Page 2 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)

Chapter Two

Seraphina

I've never seen a man worth billions on his hands and knees with an Allen wrench, cursing at a piece of Scandinavian furniture.

Yet here is Knox Vance, CEO of Vance Technologies, the most intimidating man in the business world, assembling a crib with the same intensity he uses to dissect quarterly reports.

His sleeves are rolled up, revealing corded forearms and the expensive watch he refuses to remove even for this task.

A fine sheen of sweat gives his forehead a glow under the recessed lights he had installed to be "optimal for the baby's developing vision. "

"Knox," I say, leaning against the doorframe of the nursery, one hand resting on my belly. "We have people who could do that."

He doesn't look up, his dark brows drawn together in concentration. "No one touches my daughter's crib but me. I need to know it's secure."

"It's from the most exclusive baby boutique in Manhattan. I'm sure it's safe."

Now he does look up, those penetrating eyes fixing on me with the same focus he's just given the crib slats. "Are you? Are you absolutely certain, Seraphina? Because I'm not willing to risk our child on an assumption."

I should find his intensity alarming. Three months ago, I would have.

But something has shifted inside me since the hospital scare last week.

Watching Knox systematically take control of an entire medical floor, interviewing each nurse who might come near me, personally inspecting every piece of equipment—it awakened something primal in me, something that responds to his absolute devotion with a warmth I wasn't expecting.

"The doctor said I should rest," I remind him, though we both know I'm not really tired. After three days of being monitored for what turned out to be false labor, I'm restless in our penthouse.

"Then sit." He gestures to the custom glider chair positioned by the window—a chair he tested for comfort, noise, and durability before allowing it into the room.

I settle into it, watching him return to his task.

The nursery has been transformed in the week since our hospital visit.

The walls, once a simple cream, are now painted in a specialized non-toxic formula that Knox had tested in three different labs.

The carpet was replaced with sustainable bamboo flooring that's "better for air quality.

" Smart sensors monitor temperature, humidity, and air particles.

A state-of-the-art sound system is programmed to play Bach, Mozart, and other classical pieces that Knox read would stimulate brain development.

"Did you know," he says conversationally as he tightens a bolt, "that the average crib has fourteen potential points of failure? I've reinforced each one."

"Of course you have." I can't help the affection that creeps into my voice.

When I was discharged from the hospital, I returned to a penthouse that had been completely baby-proofed, despite the fact that our daughter won't be mobile for months.

Every outlet covered, every corner padded, every cleaning product replaced with organic alternatives.

Knox had even installed a specialized water filtration system for the entire building because, as he explained with deadly seriousness, "tap water contains trace pharmaceuticals that could affect fetal development. "

The elevator dings, announcing an arrival. Knox is immediately alert, hand instinctively reaching for his phone—his modern weapon of choice.

"That would be the pediatrician," he says, checking the security feed on his watch. "The fourth one this week."

"Knox, we don't need to interview every pediatrician in Manhattan."

He stands, dusting off his hands on his thousand-dollar slacks without a thought for the fabric. "Not every pediatrician. Just the top twenty. I've narrowed it down to three finalists based on their credentials, but I need to assess their decision-making processes under pressure."

"You're not going to interrogate this one like you did the last, are you? That poor woman practically ran from the building."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "If she can't handle me, she can't be trusted with our daughter's health."

He strides from the room, purpose in every step. I heave myself out of the glider to follow, curious despite myself. Knox's version of "daddy mode" is unlike anything I've ever witnessed.

In the living room, a petite woman with silver-streaked dark hair and intelligent eyes waits, seemingly unfazed by the grandeur of the penthouse or the security check she undoubtedly endured downstairs.

"Dr. Winters," Knox greets her, his CEO voice in full effect. "Thank you for coming."

"Mr. Vance." She nods, then turns her warm gaze to me. "And you must be Mrs. Vance. How are you feeling?"

Before I can answer, Knox interjects, "She's experiencing mild lower back discomfort and occasional round ligament pain. Her sleep is disrupted approximately 3.2 times per night for urination. I've implemented a pregnancy pillow system and adjusted her diet to optimize comfort and nutrition."

I stare at him, caught between embarrassment and amazement. The fact that he's tracking my bathroom visits should disturb me. Instead, I find myself oddly touched.

Dr. Winters's expression doesn't change, though I catch a flicker of something—amusement? approval?—in her eyes. "I see Mr. Vance is thorough in his observations. But I'd like to hear from Mrs. Vance herself."

"I'm doing well," I say, sinking onto the sofa. "And please, call me Seraphina."

The interview proceeds with Knox firing precisely calibrated questions at Dr. Winters.

His research is evident—he knows her publication history, her stance on vaccination schedules, her approach to antibiotic use.

He presents her with hypothetical emergency scenarios, timing her responses with the subtle glance at his watch that I've come to recognize.

