Page 20 of The Beast's Captive Bride
My latest project waits in the kitchen—a stew simmering in the ancient crockpot I unearthed from a pantry cabinet. It's my mother's recipe, one of the few things I have from her besides faded photographs and whispered childhood memories. Cullen has a private chef who delivers meals twice weekly, but there's something impersonal about the sterile containers stacked in the refrigerator. Today, I want him to come home to something made by my hands, something that smells like comfort.
I've been cooking more often lately, gradually taking over the kitchen as if it were my right. Cullen watches me with that same intensity he brings to everything, but he never interferes. Just eats what I place before him with such focused attention that it makes me blush.
The grandfather clock in the hall strikes four. He'll be back soon from whatever mysterious business occupies his days. He never tells me where he goes or what he does, and I've learned not to ask. Some doors remain firmly closed between us, and my father's name is written across them in invisible ink.
I hurry to our bedroom—our bedroom, not just his now—to change. The massive space has transformed under my touch, the severe masculine lines softened with throw blankets and decorative pillows. Photographs in silver frames now grace the mantel—wedding pictures mostly, hastily taken but treasured. I've hung gauzy curtains that filter the light without blocking it, bringing airiness to a room that once felt like a tomb.
Cullen grumbled about the changes at first. "I can't find anything now," he complained one morning, searching for cufflinks that had been moved to make room for my jewelry box.
"That's because you never had anything to find before," I teased back, earning a scowl that lacked any real heat.
The next day, he installed a larger dresser with separate drawers for each of us, and I knew I'd won a small battle in our unspoken war.
I slip into a simple dress—nothing fancy, but nicer than the jeans and sweaters I've been living in. A touch of mascara, a dab of the perfume I found on my vanity last week (another wordless gift), and I'm ready.
Back in the kitchen, I check the stew, add a pinch more salt, and set the small table by the window rather than the formal dining room. Intimacy over formality, that's my strategy with Cullen. Break down the barriers bit by bit until he forgets they were ever there.
The sound of the front door opening sends a flutter through my stomach. His footsteps in the hall are distinctive—heavy, measured, impossible to miss. I smooth my dress, suddenly nervous.
"Amber?" His voice echoes through the house, and there's something in the way he says my name that still makes my heart skip.
"In the kitchen," I call back, lighting the candles I've placed on the table.
He appears in the doorway, filling it with his presence. No matter how often I see him, his sheer size still takes my breath away—six-foot-seven of solid muscle, broad shoulders straining against his black button-down, strong jaw now clean-shaven at my request. His eyes scan the room, taking in the set table, the candles, me.
"What's all this?" he asks, voice gruff but not displeased.
"Dinner," I say simply. "I thought we could eat here tonight. It's cozier."
He steps inside, setting down his keys and wallet in the spot I've designated for them. Another small victory—he's learning my systems without complaint.
"It smells good." He comes closer, bending to press a kiss to my hair—another new habit, these casual affections that seem to surprise him as much as they delight me.
"My mother's recipe," I explain, stirring the pot one last time. "Beef stew with rosemary and red wine."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps even a touch of emotion. "You've never mentioned your mother before."
I shrug, suddenly shy. "There isn't much to tell. She died when I was young. But I remember her cooking. It's one of the few things I have from her."
His large hand comes to rest on my shoulder, a gesture of comfort that speaks volumes from a man so sparing with words. "Thank you for sharing it with me."
The simple acknowledgment brings a lump to my throat. "Go wash up. It's ready when you are."
He obeys, another small miracle. Cullen Blackwood, bending to another's will without argument. When he returns, I have the food served, wine poured into the crystal glasses I found gathering dust in a cabinet.
We eat in companionable silence at first, the stew filling the kitchen with savory warmth. Outside, dusk settles over the mountains surrounding our isolated home. I still haven't left the property since arriving as a prisoner, but somehow the confinement chafes less now. Maybe because the prison has grown larger—from one room to an entire house and grounds. Or maybe because my jailer has become something else entirely.
"How was your day?" I ask, breaking the silence.
He looks up from his food, a flash of surprise crossing his features. Such a normal question, so domestic. "Productive," he answers after a pause. "And yours?"
"I found more of your family photographs in the attic," I tell him. "Your grandmother was beautiful."
His eyes sharpen. "You've been in the attic?"
"I've been everywhere," I admit without apology. "This is my home too now, isn't it?"
For a moment, I think I've pushed too far. Then his expression softens, the harsh lines around his mouth easing. "Yes. It is."
