Page 14 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)

Chapter Fourteen

Seraphina

The first contraction feels like an artist's brushstroke—a firm sweep of pressure across my lower back that gradually intensifies before fading away.

I pause in the middle of arranging flowers in our penthouse living room, one hand instinctively moving to my enormous belly.

Nine months pregnant, and I still can't quite believe there's a person in there—a tiny human that Knox and I created, growing beneath my heart.

The contraction subsides, and I check my watch, noting the time with the same careful attention I'd give to cataloging a new exhibition.

Not time to panic yet. Not time to unleash the carefully contained hurricane that my husband will become the moment I tell him our baby is coming.

I lower myself carefully onto the sofa, smoothing my hand over the stretched silk of my maternity dress—custom-made, of course, because Knox refused to let me wear anything mass-produced during my pregnancy.

"Nothing but the best for my wife and child," he'd declared, before ordering an entire wardrobe that somehow managed to make me feel elegant despite resembling a particularly well-dressed planet in my third trimester.

Another contraction rolls through me thirteen minutes later.

I breathe through it, the way the doula Knox hired taught us.

He'd attended every class, asked more questions than all the other expectant parents combined, and created an annotated binder of information that would put most medical textbooks to shame.

My husband, the CEO who delegates everything in his business life, has approached impending fatherhood with a micromanager's obsessive attention to detail.

The memory of his face during our last ultrasound makes me smile despite the discomfort.

The technician had pointed out our daughter's perfect profile, her tiny hand raised as if waving, and Knox had gone completely still.

Then he'd gripped my hand so tightly I lost circulation in two fingers, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"She's perfect," he'd whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "Like her mother."

The past nine months have revealed new dimensions of Knox's possessiveness that I never imagined possible.

He's had the penthouse rebuilt around my pregnancy—wider doorways, gentler lighting, an entirely new climate control system that keeps the temperature at the exact degree his research indicated was optimal for pregnant women.

He's attended every doctor's appointment, interrogated every specialist, commissioned enough safety equipment to childproof the Pentagon.

The nursery looks like it belongs in a royal palace, though our daughter won't even sleep there for months.

A third contraction, eleven minutes after the second, makes me catch my breath.

This one demands my full attention, radiating from my back around to my abdomen in a tightening band.

When it passes, I decide it's time. Knox is in his home office on a conference call with Tokyo, but he'd never forgive me if I waited any longer to tell him.

I move carefully down the hallway, one hand supporting my lower back, the other resting on my belly.

Through the partially open door, I can see him pacing as he speaks, his powerful frame outlined against the Manhattan skyline.

Even after nearly two years of marriage, the sight of him still makes my heart beat faster.

He senses my presence immediately—he always does—and turns toward the door. One look at my face and he freezes mid-sentence.

"I have to go," he says into the phone, disconnecting without waiting for a response. "Is it time?"

I nod, and the transformation is instantaneous. Knox Vance, titan of industry, the man whose mere presence makes boardrooms fall silent, goes utterly pale.

"How long? How far apart? How strong? Should you be standing? Where's your hospital bag? Did you call Dr. Winters? I'll get the car. No, I'll call an ambulance. Maybe a helicopter would be faster?—"

"Knox." I interrupt his spiral with a firm tone, the one I use when he's being particularly unreasonable.

"I've had three contractions in the last thirty minutes.

We have plenty of time. The hospital is fourteen minutes away with normal traffic.

Dr. Winters said not to come in until the contractions are five minutes apart for at least an hour. "

He stares at me as if I've suggested we deliver the baby on the subway. "Unacceptable. We're going now."

Another contraction begins, and I can't hide my wince as it tightens across my abdomen. Knox is beside me instantly, supporting my weight, his face a mask of barely contained panic.

"Breathe," he instructs, demonstrating the pattern we learned. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it."

The irony of him coaching me while looking like he might pass out isn't lost on me, but the contraction demands too much concentration for me to comment.

When it passes, he literally sweeps me off my feet, carrying me as if I weigh nothing despite being heavily pregnant.

"Knox, put me down. I can walk. We don't need to leave yet."

He ignores me completely, striding toward our bedroom where the hospital bag—actually three meticulously packed suitcases—has been waiting by the door for weeks.

"I'm calling Dr. Winters," he announces, somehow managing to hold me while retrieving his phone. "And the hospital. They need to be ready. And security—we'll need the route cleared."

