Page 19 of The Beast's Captive Bride
My name in that breathy voice nearly undoes me. I increase the pace slightly, still careful, still controlled, though what I want is to claim her roughly, to mark her as mine in the most primitive way.
"So good," I praise her, brushing sweat-dampened hair from her forehead. "So perfect around me. Made for me."
"Yes," she agrees, meeting my thrusts now, her body learning the ancient rhythm. "For you. Only you."
I slide a hand between us, finding where we're joined, circling the bundle of nerves that will send her over the edge again. Her eyes fly open, locking with mine as pleasure builds.
"That's it," I encourage, feeling her tighten around me. "Come again. Come around me, Amber."
"Cullen," she gasps, her body going taut beneath me. "Cullen, please?—"
"I've got you," I promise, increasing the pressure, the pace. "Let go for me."
With a cry that might be my name, she does, her inner muscles clamping around me in waves of pleasure. The sight of her—flushed, eyes wild, completely abandoned to the pleasure I'm giving her—sends me over the edge. I pull out at the last second, spilling across her stomach with a groan torn from deep in my chest.
For a moment, there's nothing but our ragged breathing, the sound of the fire crackling in the grate, the distant patter of rain against the windows. Then Amber stirs beneath me, her eyes blinking open, a small smile curving her lips.
"That was..." She trails off, seemingly unable to find words.
"I know." I press a kiss to her forehead, then carefully move off her, not wanting to crush her with my weight. I grab a cloth from the bedside table, gently cleaning her stomach, between her thighs where a smear of blood marks her innocence surrendered.
When I'm done, I pull her against me, tucking her small body into the curve of mine. She fits perfectly, as if made to be there.
"Are you okay?" I ask, suddenly unsure. "I didn't hurt you too much?"
She stretches languidly against me, catlike in her satisfaction. "It hurt a little, at first. But then..." She blushes, burying her face against my chest. "It was wonderful."
Relief floods me. "It will only get better," I promise, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
"I hope so," she murmurs, already drowsy. "Because that was... mmm."
I chuckle, the sound strange in my throat. When was the last time I laughed? Before she came into my life, certainly.
As she drifts toward sleep in my arms, I study her face—the sweep of her lashes against her cheeks, the fullness of her lips, swollen from my kisses. My wife. Mine now in every way that matters.
The possessiveness I feel should frighten me. Instead, it settles something restless in my soul, something that's been pacing like a caged animal since the night Richard Lockhart left me for dead.
I press another kiss to her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her. "I'll protect you," I whisper, not sure if she can hear me. "Even from myself. Always."
She snuggles closer in response, trusting and warm against me. And for the first time in fifteen years, I feel something like peace steal over me as I follow my wife into sleep.
seven
. . .
Amber
The third vaseof freshly cut roses finds its home on the writing desk in the east wing. Strange how quickly this massive stone prison has become home—my home. Three weeks of marriage to Cullen Blackwood, and I've already marked my territory in a hundred small ways: throw pillows softening the hard edges of antique furniture, candles warming the cold corners, and flowers—always flowers—bringing life to rooms that have been dead for too long. Like the man himself, this house needs someone to remember it was meant for living.
I step back to admire my work. The roses are from Cullen's garden, deep crimson blooms that seemed wasted outside where no one sees them. When I first cut them, he watched me with that unreadable expression, saying nothing as I gathered them in my arms. Only later did I find the silver shears left on my dressing table—sharp, expensive, clearly new. A gift without the vulnerability of giving it directly. That's Cullen in a nutshell.
He's full of these small gestures now—wordless permissions, silent encouragements. A book left casually on my pillow. Kitchen cupboards rearranged to accommodate my shorter reach. The temperature of the entire house raised three degrees without comment after I mentioned being cold one evening.
Each tiny concession feels like a victory, a crack in the walls he's built so high.
I adjust a bloom that's drooping, careful of the thorns. My wedding ring catches the light, still strange and wonderful on my finger. How did I get here? From prisoner to wife in less than two weeks, and now playing lady of the manor as if I've always belonged.
Stockholm Syndrome, my rational mind whispers. But my heart knows better. This isn't pathology; it's recognition. I've known him all my life in dreams. Now I'm learning him in reality—the way his mouth quirks up at one corner when he's amused but trying to hide it, the gentleness of his massive hands when he touches me, the nightmares that still wake him gasping in the dark.
