Page 15 of The Beast's Captive Bride
"You would be my wife, not my captive. This would be your home, not your cell." His thumb traces my lower lip, and my breath hitches. "You would share my bed, my name, my life."
The image his words conjure sends heat spiraling through me—nights in his arms, days by his side. It's terrifying and tempting in equal measure.
"And my father?" I force myself to ask. "Your revenge?"
Something dark flashes across his face. "That's between him and me. You don't have to be part of it."
"But I am part of it. I'm his daughter."
"You're more than that." His voice roughens. "You're mine now. Or you could be."
The possessiveness in his tone should repel me. Instead, it sends a shiver of want down my spine that I can't disguise.
"This is crazy," I whisper, but I'm looking at the ring in his hand, at the way the stones catch the fading light.
"I know." There's a hint of a smile now, grim but real. "Say yes anyway."
I close my eyes, trying to think clearly through the fog of confusion and desire. Marry Cullen Blackwood. Become the wife of the man who kidnapped me, who still holds me prisoner, who threatens my father with unknown consequences. It's madness. It's wrong on every level.
And yet...
"What if I say no?" I ask, opening my eyes to find him watching me with that intense gaze.
"Then nothing changes. You stay as you are—safe, provided for, but not free." His voice is steady, but I see the tension in his jaw. "I won't force this on you, Amber. It has to be your choice."
Choice. Such a small word for such an impossible decision. Stay a prisoner with no future, or become the wife of a man I barely know but somehow recognize to the core of my being.
"If I say yes," I begin slowly, "I want promises."
His eyebrows lift, surprise and something like admiration crossing his features. "What promises?"
"That you'll never hurt me." I hold his gaze. "That you'll be honest with me, always. That whatever is between you and my father, you'll find a way to resolve it that doesn't destroy either of you."
He considers this, his expression unreadable. "I will never hurt you. That I can promise without reservation. The rest..." He sighs. "I will try, Amber. That's all I can say. I will try."
It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough. And yet, looking into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability he's showing me and no one else, I believe him.
"Ask me properly," I say, the words emerging before I can think better of them.
Confusion flickers across his face. "What?"
"If you want me to marry you, ask me properly." I straighten my spine, finding a strength I didn't know I possessed. "Not as a jailer offering terms to a prisoner. As a man asking a woman to be his wife."
For a moment, I think he'll refuse, retreat behind the walls that have protected him for so long. Instead, he drops to one knee again, but this time takes my hand in his much larger one.
"Amber Lockhart," he says, his voice dropping to that low rumble that makes my insides flutter, "from the moment I saw you, something in me changed. Something I thought was dead forever came back to life." His thumb strokes over my knuckles. "I don't deserve you. I probably never will. But if you'll have me, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to become worthy of you." His eyes, usually so cold, burn with an intensity that steals my breath. "Will you marry me? Be my redemption, my salvation, my wife?"
Tears prick at my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. This is insane. This man kidnapped me, holds me prisoner, threatensmy father. And yet, looking into those eyes that have haunted my dreams for years, I can't make myself say no.
"Yes," I whisper, and the word feels like fate, like destiny, like falling off a cliff and finding I can fly. "God help me, yes."
Relief and something wilder flash across his face. Without warning, he rises and pulls me into his arms, lifting me clean off the floor. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's both tender and possessive, a claiming and a promise.
When he sets me down, he takes the ring from its box and slides it onto my finger. It fits perfectly, as if made for me. Perhaps it was.
"My wife," he murmurs, lifting my hand to press a kiss to the ring, to my palm, to the inside of my wrist where my pulse races. "Mine."
"Yours," I agree, and the word feels like surrender and victory all at once. "God help us both."
