Page 38 of Bound in Matrimony

Seraphina

The setting sunturns the ocean to liquid gold, painting our private stretch of beach in amber light that makes everything look slightly surreal, as if we're living inside an impressionist masterpiece. Claire's laughter bubbles up from the shoreline where Maria, her nanny, is helping her collect shells—a sound that never fails to make my heart expand with love. I adjust the strap of my sundress, eyes on the horizon where Knox's helicopter will appear any minute. Three days on the mainland for an acquisition that couldn't be handled remotely—the longest we've been apart since moving to the island six months ago. His absence has been a physical ache, a hollow space beside me in our bed, an emptiness that video calls and constant texts barely soothed. But he's coming home now, returning to the sanctuary he created for us, and I've spent all day preparing to welcome him back where he belongs.

Life on Claire Island has settled into a rhythm that feels both extraordinary and utterly natural. Knox runs his empire primarily from his state-of-the-art office in our home, traveling to Manhattan only when absolutely necessary. I've established a remote consulting relationship with my former gallery, curating digital exhibitions and occasionally flying in talent for our private collection. Claire thrives in this paradise, surrounded by nature and protected from the relentless scrutiny that would follow the Vance heiress in the outside world.

And our obsession—the mutual, consuming need we've acknowledged and embraced—has deepened into something that feels like breathing. Essential, automatic, yet still miraculous when I stop to consider it. The constant background awareness of each other, the territorial instincts that flare whenever outsiders enter our domain, the physical need that hasn't diminished with time or familiarity—it's all become our normal.

The distant thrum of helicopter blades breaks through my thoughts. I straighten, hand automatically going to my hair—styled exactly as Knox prefers it, loose around my shoulders but pulled back from my face with a simple clip. My sundress is new, a shade of emerald green that matches my eyes, the fabric light enough to remove easily. Beneath it, I wear nothing but the emerald and diamond necklace Knox gave me last month, "just because."

Deliberate choices, all of them. A calculated welcome home that acknowledges what we are to each other.

The helicopter appears over the horizon, growing larger as it approaches our landing pad. I signal to Maria, who waves in acknowledgment. She'll keep Claire occupied for another hour—enough time for the reunion I've planned. Knox and I agreed early in our island life that we would never diminish our roles as parents, but neither would we sacrifice the intensity that definesour relationship. The balance works because we both prioritize it, both recognize that our connection as husband and wife feeds our strength as parents.

By the time the helicopter lands, I've positioned myself at the edge of the garden path that leads from the helipad to our home. The pilot—hand-selected by Knox for both his flying skills and his discretion—remains with the aircraft as Knox emerges, still in his business suit despite the tropical heat. Even from this distance, I can see the moment he spots me. His whole body changes, tension visibly draining away, replaced by a focused intensity I feel like a physical touch.

He crosses the distance between us with long, purposeful strides, his eyes never leaving mine. Up close, I see the faint shadows beneath his eyes—evidence of three nights without proper sleep. Knox claims he doesn't rest well without me beside him. I believe him, because neither do I without him.

"Welcome home," I say, the words inadequate for the surge of emotion that accompanies his return.

His response is to pull me against him, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that makes it clear how much he's missed me. I surrender to the kiss, my body melting against his with the practiced ease of a woman who knows exactly where she belongs.

"Claire?" he asks when we finally break apart, both breathless.

"With Maria on the beach. We have an hour." I take his hand, leading him toward our home. "She missed you. Made you a shell collection."

His smile—that rare, genuine expression so few people ever witness—warms his entire face. "I'll treasure it. But first—" His eyes darken as they rake over me, noting the new dress, the bare skin beneath, the necklace resting against my collarbone. "I need my wife."

Inside our bedroom, words become unnecessary. His hands find the thin straps of my dress, pushing them off my shoulders with reverent urgency. The garment pools at my feet, leaving me in nothing but emeralds and diamonds. His sharp intake of breath is all the appreciation I need.

"You planned this," he says, his voice rough with desire as he shrugs off his suit jacket.

"Of course I did." I help him with his tie, then the buttons of his shirt, eager to feel his skin against mine. "I've been planning it since the moment you left."

His laugh is low, delighted. "My obsessive wife."

"Your matching obsession," I correct, pushing his shirt from his shoulders, my fingers automatically finding the tattoo that bears my name. "Perfect balance."

He lifts me then, powerful arms carrying me to our bed with effortless strength. The sheets are fresh, the room filled with the scent of plumeria from the gardens below our window. Another deliberate choice—Knox loves the way that particular flower smells on my skin.

His body covers mine, familiar yet always thrilling. "I missed you," he confesses against my throat, his hands relearning curves he already knows by heart. "Every minute. Every second."

"Show me," I challenge, arching into his touch.

He does—with mouth and hands and body, claiming me with the focused intensity that defines everything he does. I surrender completely, giving myself to him without reservation. This is what we are to each other: sanctuary and storm, peace and passion, obsession made tangible in flesh and blood.

Later, when the initial desperate hunger has been sated, he takes me again—slower this time, more deliberate. My body responds to his as if created specifically for this purpose, rising to meet each thrust, anticipating each touch. His name fallsfrom my lips like prayer, acknowledgment of what we've become together.

"Mine," he growls against my skin as we build toward completion. "Say it."

"Yours," I agree, my nails leaving crescents in his shoulders. "Always yours. Just as you're mine."

The dual claiming pushes us both over the edge, our release amplified by three days of separation and two years of ever-deepening connection. Afterward, he holds me against his chest, my head tucked beneath his chin, our heartbeats gradually synchronizing.

"I've arranged to have no more overnight trips," he murmurs into my hair. "The separation is…unacceptable."

I smile against his skin, unsurprised. "Claire missed you terribly."

"And her mother?"

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