What surprises me most is his detailed knowledge of infant development and care.

This man, who six months ago probably couldn't differentiate a bassinet from a bouncer, now discusses the merits of different swaddling techniques and the optimal room temperature for newborn sleep with the confidence of a veteran parent.

"Your approach to sleep training?" he asks, making a note on his tablet.

"I believe in responsive parenting that considers the individual child's temperament," Dr. Winters replies calmly. "Some infants respond well to gentle sleep training methods around four months, while others may need different approaches."

"Unacceptable," Knox says flatly. "I need specific protocols, not generalities."

I expect Dr. Winters to be intimidated. Instead, she looks him directly in the eye.

"Mr. Vance, if you want a pediatrician who will give you rigid protocols without considering your daughter as an individual, I'm not the right doctor for your family.

Children aren't corporations. They don't respond to flowcharts and efficiency metrics. "

I brace myself for Knox's infamous temper. To my shock, he nods, looking almost…impressed?

"A fair point, Dr. Winters. Continue."

The interview lasts another forty-five minutes, during which I watch Knox in growing wonder.

When did this happen? When did the man who once told me that children were "inefficient uses of resources" transform into someone who can debate the merits of different diapering systems with scholarly intensity?

After Dr. Winters leaves—with Knox actually shaking her hand, a sure sign of approval—he returns to his crib assembly project, pausing only to help me up from the sofa with gentle hands.

"She's acceptable," he announces. "Her stance on antibiotic stewardship aligns with current research, and she didn't flinch when I questioned her credentials."

"She's the first one you haven't immediately rejected," I observe, following him back to the nursery.

"She's the first one who stood her ground." He kneels again beside the half-assembled crib. "Our daughter needs advocates, not yes-men."

Our daughter. The simple phrase sends a wave of emotion through me so powerful I have to grip the doorframe.

Knox notices immediately, his head snapping up, eyes sharp with concern. "What is it? Pain? Contraction?"

"No," I assure him quickly. "Just…thinking."

He studies me for a moment longer before returning to his task, though I can tell part of his attention remains fixed on me, monitoring for any sign of distress.

I watch him work, this man who has reorganized his entire existence around the protection of our unborn child.

The security systems he's implemented for the nursery alone would put most government facilities to shame.

The research he's done, the experts he's consulted, the lengths he's gone to ensure our daughter will have not just the best of everything, but the safest of everything.

"The baby monitoring system arrives tomorrow," he says, seemingly reading my thoughts. "It tracks breathing patterns, sleep cycles, and room conditions. The data syncs to both our phones."

"Of course it does," I murmur, a smile tugging at my lips.

"I've also contracted with a security firm that specializes in infant protection. They'll train our regular team on proper protocols."

"Infant protection?" I repeat. "Knox, she's not a head of state."

He looks up at me, completely serious. "She's more valuable than any president or king, Seraphina. She's ours."

The simple declaration hits me square in the chest. This is the same man who intimidates corporate rivals, who commands boardrooms with a raised eyebrow, who bought a hospital floor on a whim.

And he's directing all that intensity, all that protective energy, all that uncompromising devotion toward our child.

Toward me.

"Come here," I say softly.

Knox sets down his tools immediately, rising with fluid grace to stand before me. I take his hand, placing it over the spot where our daughter is currently performing what feels like Olympic gymnastics.

"Feel that?" I ask. "She knows."

"Knows what?"

"That her daddy would tear apart the world with his bare hands to keep her safe." I look up into his dark eyes, seeing the vulnerability he shows to no one else. "And so do I."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening that transforms his entire face. His hand splays wider over my belly, cradling the curve with reverent possession.

"I'll never let anything happen to either of you," he vows, and I believe him with every fiber of my being.

"I know." I reach up to touch his face, my fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. "And I love you for it."

The words slip out before I can catch them, hanging in the air between us. I've never said them before, not even when he's whispered them against my skin in the darkness of our bedroom.

For a moment, Knox goes utterly still, his eyes widening fractionally—the closest thing to shock I've ever seen on his composed features. Then he pulls me against him, one hand still on my belly, the other threading through my hair.

"Say it again," he demands, his voice rough with emotion.

"I love you," I repeat, stronger this time. "I love how much you love her already. I love watching you become a father before she's even here."

Knox's kiss is possessive, claiming, as if he's sealing my words inside both of us, making them as permanent and inviolable as his promises. When he finally breaks away, he keeps me close, his forehead pressed to mine.

"She'll never doubt it," he says fiercely. "Neither of you will ever doubt what you mean to me."

And as I stand in the middle of the meticulously planned nursery, wrapped in the arms of a man whose obsessive devotion once terrified me, I realize I've never felt safer, never felt more cherished.

I love every second of Knox Vance in daddy mode. Heaven help me, I love every demanding, controlling, protective inch of him.