Page 8 of Bound in Matrimony (Belonging to Him Trilogy #3)

Chapter Eight

Seraphina

Sunlight spills across the rumpled sheets, warming my bare skin as I slowly wake.

Every muscle in my body aches in the most delicious way, testament to Knox's thoroughness last night.

I stretch carefully, cataloging each twinge and soreness like the most exquisite exhibit I've ever curated.

The sheets beside me are empty but still warm.

Knox's scent—expensive cologne mingled with something purely male—lingers on the pillow where I press my face, inhaling deeply.

Mrs. Vance. I test the name in my mind, finding it fits more perfectly than I could have imagined.

I sit up slowly, wincing slightly as my body reminds me of exactly how many times and in how many ways Knox claimed me last night.

The mirror across from the bed reflects a woman I barely recognize—honey-blonde hair a wild tangle around my shoulders, lips swollen from brutal kisses, delicate bruises blooming across my collarbone, my breasts, my inner thighs. Evidence of possession. Of belonging.

When I first met Knox Vance at that gallery opening, critiquing that hideous installation, I never imagined I would end up here—marked by him, changed by him, utterly and completely his.

I was Seraphina Vale, respected art director, known for my impeccable taste and cool professionalism.

I built my career on maintaining control, on making calculated decisions.

But Knox took one look at me and decided I was his. And now, as I examine the physical proof of his claim on my body, I know with complete certainty that no one else could ever make me feel this way.

Standing on slightly unsteady legs, I make my way to the bathroom, catching more glimpses of myself in the mirrors that seem to multiply my reflection.

My feet press against cool marble as I lean closer to the vanity mirror, examining my face.

My eyes are different—still green, still mine, but somehow altered.

Like an artist has added depth with a single brushstroke, changing the entire composition.

I turn on the shower, letting steam fill the enormous bathroom as I step beneath the hot spray.

Water sluices over my skin, but it doesn't wash away the memory of Knox's hands, his mouth, his possession.

I close my eyes and instantly recall his voice in my ear, rough with desire as he whispered exactly what he wanted to do to me.

How he planned to make sure I never forgot who I belonged to.

"I'm going to mark you tonight," he had said, his eyes dark with promise. "So that every time you move tomorrow, you'll feel where I've been."

He kept that promise. I feel him everywhere—in the pleasant soreness between my thighs, in the tender spots where his mouth and hands branded me, in the echo of fullness that my body still remembers.

What strikes me now, as I let the water soothe my pleasantly abused muscles, is that no one else could ever compare. No previous lover came close to making me feel the way Knox does. And no future lover—not that there will ever be any—could possibly measure up to the standard he's set.

He's ruined me. Utterly and completely. For anyone else.

The realization doesn't frighten me the way it once would have.

Before Knox, I valued my independence above all else.

I kept partners at a careful distance, never allowing them too close, always maintaining my separate identity.

I had watched my parents' marriage become a polite arrangement of separate lives and vowed never to lose myself that way.

But with Knox, it's different. He doesn't want to diminish me or contain me. He wants to possess me, yes—but in doing so, he's somehow made me more myself than I've ever been.

I shut off the water and wrap myself in one of the plush hotel towels, padding back into the bedroom.

The evidence of our wedding night is everywhere—my torn lingerie on the floor, the rumpled sheets, a champagne bottle in a bucket of melted ice that we never got around to opening.

Knox had more intoxicating things in mind.

I remember the moment he transformed from demanding lover to something else—something deeper, more vulnerable.

When he told me he belonged to me. Only me.

The admission had seemed torn from him, raw and unplanned.

Coming from a man who calculates every move, who strategizes ten steps ahead in business and in life, that unguarded moment of honesty was perhaps the most powerful aphrodisiac of all.

Moving to the window, I look out at the Manhattan skyline.

The city is fully awake, people hurrying below like miniature figures in a diorama.

None of them know that up here, Seraphina Vale ceased to exist last night.

In her place stands Seraphina Vance—claimed, possessed, and utterly ruined for any other man.

The door to the suite opens, and I turn to see Knox enter carrying a tray. He's wearing only the pants from last night's tuxedo, hanging low on his hips, his chest and feet bare. The sight of him—powerful, confident, mine—makes my breath catch.

"You should be in bed." His eyes darken as they rake over me, taking in the towel, my wet hair, the visible marks he left on my skin. "I wanted to watch you wake up."

"I needed a shower." I don't move from my spot by the window, enjoying the predatory way he stalks toward me. "You were quite thorough last night."

His smile is slow, satisfied. "Not thorough enough if you could walk to the bathroom." He sets the tray down on a nearby table without looking at it, his attention fixed entirely on me.

I should feel self-conscious under that intense stare, but instead, I feel powerful. Desired. Essential. "What did you bring me?"

"Breakfast." He reaches me, one hand coming up to tilt my chin. "But I find myself hungry for something else."

Before I can respond, his mouth claims mine, softer than last night but no less possessive. He tastes of coffee and something sweet, and I melt against him, the towel loosening between us.

"My wife," he murmurs against my lips, the words reverent and possessive at once. "Do you have any idea what those words do to me?"

"Show me," I challenge, dropping the towel entirely.

His sharp inhale is followed by hands that lift me effortlessly, carrying me back to the bed. This time, when he lays me down, his touch is different—still hungry, still commanding, but with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

"Look at what I did to you," he says, tracing a mark on my inner thigh. There's no remorse in his voice—only satisfaction. "Everyone who sees you will know you're thoroughly taken."

"Only you see these particular marks," I remind him, gasping as his fingers trail higher.

"True." He lowers his head, pressing his lips to a bruise on my breast. "But they'll see the rest of it—in your eyes, in the way you move. They'll know you've been claimed by someone who will never let you go."

As his mouth continues its journey down my body, I realize with perfect clarity that I've been ruined for anyone else—and I wouldn't have it any other way. Knox Vance has remade me in fire and pleasure, marking me as his from the inside out.

And as he brings me to the edge of ecstasy again, my new name falling from my lips in a breathless cry, I know that Seraphina Vale truly no longer exists.

In her place is a woman who has found something she never knew she was looking for—complete surrender to the one man powerful enough to handle it.

I am Seraphina Vance now. His. Forever.

And I've never felt more completely myself.