Page 14 of The Beast's Captive Bride
"Cullen—"
"I'm giving you a choice," he interrupts, crossing the room until he stands before me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Two options."
My breath catches at his proximity, at the intensity radiating from him. "What options?"
"The first is that you remain as you are—my prisoner. Comfortable, safe, but not free." He speaks clinically, as ifreciting terms from a contract, but his eyes betray him—they're alive with barely contained emotion. "The second..."
He hesitates, and I realize with a start that Cullen Blackwood, this mountain of a man who radiates danger and power, is nervous.
"The second?" I prompt, my voice barely a whisper.
In a movement that steals my breath, he drops to one knee before me, the wooden box now open in his palm. Inside sits a ring—an antique piece with a center diamond surrounded by sapphires that match my eyes almost exactly.
"The second is that you become my wife."
The world seems to tilt on its axis. I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "Your... what?"
"My wife." His voice is stronger now, more certain. "Legally. Permanently."
I step back, my knees hitting the edge of the bed. This can't be happening. It's too absurd, too impossible.
"You want to marry me?" I sound dazed even to my own ears. "Why? As part of your revenge against my father?"
Something like pain flashes across his features. "No. That's not why."
"Then why?" My voice rises. "You kidnapped me a week ago, Cullen. This is—this is insanity."
"Yes." He doesn't deny it. "By any normal standard, it's insane."
"So why?—"
"Because I can't stop thinking about you." The words burst from him, raw and honest. "Because when you say my name, it doesn't sound like something dirty. Because when you look at me, I don't feel like a monster." He takes a ragged breath. "Because I've been drowning in hate for fifteen years, and you're the first breath of air I've found."
My heart thunders against my ribs. This isn't happening. This isn't real.
"I'm your prisoner," I remind him, my voice shaking. "This is Stockholm Syndrome. This is?—"
"This is more." He rises to his feet, towering over me again. "You know it is. You've dreamed of me, Amber. Just as I've dreamed of you, though I didn't know it was you I was waiting for."
The mention of my dreams pierces me. How many nights had I woken gasping, haunted by gray eyes and gentle hands? How many times had I drawn his face, only to hide the sketches from Daddy, who would never understand?
"It's not possible," I whisper, more to myself than to him.
"Isn't it?" He steps closer, and I don't back away. "You recognized me from the moment you saw me. I felt it—the shock, the familiarity. As if you'd been waiting."
"I was afraid of you."
"Yes. And still, you looked at me like you knew me." His hand rises, not quite touching my face. "Like you'd always known me."
I want to deny it, but the truth burns in my throat. I had known him. Somehow, impossibly, I had.
"I'm not offering fairytales," he continues, his voice dropping to a rumble that I feel in my bones. "I'm a hard man. Damaged. But with you..." His fingers finally make contact, brushing my cheek with exquisite gentleness. "With you, I remember what it was to feel something besides rage."
I lean into his touch, unable to help myself. "What would this marriage mean? Would I be free to leave?"
His hand stills. "No."
At least he's honest. "Then how is it different from being your prisoner?"
