Page 16 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)
Chapter Sixteen
Seraphina
The world comes back to me in pieces—the steady beep of monitors, the soft murmur of voices, the peculiar heaviness of my body that doesn't quite feel like my own.
The surgical suite has been exchanged for a recovery room, all soft lighting and muted colors.
I blink away the lingering haze of medication and surgery, my artist's eye automatically cataloging details: the pale blue of the walls, the gentle pink of the sunset filtering through half-drawn blinds, the crisp white of the sheets pulled up to my waist. And there, in the corner of the room, a tableau that stops my breath—Knox, still in surgical scrubs, cradling our newborn daughter in arms that have closed billion-dollar deals and crushed competitors without mercy.
Those powerful hands, now curved with impossible gentleness around our tiny child, look as though they were created for this singular purpose.
"Knox," I whisper, my voice scratchy from exertion and the breathing tube they inserted during surgery.
He turns immediately, his attention shifting to me with the same laser focus he brings to everything that matters to him. But there's something different in his expression—a softness I've never seen before, a vulnerability so raw and unguarded it makes my chest ache.
"She's awake," he murmurs to our daughter, as if sharing a secret. "Your mother's awake."
He crosses to my bedside with careful steps, as though carrying something infinitely precious and breakable. Which, of course, he is.
"Would you like to hold her?" he asks, though it's barely a question. He already knows my answer.
I raise my arms, ignoring the pull of the IV and the distant throb of pain from my incision. Nothing could keep me from reaching for my child. Knox places her in my embrace with such tenderness, his hands lingering to ensure I have her securely before reluctantly withdrawing.
The weight of her in my arms is both heavier and lighter than I imagined—a physical presence that somehow defies physical laws, like holding a star fallen to earth.
I look down at her face, studying her features with the care I'd give a priceless masterpiece.
She has Knox's dark hair, a surprising amount of it plastered to her tiny head.
Her eyes, when they flutter open briefly, are that newborn blue-gray that holds the promise of any color.
Her nose is impossibly small, her lips a perfect rosebud.
"She's beautiful," I breathe, tracing one finger along her cheek. Her skin is softer than anything I've ever touched, softer than seems possible.
"Like her mother." Knox perches on the edge of the bed, unable to move far from either of us. "She has your chin. That stubborn little tilt."
I smile despite my exhaustion. "And your eyebrows. Look at that serious expression."
As if on cue, our daughter's face scrunches into a frown of concentration, her tiny brow furrowing exactly like her father's does when reviewing contracts.
A nurse appears, showing me how to position the baby for her first feeding.
The sensation is strange, powerful, primal—this tiny being latching on, completely dependent on me for survival.
Another wave of exhaustion sweeps through me, but beneath it runs a current of fierce, protective love unlike anything I've ever experienced.
"We need a name," I say softly, watching our daughter's eyelids grow heavy as she nurses. We've discussed options for months, never quite settling on one that felt right.
Knox's eyes, when I meet them, are suspiciously bright. "I thought…what about Claire? After your grandmother?"
The suggestion catches me off guard. Knox never met my grandmother, who died when I was in college.
But I've told him stories of her—the first woman in our family to go to university, the one who encouraged my interest in art when my parents pushed for a more practical career.
I mentioned once, months ago, that I'd always loved her name.
"You remembered," I whisper, emotion closing my throat.
"I remember everything you tell me." His voice is rough, stripped of its usual polish. "Everything that matters to you matters to me."
"Claire," I repeat, looking down at our daughter. "Claire Vance." I test the name, feeling how it fits. "It's perfect."
Knox reaches out, resting his palm gently on Claire's back as she sleeps against my chest. The three of us connected, a complete circuit.
The look on his face steals what little breath I have left.
I've seen Knox in many modes—the ruthless businessman, the demanding lover, the obsessive husband.
But this—this unguarded adoration, this naked vulnerability—is entirely new.
"I didn't know," he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
"Didn't know what?"
"That it would feel like this." His eyes move from Claire to me, then back again. "When I saw her…when they placed her in my arms…it was like someone reached inside my chest and rewired everything. Nothing works the same way anymore."
I've spent my career studying and analyzing artistic expression, learning to read what lies beneath the surface.
But I don't need those skills to interpret what I'm seeing in Knox's face.
It's written there plainly, without artifice or restraint—a love so profound it's transformed him from the inside out.
"You look at her like she's your whole world," I observe softly.
"She is." He meets my eyes with startling directness. "You both are. Everything else—the company, the properties, the money—it's just scaffolding. You and Claire are the actual structure. The only thing that matters."
From anyone else, these might be pretty words, the expected sentiments of a new father. From Knox Vance, a man who weighs every word with precision, who guards his vulnerabilities like state secrets, they are nothing short of revolutionary.
I've watched Knox's obsessive nature manifest in countless ways throughout our relationship—from replacing my entire wardrobe with his name stitched into every piece to secretly acquiring my gallery.
I've witnessed his need to possess, to protect, to secure what matters to him.
But this is different. This isn't just possession. This is complete surrender.
Claire stirs against me, her tiny fists waving in momentary protest before she settles again. Knox adjusts the blanket around her with a concentration he usually reserves for major business decisions.
"She has your temper," I tease gently, watching him fuss over the perfect positioning of the blanket.
"God help us all," he murmurs, but his lips curve into a smile I've never seen before—softer, less guarded, yet somehow more powerful for its honesty.
A nurse returns to check my vitals and help me with Claire. Knox steps back only as far as absolutely necessary, his eyes never leaving us. The moment the nurse leaves, he reclaims his position beside the bed, reaching for Claire when my arms begin to tire.
"Rest," he instructs, lifting our daughter with newfound expertise. "I've got her."
I watch through heavy eyelids as Knox settles into the chair beside my bed, cradling Claire against his chest. He begins speaking to her in a low voice, the words too quiet for me to catch. But I can see their effect on his face—the fierce pride, the wonder, the absolute commitment.
This is the man the world never sees—not the ruthless CEO or the calculating strategist, but Knox Vance stripped to his essence. A man whose protective instincts and possessive nature have found their purest expression in fatherhood.
As sleep begins to claim me, I find myself thinking of the gallery I direct—how we arrange lighting to highlight a masterpiece, how we position viewers to experience the full impact of a significant work.
Knox has always treated me as his masterpiece, something precious to be displayed perfectly, protected vigilantly.
Now he has two works in his private collection, and I have no doubt he will move heaven and earth to ensure we are both exactly where he wants us—safe, secure, and completely his.
"Seraphina." His voice pulls me back from the edge of sleep. "Thank you."
I force my heavy eyelids open. "For what?"
"For her." He looks down at Claire, then back to me, his expression more open than I've ever seen it. "For us. For everything."
I reach out, and he takes my hand, completing our circle. "We made something beautiful together," I whisper.
"We're just getting started," he promises, and I believe him.
As I drift into sleep, the image of Knox holding our daughter burns itself into my memory—the powerful man who commands empires, looking at our tiny daughter like she's hung the moon and stars. Looking at me like I've given him the only gift that ever mattered.
My last conscious thought is that I never truly understood Knox's obsessive nature until this moment—because now I feel it too. This same consuming need to protect, to cherish, to keep safe at any cost. Our daughter has awakened in me the same fierce devotion that drives her father.
Claire Vance is less than a day old, but she's already done what I thought impossible—she's made me understand, down to my bones, exactly why Knox Vance needs to possess what he loves completely.
Because now, I need that too.