Page 11 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)

Chapter Eleven

Knox

The needle bites into 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 in ink 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 woman who's built her career on interpreting artistic expressions, I suspect she'll grasp the meaning instantly.

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 my nervous 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.

But for now, this is enough. Her name on my skin. My name on hers—in a thousand invisible ways that only we can see.

A balance. A claiming that goes both ways.

As it should be.