"We don't need a police escort to—" I begin, but he's already dialing, his voice shifting into the commanding tone that probably terrifies his employees.

"This is Knox Vance. My wife is in labor. We're on our way. I expect Dr. Winters to be waiting when we arrive." He pauses, listening, his jaw tightening. "I don't care if she says it's too early. Seraphina would minimize a bullet wound. We're coming now."

I should be annoyed by his high-handedness, but there's something touching about his complete unraveling. This man who controls billion-dollar deals with icy precision is coming apart because our daughter is making her entrance into the world.

He carries me to the elevator, the suitcases somehow now in the hands of our building's security chief, who must have been summoned while I was distracted by the contraction.

A car is already waiting when we reach the ground floor, not our usual town car but an SUV with what appears to be a police escort.

"You didn't," I say, raising an eyebrow as he settles me into the backseat with the gentleness one might use for priceless crystal.

"I did." He slides in beside me, one hand immediately finding mine, the other resting on my belly. "Nothing is taking chances with you and our daughter. Nothing."

The drive that should take fourteen minutes takes eight, thanks to whatever strings Knox has pulled.

He doesn't release my hand once, his eyes constantly scanning my face for signs of distress.

When another contraction comes, stronger than the others, he looks so agonized you'd think he was the one in labor.

"It hurts," he says, not a question but a tortured statement. "I can see it in your face."

"It's supposed to hurt," I remind him, breathing through the tightening. "That's how we know our daughter is coming."

"I hate this," he confesses, his voice raw. "I hate seeing you in pain. I hate not being able to fix it."

The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. Knox Vance doesn't admit helplessness. Ever. But in this moment, faced with the natural process that can't be controlled, can't be bought off or intimidated or overruled, he's completely undone.

I squeeze his hand as the contraction subsides. "You're not supposed to fix it. You're just supposed to be here with me. And you are."

He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles with such reverence it makes my chest ache. "Always."

When we arrive at the hospital, it's like a scene from a movie. Staff line the entrance, a wheelchair appears instantly, and Dr. Winters—who indeed has been summoned despite my early stage of labor—waits by the doors.

Knox helps me from the car with excessive caution, then seems reluctant to let me sit in the wheelchair, as if he doesn't trust anyone else to transport me.

"Mr. Vance," Dr. Winters says with the patient tone of someone accustomed to anxious fathers, "your wife is in excellent hands. We're going to get her settled and monitor her progress. First babies often take their time."

"Time," Knox repeats as if the concept is foreign to him. "How much time? She's in pain. Can't you speed this up? There must be something?—"

"Knox." I capture his hand, drawing his wild gaze to mine. "This is going to take hours. Possibly many hours. You need to breathe."

A hint of color returns to his face as he visibly tries to collect himself. "Hours," he repeats. "Right. Of course. I've read about this." His free hand moves to the inside pocket of his jacket, where I know he keeps the laminated timeline of labor stages he created.

Dr. Winters catches my eye with a sympathetic smile. In the nine months she's been my obstetrician, she's witnessed the full spectrum of Knox's protective obsession.

"Let's get you to your suite," she says, gesturing for the nurse to begin wheeling me inside. "We've prepared everything according to your birth plan."

As we move through the hospital, Knox never leaves my side, his hand firmly gripping mine as if I might disappear if he lets go. Another contraction builds as we reach the private birthing suite—actually an entire section of the maternity floor that Knox has somehow secured exclusively for us.

"Breathe with me," I tell him as much as myself, watching his chest rise and fall in perfect sync with mine as we work through the pain together.

When it passes, I look up at my husband—this powerful, controlling, obsessive man who has completely lost his composure at the prospect of our child entering the world—and feel a surge of love so intense it almost rivals the contractions.

"We're having a baby," I whisper, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of it.

His eyes, dark with concern and wonder and terror, meet mine. "We're having a baby," he agrees, voice unsteady. Then, with newfound determination: "And I'm not leaving your side for a single second until she's safely in our arms."

As they help me onto the bed and begin attaching monitors, I watch Knox transform again—not back into the controlled CEO, but into something new: a father-to-be, terrified and exhilarated and completely, irrevocably committed to the tiny person about to join our world.

And despite the pain, despite the hours of labor ahead, I wouldn't change a thing about this moment or the man beside me.