure, the unmistakable message in his touch: Mine.
Still mine. Always mine. The hallway seems endless, each step bringing us closer to whatever comes next in this complicated dance between his need to possess and my need for autonomy.
Between his absolute certainty and my lingering doubts.
Between the future he's designed with such confidence and my fear of losing myself within it.
The elevator descends with mechanical precision, the only sound the soft hum of machinery and our measured breathing.
Knox stands close—too close for the empty space, his body angled toward mine as if to prevent any possibility of further escape.
His reflection in the polished metal doors shows a man barely containing powerful emotions—jaw tight, eyes focused with laser intensity, shoulders rigid beneath his impeccably tailored suit.
"Your security team," I say finally, breaking the tense silence. "They're waiting outside?"
"Yes." The single syllable reveals little, though I detect the undercurrent of still-simmering anger beneath his controlled exterior.
"And the press? Will they be there too?" The question isn't idle.
If Knox found me so quickly, others may have picked up the trail as well—paparazzi hungry for the next chapter in the dramatic saga of the gallery director kidnapped from her own wedding, now wearing the ring of the billionaire who took her.
"Possibly." His gaze shifts to me briefly before returning to the descending floor numbers. "The Vogue exclusive created interest. Our engagement is news."
Our engagement. The phrase still sends a flutter of panic through me despite the ring on my finger, despite my decision to return with him, despite the genuine connection I can't deny exists between us.
An engagement I never formally accepted but somehow find myself in the middle of nonetheless—Knox's will shaping reality as it always does.
The elevator doors open to the hotel lobby, revealing a space busier than when I checked in hours ago.
Business travelers with rolling luggage, tourists consulting maps on phones, hotel staff moving with practiced efficiency.
And across the marble expanse, near the revolving doors that lead to the street, two men in dark suits radiating the unmistakable alertness of security personnel—Gabriel and another member of Knox's team.
Knox's hand presses more firmly against my back as we cross the lobby, guiding me toward the exit with a deliberate pace that allows no hesitation, no second thoughts.
I can feel eyes turning toward us—Knox Vance commands attention in any space he occupies, his presence too forceful, too magnetic to go unnoticed.
"There are photographers outside," Gabriel informs Knox quietly as we approach, his professional expression betraying nothing of what he might think about retrieving his boss's runaway fiancée. "At least three that we've identified."
Something shifts in Knox's demeanor—a slight tensing of his shoulders, a recalculation happening behind those dark eyes. I recognize the signs of Knox Vance formulating a strategy, adjusting his approach to changing circumstances. It should make me wary. Does make me wary.
"How did they find us?" I ask, voice low enough that only Knox and Gabriel can hear.
"They follow me routinely," Knox answers, his attention now on the glass doors and whatever waits beyond them. "The Vogue announcement elevated interest. Our departure from the gala last night was noted. And now..."
He doesn't finish the thought, doesn't need to.
And now they've scented drama—the newly engaged billionaire tracking down his missing fiancée, a potential scandal too juicy to ignore.
Whatever happens next will be photographed, documented, splashed across gossip sites and social media within minutes.
"Knox," I say, warning in my voice as I sense his intention forming. "Whatever you're thinking?—"
Before I can finish, before I can protest or prepare, Knox moves with the fluid grace that always catches me off guard despite knowing what he's capable of.
One moment I'm standing beside him; the next I'm airborne, his shoulder pressing into my stomach as he lifts me with insulting ease, one arm banded securely around the backs of my thighs.
"Knox!" I gasp, the indignity of the position momentarily stealing more articulate protest. "Put me down!"
"No," he responds calmly, already moving toward the exit with determined strides, Gabriel clearing a path before us. "Not until we reach the car."
The absolute audacity—to throw me over his shoulder like a caveman, to physically assert his claim in the most primitive way possible, to transform what should be a private reconciliation into a public spectacle of possession.
Fury floods through me, hot and clarifying after hours of emotional confusion.
"This is outrageous," I hiss, hands pressing against his back in futile resistance. "You can't just?—"
"I can and I am," he interrupts, pushing through the revolving doors into the afternoon sunlight. "Hold still unless you want to give the photographers an even better show."
The camera flashes hit immediately—strobing bursts of light accompanied by shouted questions that blend into meaningless noise.
Through my upside-down perspective, I see curious pedestrians stopping to stare, phones raised to capture the spectacle of Knox Vance carrying a woman over his shoulder like some trophy, some conquest, some possession being reclaimed.
"Mr. Vance! Is there trouble in paradise already?"
"Seraphina! Are you leaving him?"
"Knox! Comment on the engagement?"
The questions penetrate my outrage, highlighting the public nature of this humiliation. Heat floods my face, partly from the blood rushing to my head in this undignified position, partly from the mortification of being carried through midtown Manhattan like a rebellious child.
"I will never forgive you for this," I promise, my voice low enough that only Knox can hear despite the fury infusing each word. "Never."
His hand tightens slightly where it grips my thighs, the only acknowledgment of my threat. He continues forward with unwavering purpose, each stride eating up distance between the hotel entrance and the black SUV waiting at the curb, Gabriel moving ahead to open the rear door.
The journey feels eternal though it can only be thirty or forty feet.
With each step, my outrage transforms, shifts, deepens into something more complex.
Because beneath the humiliation, beneath the righteous anger at being handled like property, lies a treacherous heat that I can't deny.
A primal response to Knox's raw display of possession, to the strength with which he carries me, to the absolute certainty with which he claims me before the world.
