Page 12 of The Beast's Captive Bride
She bites her lip, suddenly self-conscious despite still being wrapped around me, pressed between my body and the bookshelf. "They started when I was about thirteen. Just glimpses at first—a man with silver in his hair, eyes like winter. Sometimes he was angry, sometimes sad. Always alone." Her fingers continue their gentle exploration of my face, as if confirming I'm real. "As I got older, the dreams got... more detailed. You were calling for me, looking for me. Waiting."
I should find this disturbing, or at least strange. Instead, it settles something restless in me, like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.
"And now?" I ask, my voice barely audible. "Now that you've found me? Or I've found you?"
Her eyes search mine, so open, so trusting despite everything. "Now I'm not afraid anymore. Even though I should be." Her thumb brushes over my lower lip. "You won't hurt me. I've always known that, somehow."
The faith in her voice humbles me, shames me. I have hurt her—taking her from her life, using her as a pawn in my revenge. And yet she looks at me like I'm something precious, something worthy.
"Amber," I breathe, resting my forehead against hers. "This is madness. I took you. I'm holding you prisoner."
"I know." Her fingers tighten in my hair. "And yet here I am, wanting you to kiss me again."
I groan, torn between desire and what little honor I have left. "You can't want this. Want me."
"Don't tell me what I want." There's steel in her voice now, that stubborn streak I'm coming to crave. "I've spent my whole life being told what to want, what to be, what to feel. Not by you too."
The fierceness in her eyes undoes me. I capture her mouth again, slower this time but no less hungry. She responds with equal fervor, her body melting against mine, fitting perfectly despite our size difference.
"Mine," I growl against her lips, unable to contain the possessiveness surging through me. "Say it."
"Yours," she whispers without hesitation. "I'm yours, Cullen."
The words unlock something primal in me. I carry her to the large leather sofa near the fireplace, laying her down with more care than I knew I possessed. She looks up at me, hair spread around her like a golden halo, my shirt rucked up to reveal endless legs and the edge of simple cotton panties.
I should stop this. Should remember why she's here, who she is, who I am. Should remember that I'm undeserving of anything as pure as the trust in her eyes.
Instead, I lower myself beside her, gathering her into my arms, marveling at how small she feels against me, how perfect.
"We should stop," I say, even as my hands continue their gentle exploration of her back, her sides, the curve of her hip.
"We should," she agrees, pressing kisses to my jaw, my throat, the edge of my scar. "But I don't want to."
"Amber," I groan as her teeth graze my earlobe. "You don't know what you're asking for."
She pulls back slightly, meeting my eyes with a directness that belies her innocent appearance. "Then show me."
I'm lost. Utterly, completely lost in her—in the softness of her body against mine, in the certainty in her eyes, in the rightness I feel with her in my arms. For the first time in fifteen years, the cold knot of vengeance in my chest loosens, making space for something warmer, something dangerously like hope.
I kiss her again, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my lips, the stroke of my tongue. She responds eagerly, artlessly, her innocence evident in the way she follows my lead but her passion undeniable in the small sounds she makes, the way her body arches into mine.
We stay like that for what feels like hours—kissing, touching, learning each other in the firelight. I keep things gentle, restrained, though it nearly kills me. She deserves better than a rushed coupling on a library sofa, no matter how much we both might want it.
When the fire burns low and her kisses turn sleepy, I gather her in my arms and carry her back to her room. She nestles against my chest, trusting, content in a way that makes my heart twist.
"Stay with me," she murmurs as I lay her on her bed, already half-asleep.
I press a kiss to her forehead. "Not tonight, little one. Not like this."
She makes a small sound of protest but doesn't fight as I pull the covers over her, still wrapped in my shirt. I allow myself one more kiss, soft and reverent, before turning to leave.
"Cullen," she calls sleepily as I reach the door.
I look back at her, this golden girl who's somehow worked her way under my skin, into parts of me I thought long dead. "Yes?"
"I'm still yours tomorrow, right?" Such a simple question, laden with meaning.
"Always," I answer, the word a vow I never expected to make again. "Always mine."
