Page 19 of Bound in Matrimony

His mouth quirks at one corner, but his eyes remain serious. "Do you hate it?"

The vulnerability beneath the question touches something deep inside me. This powerful man who commands industries with a single phone call, who never doubts himself in business, needs reassurance that I accept his claim.

I cross the room to him, placing my hands on his chest, feeling his heart beat strong and fast beneath my palm. "I should hate it. It's presumptuous and controlling and completely over the top."

His expression doesn't change, but I feel him tense beneath my hands.

"But it's also..." I search for the right word, "...you. Completely, authentically you. And since I chose to marry you,knowing exactly who you are..." I rise on tiptoes, bringing my mouth to his ear. "I guess I'll just have to get used to being labeled as yours."

His arms come around me instantly, crushing me against his chest. "Say it again," he demands, his voice rough with emotion.

"I'm yours," I whisper, and feel the shudder that runs through his powerful body at my words. "Seraphina Vance. Your wife. And apparently your walking billboard."

His laugh rumbles through both our bodies as he lifts me off my feet. "The dress looks perfect on you."

"Everything you picked does," I admit. "Your taste has improved significantly since I met you."

"I have the best consultants." He sets me down but doesn't release me. "So you're not angry?"

I consider the question seriously, owing him the truth. "I'm…adjusting. To being so completely claimed. But no, I'm not angry." I smooth my hands over the perfect dress, feeling the quality of the fabric. "Though I hope you realize this means I get to claim you just as thoroughly."

His smile is slow, predatory. "I'm counting on it, Mrs. Vance. I'm counting on it."

Chapter Eleven

Knox

The needle bitesinto my skin, sending sharp pulses of pain across my chest. I don't flinch. Pain has been my companion longer than success has—an old friend I recognize but no longer fear. The tattoo artist—the most exclusive in Manhattan, who cleared his schedule with one phone call from me—works in silence, his focus absolute as he etches Seraphina's name over my heart. The irony doesn't escape me. For a man who demands control in all things, who leaves nothing to chance, who plans ten steps ahead in every scenario, this permanent mark is both surrender and claim. Her name on my skin forever. A visible brand I can show her, proving that possession runs both ways.

"Almost done with the outline, Mr. Vance," the artist murmurs, his gloved hands steady as they guide the needle across my flesh. The private studio is silent except for the mechanical hum of the tattoo gun. No music, no distractions, just the clean white room and the relentless buzz as Seraphina's name becomes part of me.

I stare at the ceiling, my mind clear despite the discomfort. This wasn't a spontaneous decision—I don't make those. I've been planning this since before our wedding, waiting for the right moment. That moment came this morning, when I watched her reaction to finding her new wardrobe. The hesitation, the momentary flash of irritation, then the acceptance. The way she looked in that dress with my name stitched into it—still entirely herself, but undeniably mine.

She called me presumptuous. Controlling. Over the top. Then she smiled and said it was completely, authentically me—and that she'd chosen to marry me knowing exactly who I am.

In that moment, I knew it was time to show her that this consuming need to possess, to mark, to claim—it goes both ways.

The needle moves to a particularly sensitive spot, and I feel my muscles tense involuntarily. The artist pauses for a fraction of a second before continuing. Most clients probably need breaks, need to catch their breath. I don't. The pain is clarifying. Reminds me of what's real, what matters.

"The script looks good," I say, glancing down at the work in progress. Her name in elegant, flowing letters—not ostentatious, nothing flashy. Just her name, permanent and indelible over my heart. A private declaration that only she will see.

"It's coming together nicely," the artist agrees. "The placement is perfect."

I chose the location deliberately. Of course I did. Every decision I make is calculated, considered from every angle. Her name over my heart—the metaphorical made literal. The man who built an empire from nothing, who's known for his ruthless business tactics and uncompromising standards, branded with the name of the only person who's ever truly mattered.

The significance won't be lost on Seraphina. She's too perceptive, too intelligent not to understand exactly what this means. It's not just a romantic gesture. It's a contract written inink and blood. A permanent reminder that while I've marked her as mine in a hundred different ways—from the ring on her finger to the clothes on her back—I'm equally marked as hers.

The artist moves on to shading parts of the design, the sensation different now—less sharp, more of a burning drag across sensitized skin. I think about the first time I saw Seraphina, standing in that gallery with her critical eye and sophisticated composure. How I knew immediately that I had to have her. Not just in my bed, though that was certainly part of it, but in my life. Completely. Irrevocably.

I've spent my entire adult life acquiring things—companies, properties, assets—building walls of wealth and power around myself to ensure I never return to the poverty of my childhood. But Seraphina isn't an acquisition. She's the reason for all of it. The purpose behind the empire.

"We're just about done, Mr. Vance." The artist leans back, examining his work with a critical eye. "Let me just clean it up and we'll be finished."

I glance down at my chest, at her name now permanently etched into my skin. The area around the tattoo is red and slightly swollen, the black ink stark against my flesh. It looks right. It feels right.

When the artist finishes and applies the bandage, I rise from the chair, pulling on my shirt without buttoning it. I transfer an obscene amount of money to his account—triple his usual rate, plus a generous bonus for his discretion—and leave without small talk. I've never been one for unnecessary conversation, and I have more important matters to attend to.

The drive back to our penthouse takes exactly fourteen minutes. I spend them thinking about how Seraphina will react. Will she be shocked? Moved? Will she understand the significance immediately, or will I need to explain? For a womanwho's built her career on interpreting artistic expressions, I suspect she'll grasp the meaning instantly.

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