Page 12 of Bound in Matrimony

The ceremony passes in a blur of words I've memorized but barely register as I speak them. I've arranged every detail of this day, supervised every element from the rare flowers to the specific vintage of champagne waiting in crystal flutes. Yet the only detail that truly matters is the woman before me, promising herself to me in words that seem insufficient to capture the magnitude of what exists between us.

"I do," she says, her voice clear and steady despite the tears that shimmer in her eyes.

"I do," I echo, though in my mind the words are more primal. Mine. Forever. No escape.

When the officiant pronounces us husband and wife, I don't wait for permission to kiss her. I claim her mouth with a possession that borders on indecent for a public ceremony, my hand cradling the nape of her neck to hold her in place. She melts against me, her body yielding as it always does, and I taste her surrender on my tongue.

The guests applaud, but I barely hear them. As we turn to face our small audience—her parents, a few close friends, my essential staff—I keep my arm firmly around her waist. Photographers capture the moment, their presence a necessary evil I tolerate only because I want documentation of this day. Proof that she chose me. Legally. Publicly. Irrevocably.

"Fifteen minutes," I murmur into her ear as we begin the recessional walk. "Then I need you alone."

She glances up at me, surprise flickering across her features. "The reception?—"

"Can wait." My tone brooks no argument. I've orchestrated this day down to the minute, but I've built in a private interlude that none of our guests know about. A moment I need more than air.

The botanical garden's director leads us to a secluded glass conservatory filled with rare tropical plants—a space I had renovated specifically for this purpose. The doors close behind us, and for the first time since the ceremony began, we're truly alone.

Seraphina turns to me, her dress rustling softly against the marble floor. In this light, with flowers creating a natural canopy above her, she looks otherworldly. My wife. The word reverberates through me with a power I didn't anticipate.

"Knox?" Her voice is soft, questioning. "Why are we here?"

Instead of answering, I cross to her in three long strides, taking her face between my hands with a gentleness that contradicts the storm raging inside me. For a moment, I simply look at her, memorizing every detail of her features as they are in this moment—flushed with emotion, eyes bright with unshed tears, lips slightly swollen from my kiss.

"I need you to make me a promise," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "A vow beyond what you just spoke in front of witnesses."

Her hands come up to rest on my wrists, her touch light but grounding. "What kind of promise?"

"That you'll never leave me again." The words tear from my throat, raw and unvarnished. "Never try to run. Never think you can disappear from my life."

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, then understanding. "Knox..."

"I found you once," I continue, unable to stop now that I've begun. "I would find you again. No matter where you went, no matter how far you ran. But I don't want to have to find you, Seraphina. I want you to stay. By choice."

Her eyes search mine, seeing past the command to the plea underneath. "This is about when I left before. When I was scared."

"Yes." I don't elaborate. We both know what happened—how she fled when the reality of our child, of my possession, became too much. How I tracked her across state lines, found her in that shabby motel room, brought her back where she belongs.

"You're my wife now," I say, my thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "That means something to me, Seraphina. More than you realize."

"Because of your parents?" she asks quietly, intuiting what I've never explicitly told her.

My jaw tightens reflexively. Even now, decades later, the memory has the power to shake my control. "My mother left when I was six. Walked out one day and never came back. My father..." I pause, forcing the words past the constriction in my throat. "He made sure I understood it was my fault. That I wasn't enough to make her stay."

Seraphina's expression softens, her hands moving to cup my face in a mirror of my hold on her. "Oh, Knox."

"I don't want your pity." The words come out sharper than intended. "I want your promise."

"It's not pity," she says, her gaze steady on mine. "It's understanding. It explains so much about you—why you need to control everything, why you're so afraid of losing what's yours."

I don't confirm or deny this assessment. I've spent a lifetime building myself into a man who takes what he wants, who never experiences that gut-wrenching helplessness of watching someone walk away. Seraphina is the first person who's mademe feel that vulnerability again—when she ran, when she carried my child thousands of miles away, when she thought she could exist without me.

"Promise me," I repeat, my fingers threading into her carefully arranged hair, uncaring that I'm destroying the stylist's work. "Say the words, Seraphina."

"I promise," she whispers, her eyes never leaving mine. "I won't leave you, Knox. Not ever again."

Relief washes through me, so powerful it nearly brings me to my knees. Instead, I pull her against me, burying my face in her neck, breathing in her scent like a drowning man gulping air.

"Say it again," I demand, my lips against her pulse point.

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