Page 20 of Bound in Matrimony

When I enter our home, I find her in her studio—the space I had built for her when she moved in, with perfect northern light and every supply an artist could desire. She doesn't paint professionally, but she sketches, creates. It's where she goes to think, to process. I stand in the doorway watching her for a moment, absorbing the sight of her in a paint-spattered shirt (one of mine, I note with satisfaction), her honey-blonde hair pulled back in a loose knot, her face serene in concentration.

She senses my presence—she always does—and looks up, her green eyes warming at the sight of me. Then they sharpen, noticing my partially unbuttoned shirt, the edge of the bandage visible beneath.

"Knox?" She sets down her charcoal, concern creasing her forehead. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

I move toward her, unbuttoning my shirt the rest of the way as I approach. "Not hurt. Marked."

Her eyebrows draw together in confusion, then rise as understanding dawns. She stands, meeting me in the center of the studio, her eyes fixed on the bandage covering my chest.

"You didn't," she whispers.

"I did." I take her hand and place it gently over the covered tattoo, feeling the slight sting as she touches it through the bandage. "Do you want to see?"

She nods, her eyes never leaving mine as I carefully peel back the protective covering, revealing her name written in permanent ink over my heart. Her breath catches, and for a moment she's perfectly still, staring at this most intimate of declarations.

"Why?" she finally asks, her voice barely audible.

"Because you're mine." I capture her chin, tilting her face up to meet my gaze. "And I'm yours. Completely. Permanently. Without reservation."

Her fingers hover over the tattoo, not quite touching the sensitized skin. "It must have hurt."

"Yes." I don't elaborate. She knows my history, knows that physical pain has never been what frightens me.

"It's beautiful," she says softly, then looks up at me with those perceptive eyes that see too much. "But this isn't just about aesthetics, is it? This is about…claiming. Marking. Making it permanent."

I don't insult her intelligence by denying it. "Yes."

"Like the wardrobe."

"Similar," I acknowledge. "But different."

She understands immediately. "The clothes are you marking me as yours. This is you marking yourself as mine."

I nod, watching her process this. Her analytical mind working through the implications, the motivations behind such a permanent gesture.

"You could have just told me, you know." Her voice is gentle, not accusing. "That you need this level of…connection. Of permanence."

"Words are easy." I trace the curve of her cheek with my thumb. "Anyone can say anything. I needed to show you."

Her eyes fill with unexpected tears. "No one has ever..." She stops, composes herself. "No one has ever needed me the way you do."

"No one ever will." I pull her carefully against me, mindful of the fresh tattoo. "No one could possibly need you the way I do, Seraphina. It's beyond wanting. Beyond loving. It's essential. Like oxygen."

She presses her lips to my chest, just beside the tattoo, the gentle pressure sending both pain and pleasure through mynervous system. "Thank you," she whispers against my skin. "For showing me. For marking yourself as mine."

Something unwinds in my chest—a tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. She understands. Of course she does. This brilliant, perceptive woman who chose to become my wife understands that my need to possess her is matched by my willingness to be possessed in return.

"I should warn you," she says, leaning back to meet my eyes with a small smile playing at her lips. "Now that you've done this, I may need to find my own way to mark you as mine."

The thought sends a surge of satisfaction through me. "I'm counting on it."

She rises on tiptoes, pressing her mouth to mine in a kiss that promises everything I've ever needed. When she pulls away, there's a new certainty in her eyes—a recognition of the depth of what exists between us.

"My name over your heart," she murmurs, her fingers lightly tracing the outline of the bandage. "I'll have to make sure I'm worthy of that position."

I capture her hand, pressing it firmly against my chest, feeling the slight sting as a reminder of what I've done. "You already are. You always have been. From the moment I saw you."

And as I lead her from the studio toward our bedroom, her name beating beneath her palm with every pulse of my heart, I know that this permanent mark is just the beginning. There will be more ways to bind us together, more ways to ensure that what we've found can never be lost.

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