Page 21 of The Beast's Captive Bride
We finish dinner, and I clear the plates despite his offer to help. "Go start the fire," I tell him instead. "I'll bring coffee in a minute."
Another domestic scene, so ordinary it almost makes me laugh. The feared Cullen Blackwood, obediently building a fire while his wife brings after-dinner coffee. Who would believe it?
When I join him in the library—my favorite room in the house with its towering shelves and comfortable chairs—he's standing before the fireplace, staring into the flames. Theflickering light casts shadows across his face, highlighting the strong lines of his profile.
"Here," I say, handing him a mug of coffee, prepared exactly as he likes it—black, with a single sugar.
His fingers brush mine as he takes it, and I feel that spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless. Even after three weeks of marriage, three weeks of sharing his bed, his touch still affects me like a live wire.
"Thank you for dinner," he says, his voice rumbling low in his chest. "It was... nice."
From anyone else, it would be faint praise. From Cullen, it's practically a sonnet.
"You're welcome." I settle into my usual chair, tucking my feet beneath me. "I thought maybe tomorrow we could eat in the dining room. Light the chandelier. Make it an occasion."
He watches me over the rim of his mug. "What's the occasion?"
"Being alive," I say simply. "Being here. Together."
Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability he rarely allows himself to show. "Amber..."
"What?" I meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away from whatever emotion he's struggling with.
He shakes his head slightly. "You've changed things."
"The house needed it," I say, though we both know he's not just talking about the décor.
"Not just the house." He sets down his mug and crosses to the window, staring out at the darkness. His broad back is tense, shoulders rigid beneath his shirt.
I uncurl from my chair and follow him, drawn by the rare admission of feeling. Standing behind him, I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his back. He stiffens for a moment, then relaxes into my embrace—another small victory.
"Is that so terrible?" I ask softly. "The changes?"
His hands come up to cover mine where they rest against his stomach. "It should be," he admits, voice so low I barely catch it. "I didn't want this. Any of it."
"And now?"
He turns in my arms, looking down at me with those winter-gray eyes that have haunted my dreams for years. "Now I can't imagine anything else."
The admission costs him; I can see it in the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw clenches. Cullen Blackwood, admitting weakness. Admitting need.
"Come sit with me," I say, taking his hand and leading him to his favorite chair, a massive leather monstrosity that fits his frame perfectly.
He allows himself to be guided, settling into the chair with a questioning look. Before he can ask what I'm doing, I climb into his lap, curling against his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world.
And it is. Despite our size difference, despite how we came to be here, my body recognizes its place against his. I fit perfectly in the space he makes for me, my head tucked under his chin, his arms coming around me automatically.
"What are you doing?" he asks, but his arms tighten, betraying his words.
"Getting comfortable with my husband," I say, the word still new and thrilling on my tongue. "Is that allowed?"
His breath catches at the word—husband—as if he's still not used to hearing it. "Amber..."
I twist in his lap to look up at him, finding his eyes darker than usual, pupils expanded in the firelight. "What, husband?" I say again, testing the power of the word.
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my lower lip with exquisite gentleness. "You shouldn't be able to look at me like that."
"Like what?"