I hate myself for it. Hate the part of me that responds to this caveman display, that finds something darkly thrilling in being so thoroughly claimed, so publicly marked as his.
It's antithetical to everything I believe about equality, about autonomy, about modern relationships based on mutual respect rather than primitive possession.
Yet it's there—that heat, that response, that shameful thrill at being the woman Knox Vance would throw over his shoulder in broad daylight, before cameras and strangers, to assert his claim.
We reach the SUV, and with a fluid movement that again reminds me of his physical power, Knox lowers me into the back seat.
Before I can scramble away, he slides in beside me, his larger frame effectively trapping me against the leather upholstery.
Gabriel closes the door behind us, the sound oddly final as the tinted windows seal us away from curious eyes and camera lenses.
"What the hell was that?" I demand the moment we're alone, fury freshly ignited now that I'm upright and facing him. "That caveman display, that public humiliation, that—that claiming!"
"That," Knox says with infuriating calm, "was me making a statement. To the press. To you. To anyone who might question what happens when my fiancée disappears."
"I'm not your fiancée," I counter automatically, though the ring on my finger makes the denial ring hollow. "Not officially. Not by choice or agreement or any of the normal ways people get engaged."
"The ring on your finger says otherwise," he points out, his gaze dropping deliberately to my left hand. "The Vogue exclusive says otherwise. And now, the photos that will be everywhere by evening will say otherwise."
The vehicle pulls smoothly away from the curb, Gabriel and the other security team member in the front seats studiously ignoring the heated exchange happening behind them. The privacy screen slides up without prompting, giving us the illusion of being alone in the confined space.
"You promised patience," I remind him, struggling to keep my voice steady despite the emotions churning inside me. "Understanding. Partnership rather than possession. That display was the exact opposite of everything you just promised."
Something flickers in his eyes—not regret, precisely, but perhaps recognition that his actions contradicted his words from minutes earlier. "You ran," he says simply, as if that explains everything. Justifies everything.
"I needed space," I correct him. "Time to think clearly without your overwhelming presence coloring every thought. And I was coming back."
"Were you?" The question carries genuine uncertainty beneath the challenge, a vulnerability that catches me off guard.
"Yes," I admit, the truth easier than I expected. "I wasn't rejecting you, Knox. Just trying to find clarity about what accepting you—accepting this—really means."
His hand covers mine where it rests on the seat between us, his thumb brushing over the ring in what has become a habitual gesture. "And did you find that clarity in your few hours away?"
"I was starting to," I answer honestly. "Before you found me. Before you threw me over your shoulder like some trophy being reclaimed."
"Not a trophy," he corrects, his voice softening slightly. "Never that. Something infinitely more precious. Something I can't bear to lose again."
The raw emotion in his voice disarms me, makes it harder to maintain the righteous indignation his caveman display deserves.
This is the contradiction at the heart of Knox Vance—the possessive, controlling, utterly dominant man whose actions seem designed to overwhelm any resistance, alongside the vulnerable, devoted man who has shown me depths of feeling I've never witnessed in anyone else.
"You can't keep doing this," I say finally, turning my hand beneath his so our palms meet, a small concession to the connection I can't deny exists between us. "Can't keep overwhelming every boundary, every attempt at independence, every effort to maintain some sense of self separate from you."
"I know," he acknowledges, surprising me with his candor. "But you can't keep running when things feel too intense, too real, too demanding. Can't keep retreating behind walls when vulnerability feels dangerous."
His accuracy hits home, highlighting the parallel struggles we face—his to loosen control, mine to stop running from intensity. Both of us fighting instincts deeply ingrained, protective mechanisms developed long before we met each other.
"So where does that leave us?" I ask, genuinely uncertain about how we move forward from this impasse, this fundamental tension between his nature and mine.
His fingers intertwine with mine, the gesture both possessive and tender. "Learning," he says simply. "Me, to give you the space you need without feeling like I'm losing you. You, to accept the intensity between us without fearing it will consume you."
The SUV moves through Manhattan traffic, taking us back to the penthouse, back to the life Knox has crafted for us with such careful determination.
The ring catches the afternoon light filtering through the tinted windows, sending small rainbows dancing across the leather seats.
My heartbeat embedded in platinum and diamonds.
His claim made physical, visible, permanent.
"No more throwing me over your shoulder," I stipulate, needing to establish at least one clear boundary after today's display. "No more public demonstrations of possession without my consent."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, not quite contrition but acknowledgment of my point. "Agreed," he concedes. "Unless absolutely necessary."
I narrow my eyes at the qualification. "Define 'absolutely necessary.'"
"Life-threatening situations," he offers. "Natural disasters. Zombie apocalypse."
The absurdity of the last example startles a reluctant laugh from me, breaking some of the tension that's coiled between us since the moment he found me in that hotel room.
His answering smile—genuine, unguarded—reminds me of the man behind the billionaire facade, the man I've been falling for despite my best efforts at resistance.
The man who would throw me over his shoulder in broad daylight, before cameras and strangers, not just to assert his claim but because the thought of losing me again terrifies him more than any business challenge, any financial threat, any public scandal.
I'm still not sure if that devotion represents salvation or danger. If his intensity will elevate or consume me. If what exists between us can find balance between his need to possess and my need for independence.
But as his thumb traces circles on my palm, as the penthouse comes into view through the windshield, as my body remembers with treacherous clarity exactly how it feels to be claimed completely by Knox Vance, I find myself willing to stay and discover the answer.
At least for now.