Page 11 of The Beast's Captive Bride
"I'm not hiding," I say, though we both know it's a lie. "I prefer solitude."
"So you said before. I still don't believe it." There's that stubborn streak again, the one that keeps surprising me. "No one chooses to be completely alone."
I turn to face her, finding her closer than I expected. She's uncurled from the chair and now stands just feet away, my shirt hanging to her mid-thighs, her hair a golden curtain around her shoulders. She looks like everything I've denied myself, everything I don't deserve.
"I did," I say, and there's a rawness in my voice I can't disguise. "After what your father did—after the company was gone, after Elise left me for him, after I spent months rebuilding what was left of my face—the world made it clear I wasn't welcome in it anymore."
Her eyes widen slightly at the mention of Elise, a detail I hadn't shared before. "My father... took your fiancée?"
I laugh, a harsh sound without humor. "Fiancée, company, reputation, nearly my life. Richard Lockhart is nothing if not thorough."
She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the light floral scent of her hair, see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose.
"Is that why you took me? Because he took someone you loved?"
The question hits too close to home, exposes nerves I thought long dead. "I took you because you're the only thing he cares about. The only way to make him feel a fraction of what I felt."
"And now?" Her voice drops, almost a whisper. "Is that still why I'm here?"
God help me, I don't know anymore. The lines have blurred, my motivations tangled with feelings I never expected to have again. All I know is that the thought of her leaving—of never seeing her curled in my chair in my shirt, of never hearing her laugh in the garden, of never having her say my name like that again—fills me with cold dread.
"You're here because I'm not finished with your father," I say, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears.
She's looking up at me with those blue eyes, searching my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle. I'm acutely aware of our size difference—her head barely reaches my chest, her delicate frame dwarfed by my bulk. I could break her with my hands, the same hands that itch to touch her, to see if her skin is as soft as it looks.
"What about me?" she asks quietly. "Are you finished with me?"
Something snaps inside me—restraint, common sense, whatever thin thread has been holding me back. I close the distance between us in one stride, my hands coming up to frame her face. She gasps, but doesn't pull away.
"I'll never be finished with you," I growl, and then my mouth is on hers.
The kiss is everything I've been denying myself—hot and hard and desperate. I expect her to struggle, to push me away, to remind me that I'm her captor, her enemy, a monster who took her from her life.
Instead, she makes a small, broken sound against my lips and kisses me back.
Her hands come up to clutch at my shirt, not pushing me away but pulling me closer. Her mouth opens under mine, yielding, inviting. She tastes like tea and something sweeter, something uniquely her, and I'm lost in it, drowning in the softness of her lips, the little sounds she makes in her throat.
I lift her easily, one arm around her waist, the other still cradling her face. Her legs wrap around me instinctively, and Christ, the feel of her against me, warm and soft and perfect, nearly brings me to my knees. I press her back against the nearest bookshelf, swallowing her gasp as books tumble around us, neither of us caring.
"Cullen," she breathes against my mouth, and my name has never sounded so right, so necessary.
I trail kisses down her throat, drunk on the taste of her skin, the rapid flutter of her pulse under my lips. My shirt—her shirt now—has slipped off one shoulder, exposing the delicate curve to my hungry mouth. I nip at it gently, relishing her shiver.
"You're mine," I murmur against her skin, unable to stop the words, not even sure if I've said them aloud until she responds.
"Yes," she whispers, her fingers threading through my hair, holding me to her as if afraid I'll pull away. "Yes, Cullen."
The sound of my name in that breathless voice nearly undoes me. I reclaim her mouth, kissing her deeply, possessively, trying to brand her with my touch. One of my hands slides under the shirt—my shirt—to find the warm skin of her thigh, and we both groan at the contact.
"So soft," I murmur, amazed that anything in this harsh world could feel so perfect under my rough hands. "I've dreamed of touching you like this."
She arches against me, shameless in her response. "I've dreamed of you too. For years."
The words penetrate the haze of desire, striking something deep in my memory. "What do you mean?"
Her eyes open, dazed with want but suddenly shy. "I've had dreams. Since I was young. Of a man with eyes like yours, with a scar like yours." Her fingers trace the mark on my neck with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. "It sounds crazy?—"
"It doesn't," I interrupt, because suddenly many things are making sense—her lack of fear, the way she looked at me from the beginning like she recognized me. "Tell me about these dreams."
