Page 18 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)
Chapter Eighteen
Seraphina
The nursery glows with soft, diffused light that seems to emanate from no particular source—just another example of Knox's obsessive attention to detail.
I rock slowly in the custom-made chair positioned perfectly beside the hand-painted mural of a night sky, Claire sleeping against my chest with that absolute trust only newborns possess.
One week home from the hospital, and I'm still discovering the lengths to which Knox went to prepare for our daughter's arrival.
This room alone must have cost a small fortune, with its bespoke furniture and state-of-the-art monitoring system that tracks Claire's breathing, heart rate, and body temperature with medical precision.
But it's not the expense that overwhelms me—it's the thought behind every choice, every element carefully selected to create a space that is both beautiful and utterly safe.
A sanctuary designed by a man determined to protect what he loves above all else.
The door opens silently on its custom hinges, and Knox appears with a steaming mug in his hand.
He's shed his usual impeccable suits for soft loungewear these past days, though somehow he makes even casual clothes look elegant and purposeful.
Dark stubble shadows his jaw—another departure from his typically immaculate appearance.
He hasn't left the penthouse since we brought Claire home, canceling meetings and delegating decisions with a ruthlessness that would terrify his executives if they knew the sole reason was his unwillingness to be separated from his wife and daughter for even an hour.
"Chamomile with honey," he says, setting the mug on the table beside me. "And your medication."
He's tracked my pain relief schedule with the same precision he applies to multi-billion-dollar deals, ensuring I never have to experience a moment of discomfort from my C-section recovery if he can prevent it.
The first day home, I found a medical-grade chart posted discreetly in our bathroom, noting times, dosages, and his observations of my pain levels throughout the day.
"Thank you." I shift Claire slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at my healing incision.
Knox notices immediately—he notices everything. "Let me," he says, gently lifting Claire from my arms with a confidence that still surprises me. Those powerful hands that negotiate empires now cradle our seven-pound daughter with instinctive care.
He settles her against his shoulder, her tiny face nuzzled against his neck, and extends his free hand to help me stand. "You should rest. The doctor said?—"
"The doctor said I should move regularly to aid healing," I remind him with a smile. "And I've been sitting for almost an hour."
His expression is torn between concern for my recovery and respect for my autonomy—a battle I've watched play out repeatedly since Claire's birth.
His instinct is to wrap me in the same protective cocoon he's created for our daughter.
My independent nature resists, even as I find myself increasingly appreciative of his care.
"At least drink your tea while it's hot," he compromises, still supporting me with one hand while holding Claire securely with the other.
I accept the mug, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared tea. Of course it's exactly the right temperature—not too hot to drink immediately, not cool enough to be unsatisfying. Knox Vance does nothing by halves.
"She's out completely," I observe, watching Claire's peaceful face as she sleeps against her father's shoulder.
"She feels safe," Knox says simply, his voice softening as he glances down at our daughter. The transformation in his expression still takes my breath away—this tenderness that no one but Claire and I ever witness.
I follow them into the living room, where Knox has created another nest of comfort—pillows arranged to support my healing body, cashmere throws for warmth, a selection of books and magazines within easy reach.
He settles onto the sofa, adjusting Claire so she remains secure against his chest, making room beside him for me.
As I sink into the cushions, carefully positioning myself to minimize discomfort, I can't help comparing this scene to my memories of my own father after my birth.
According to my mother, he returned to work the day after bringing her home from the hospital, leaving her to manage alone with a newborn.
He was a good provider, responsible and steady, but emotionally distant—seeing his role as financial rather than nurturing.
Knox, by contrast, has thrown himself into fatherhood with the same intensity he applies to everything that matters to him.
He's studied infant development with scholarly dedication, mastered swaddling techniques with military precision, and created spreadsheets tracking Claire's feeding schedule, diaper changes, and sleep patterns.
Nothing is beneath his attention or too mundane for his involvement.
"What are you thinking about?" Knox asks, his free hand finding mine on the cushion between us.
"My father," I admit. "How different you are from him."
Something flickers across his face—an old shadow I recognize from conversations about his own difficult childhood. "Different how?"
