Page 10 of The Beast's Captive Bride
I toss the phone onto my desk and rub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble that's grown beyond its usual maintenance. I look like hell. Feel like it too.
This isn't going according to plan. Lockhart was supposed to panic, to crumble, to agree to my demands immediately. Instead, he's stalling—asking for proof of life, trying to negotiateterms, playing for time while he undoubtedly works every angle to find her. To find me.
But that's not what's keeping me awake. It's her. Amber. The way she looked at the chickens like they were the most fascinating creatures on earth. The way she trails her fingers along book spines like they're old friends. The way she says my name—Cullen—like it doesn't hurt to look at me.
It's been a week since I took her. A week of careful distance and growing obsession. I tell myself it's the isolation, the years of solitude making me vulnerable to the first bit of softness that's entered my life in over a decade. But I know it's more than that. It's her.
I should end this now. Call Lockhart, make my final demands, get what I'm owed, and let her go. Before I do something I can't take back.
Instead, I find myself leaving my study, feet carrying me toward the library where she's spent most of her afternoons since I showed it to her. It's nearly midnight. She should be in her room, asleep. But I heard movement earlier, the soft creak of the library door that needs oiling.
I tell myself I'm just checking on her. Making sure my prisoner is secure. It's a lie so transparent I don't even try to believe it.
The library is mostly dark when I enter, just a single lamp burning near the fireplace where a small blaze still flickers. And there she is, curled in my favorite chair, a book open in her lap.
She's wearing my shirt.
My breath catches in my throat. It's an old flannel I left draped over a chair days ago, black and red plaid, soft from years of wear. On me, it's just a shirt. On her, it's a goddamn revelation—hanging to mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her delicate hands, collar gaping to reveal the elegant line of her collarbone.
She hasn't noticed me yet, absorbed in her book, and I take a moment to just... look at her. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, gleaming gold in the firelight. Her legs are tucked under her, bare from mid-thigh down, skin like cream in the warm light. She looks... comfortable. At home. As if she belongs here, in my chair, in my shirt, in my life.
The thought hits me like a physical blow. Mine.
She must sense my presence because she looks up suddenly, eyes widening when she sees me standing in the shadows.
"Cullen," she says, and there it is again—my name without fear. "I didn't hear you come in."
"It's late," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "You should be in bed."
She marks her place in the book—Wuthering Heights, I note absently—and sets it aside. "I couldn't sleep."
"So you decided to steal my shirt?" The words come out with an edge that makes her cheeks flush.
"I was cold," she says, fidgeting with the too-long sleeve. "I found it on the chair. I should have asked, I'm sorry?—"
"Keep it." The possessive part of me—the part that's growing stronger by the day—loves seeing her in my clothes. Marked by me in some small way. "It looks better on you anyway."
Her blush deepens, highlighting the delicate structure of her cheekbones. "Thank you."
I should leave. Turn around and walk out before I do something stupid. Instead, I find myself moving closer, drawn to her like a meteor pulled into orbit.
"What are you reading?" I ask, though I already saw the title.
She holds up the book. "Wuthering Heights. Have you read it?"
"Years ago. Heathcliff is a monster."
She tilts her head, considering me with those too-perceptive eyes. "A monster made, not born. Shaped by rejection and cruelty."
"That doesn't excuse what he becomes."
"No," she agrees softly. "But it explains it."
There's a weight to her words that makes me think we're not really talking about Heathcliff anymore. I move to the fireplace, adding another log though it doesn't need it, just to give my hands something to do besides reach for her.
"Why do you live out here all alone?" she asks, watching me from her chair. "Hide from the world?"
The question catches me off guard. No one's asked me that in years. No one's gotten close enough to ask.
