Page 22 of The Beast's Captive Bride
"Like I'm something good. Something worth loving." Raw honesty, rare as diamonds from this man.
My heart twists at the pain behind his words. I turn my face to press a kiss into his palm. "You are to me."
A shadow crosses his features. "You don't know everything I've done. Everything I still plan to do."
My father hangs unspoken between us, the debt Cullen still believes must be paid. I could push, could demand answers about his plans, but instead I choose another path.
"I know enough," I tell him, shifting to straddle his lap, bringing us face to face. "I know you've never hurt me, even when you could have. I know you're gentle with things that are smaller than you—me, the chickens, the wild rabbits in the garden." I cup his face between my hands, holding his gaze. "I know you call out in your sleep sometimes, and it's not just anger in your voice, but grief."
He tries to turn away, but I hold him fast—not with strength, which would be useless against him, but with tenderness, which he has no defense against.
"Look at me, husband," I insist, and his eyes return to mine, dark with emotions he won't name. "Whatever you've done, whatever you still think you need to do—it doesn't change what's between us."
"And what is that?" he challenges, voice rough with feeling.
I could say love. It would be true, at least for me. But he's not ready to hear that word, not ready to believe it. Instead, I lean forward and press my lips to his, pouring everything I feel into the kiss.
He responds instantly, one hand tangling in my hair, the other spanning my lower back to pull me closer. There's desperation in the way he kisses me, like a drowning man finding air. I meet it with my own hunger, opening to him completely.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against his. "That," I whisper. "That's what's between us. And nothing—not the past, not my father, not your revenge—can take it away."
His arms tighten around me, almost painfully, before he buries his face in my neck. I hold him, feeling the shudder that runs through his massive frame. Not crying—Cullen Blackwood doesn't cry—but something close to it. A breaking. A surrender.
"Amber," he breathes against my skin, my name a prayer on his lips.
"I'm here," I promise, running my fingers through his hair, holding him as he would never allow anyone else to hold him—vulnerable, exposed, human. "I'm right here, husband."
We stay that way for a long time, wrapped in each other as the fire burns low. Outside, snow begins to fall, the first of the season, blanketing the world in silence. And inside, in the circle of my husband's arms, I feel his heart softening beneath my touch, one beat at a time.
eight
. . .
Cullen
I seehim on the security monitor, and fifteen years of hatred crystallize into a single point of burning rage. Richard Lockhart, looking older but no less arrogant in his tailored overcoat, approaching my gates with two men flanking him like a CEO with his security detail. I've been waiting for this moment since I took Amber, planning for it, savoring the anticipation of finally facing the man who destroyed my life. My hands should be steady as I check the gun holstered at my side, but they tremble with a cocktail of rage and adrenaline that tastes like copper in my mouth.
"Sir?" My head of security stands at attention beside me, awaiting instructions. "They're demanding entry. Claiming he has legal right to see his daughter."
"Let him in." My voice sounds foreign to my own ears—a glacial calm that masks the inferno beneath. "Just him. Disarm his men and keep them at the gate."
"And Mr. Lockhart himself?"
A smile stretches my lips, more snarl than expression of pleasure. "I'll handle Lockhart personally."
"Sir, Mrs. Blackwood?—"
"Is in the east wing library." I cut him off. "Make sure she stays there. No matter what you hear, no matter what happens, keep her away from this."
He nods, though I see the hesitation in his eyes. In the month since Amber became my wife, the entire household staff has fallen under her spell. They watch me warily now, protective of her in a way that would amuse me if I weren't so goddamn grateful for it.
"Go," I order, and he does, speaking rapid instructions into his radio as he leaves.
Alone in the security office, I watch as the gates swing open and Lockhart's sleek black car eases up the long driveway. My fingers tap restlessly against the desk, muscle memory from before he took everything—before the scars, before the hate hollowed me out and rebuilt me in its image.
I should tell Amber. She deserves to know her father is here. But the thought of her face, of the confusion and pain that would cloud those blue eyes, stops me cold. She's been happy these past weeks—genuinely happy in a way I never expected, never deserved. The sound of her laughter echoing through rooms that have known only silence for years, the warmth of her body against mine at night, the way she says "husband" like it's a gift rather than a chain.
No. Better she doesn't see what happens next. Better she remember her father as he was, not as the broken man I intend to leave him.