"He was…present but absent, if that makes sense. He provided everything we needed materially, but emotionally he kept his distance." I trace my finger along the back of his hand. "You're fully here. Completely invested. It's like you've realigned your entire existence around Claire."
"Around both of you," he corrects, his voice dropping to that deeper register that still sends shivers through me. "And it's not realignment. It's recognition of what actually matters."
Claire stirs against him, making those small kitten sounds that precede either settling back to sleep or full awakening.
Knox responds instantly, gently patting her back in a rhythm I've noticed soothes her immediately.
His eyes never leave her face, watching for cues with the same intensity he'd bring to a high-stakes negotiation.
The scene before me—powerful Knox Vance completely absorbed in comforting our newborn daughter—fills my chest with a warmth that spreads outward, encompassing everything.
I've spent my adult life maintaining careful boundaries, valuing my independence, resisting anything that felt like being diminished by a relationship.
But this—being cherished so completely, so unreservedly by this man—doesn't feel like diminishment at all.
It feels like expansion.
"Would you like me to take her?" I offer. "You haven't had a break all morning."
Knox gives me a look that makes it clear he doesn't consider caring for Claire something he needs a break from. "She's fine where she is. And you need to recover."
"Knox." I touch his arm. "You do realize you don't have to do everything yourself? That's why we have the night nurse and the housekeeper and the personal chef and the small army of people you've assembled."
"They can handle everything else," he says dismissively. "You and Claire are my responsibility. Mine alone."
A year ago, such possessiveness might have chafed against my independent nature. Now I understand it better—the way Knox's love manifests as absolute devotion, as need to personally ensure the welfare of what matters to him.
Claire's eyes flutter open, finding her father's face with that still-unfocused newborn gaze. Knox freezes, as he always does when she looks at him, as if afraid to break some magical connection. His expression—awestruck, vulnerable, completely unguarded—reveals everything he feels.
"She knows you," I say softly.
"Do you think so?" The uncertainty in his voice—so rare from a man defined by his confidence—touches something deep inside me.
"Of course she does. You're her father." I shift closer, ignoring the twinge from my incision, to place my hand on Claire's tiny back alongside his. "The center of her world. Along with me, of course."
"The center of mine," he says, his eyes moving from Claire to me with equal intensity. "Both of you."
The simple declaration, delivered with absolute conviction, washes over me like a physical wave.
This man—who commands empires, who terrifies competitors, who has built a reputation for ruthless determination—has placed me and our daughter at the absolute center of his existence.
Not as possessions, though his possessive nature remains.
Not as acquisitions, though he still seeks to secure us against any possible threat.
But as essential parts of himself, without which nothing else has meaning.
I've never felt more cherished in my life. More valued. More completely seen and protected and loved.
"Do you know," I say, resting my head against his shoulder, "I used to worry about your obsessive tendencies. About how completely you wanted to possess me."
He tenses slightly, wary of criticism regarding this fundamental aspect of his nature.
"But now," I continue, letting my hand cover his where it supports Claire, "I understand it better. And I'm grateful for it. For the way you cherish us so absolutely. For the way you've remade your world around us."
The tension leaves his body. "It's not a choice, Seraphina. It's who I am."
"I know." I press a kiss to his stubbled jaw. "And it's who I need you to be. Who Claire needs you to be. This man, exactly as you are."
As Claire begins to fuss, signaling hunger, Knox helps me position her for feeding, adjusting pillows to support my arms and placing a glass of water within easy reach. Each gesture precise, considered, essential. Nothing performative about his attention—just pure, focused devotion to our needs.
"I've never felt more cherished than I do with you," I tell him honestly, watching his eyes darken with emotion. "With your obsession. Your need to protect and provide and possess. It doesn't make me smaller. It makes me…treasured."
His hand comes up to cradle my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone with exquisite gentleness. "Because you are treasured. Beyond anything you could possibly imagine."
And as our daughter nurses contentedly between us, I marvel at how completely my perspective has changed.
The independence I once guarded so fiercely hasn't been taken from me—it's been transformed into something deeper, richer, more profound.
A chosen surrender to being cherished by a man capable of loving with his entire being.
A gift I never knew I needed until Knox Vance showed me how beautiful it could be.