Page 5 of Bound in Silk

In the car returning to the penthouse, silence stretches between us, both lost in our thoughts. The printout of theultrasound rests in my hand, the grainy image of our baby—still more idea than person—somehow making everything more real than the positive tests or morning sickness ever did.

"You're quiet," Knox observes finally, his eyes on the Manhattan traffic flowing around us.

"Processing," I reply honestly. "It's…a lot."

"Yes." His hand covers mine where it rests on the seat between us. "But we'll handle it together."

Together. The word hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm still not ready to fully accept. Three weeks in the penthouse, three weeks of careful distance maintained despite sharing space, despite the undeniable pull between us that grows stronger with each passing day. Three weeks of Knox's patient campaign to reintegrate himself into every aspect of my life—professional, personal, now medical.

And it's working. God help me, it's working.

By the time we reach the penthouse, exhaustion has set in—emotional more than physical. I retreat to the guest room that has become my sanctuary, my last stand against Knox's complete reoccupation of my life. The space is comfortable, luxurious even, but deliberately impersonal. I've made no effort to make it mine, to nest here, because doing so would acknowledge a permanence I'm still resisting.

I'm about to lie down when a discreet knock sounds at the door. Opening it, I find Marina, the housekeeper, holding several elegant boxes tied with ribbon.

"These just arrived for you, Ms. Vale," she says, extending them toward me.

"Thank you." I accept the stack, curiosity overriding fatigue. "Did Mr. Vance arrange these?"

Marina's smile is knowing. "He said you might need something more comfortable as your body changes."

Of course he did. Ever thoughtful, ever presumptuous Knox, addressing needs before I've fully acknowledged them myself. I close the door, placing the boxes on the bed with mixed anticipation and wariness. Knowing Knox, whatever these contain will be exquisitely chosen, perfectly suited to my taste, and yet another thread in the web he's weaving around me.

The first box reveals emerald green silk and lace, nestled in tissue paper. I lift the lingerie set—bra and matching panties—marveling at the quality, the craftsmanship evident in every stitch. Not regular lingerie, I realize as I examine the structure. Maternity lingerie. Specifically designed to accommodate my changing body, to provide support where needed while maintaining the delicacy and sensuality of luxury undergarments.

The other boxes contain similar sets in different colors and styles—midnight blue, deep burgundy, classic black. Each piece feels like water in my hands, impossibly soft, undeniably expensive. The kind of lingerie designed to make a woman feel beautiful, desirable, even as her body transforms in ways beyond her control.

I should be offended. Should see this as yet another attempt by Knox to mark his territory, to remind me that my body's changes are due to him, to assert his claim over me in the most intimate way possible. But as I hold the emerald set against myself, catching my reflection in the mirror, what I feel isn't indignation but…gratitude.

Because my body is changing. The bras I've been wearing are already uncomfortable, the waistbands of my pants increasingly tight. I've been avoiding looking too closely in mirrors, uncomfortable with the visible evidence of how completely my life has been derailed. And here's Knox, not just acknowledging those changes but celebrating them, providing not just practical solutions but beautiful ones.

Unable to resist, I strip off my clothes and try on the emerald set. The fit is perfect—of course it is. The bra cups cradle my fuller breasts without constriction, the band soft against skin that's become increasingly sensitive. The panties sit just below the barely-there curve of my stomach, neither digging in nor sliding down.

I turn sideways, examining my reflection critically. There's a slight roundness to my lower abdomen now, a subtle fullness to my breasts, changes that have made me feel awkward, ungainly in my regular clothes. But in this lingerie, designed specifically for a pregnant body, I look…beautiful. Sensual. Womanly in a way that has nothing to do with conforming to standard beauty ideals and everything to do with the primal femininity of creating life.

As I adjust the bra strap, my fingers brush against something embroidered on the inside of the waistband. Looking closer, I find "Vance" stitched in thread that exactly matches the emerald silk, invisible from the outside but unmistakable to anyone wearing the garment.

Vance.His name literally sewn into underwear designed to cradle the body carrying his child. It should feel presumptuous, possessive, infuriating. Instead, a treacherous warmth spreads through me, a fluttering low in my belly that has nothing to do with the baby and everything to do with the man who put it there.

I try on each set, each fitting perfectly, each bearing that same hidden marking. With each piece, the same conflicted emotions swirl—gratitude for the thoughtfulness, for how beautiful they make me feel, mixed with resistance to the obvious claiming, the clear message that Knox considers me his in every way that matters.

The black set is the most revealing, clearly designed for something beyond practical support. Sheer lace panels, strategiccutouts, a design that showcases rather than conceals. The implications are clear—Knox doesn't just want me comfortable as my body changes; he wants me feeling desirable. Wanted. His.

And the most troubling realization? It's working. Standing before the mirror in lingerie he's chosen, bearing his name against my skin, I feel both completely possessed and utterly cherished. Protected and desired in equal measure. Safe within the fortress of his attention while still burning under the heat of his gaze.

I've never had this before—this specific combination of security and passion. Richard made me feel safe but never consumed by desire. Previous boyfriends provided excitement but never stability. Only Knox has ever given me both, has ever made me feel simultaneously sheltered and ignited, protected and pursued.

That's what makes him so dangerous. That's what made me run eighteen months ago. The totality of what he offers—everything I need, everything I want, everything I fear becoming addicted to. Because when Knox Vance loves you, it's not with half measures. It's complete. Overwhelming. All-consuming.

I'm still wearing the black set when a soft knock sounds at the door again.

"Seraphina?" Knox's voice, controlled but with an underlying tension that suggests he knows exactly what I'm doing. "Dinner in thirty minutes. I've had your favorite brought in from Massimo's."

My heart races as I stand frozen, separated from him by nothing but a wooden door and the last remnants of my resistance. I could open it. Could let him see the evidence of his gift on my body, could watch his eyes darken with the desire I know would be there, could surrender to the inevitable pull between us that grows stronger with each passing day.

Instead, I clear my throat, fighting for composure. "I'll be there. Thank you."

His footsteps retreat down the hallway, and I release the breath I've been holding. Not yet. Not today. I'm not ready to concede everything, to admit that he's winning this war of attrition he's been waging since the moment he carried me from the altar.

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