Page 27 of The Beast's Captive Bride
The thought of her leaving—of this house returning to its cold emptiness, of my bed without her warmth, of days without her laughter—cuts deeper than any knife ever could.
"No," I say, the word both admission and vow. "Fifteen years of hate isn't worth one day without you."
Her smile widens, brightening her tear-stained face. "Say it again," she whispers. "What I said to you."
I know what she means. The words I've never spoken, not in fifteen years of darkness. The words I'm still not sure I deserve to say.
"I love you," I tell her, and it feels like liberation, like chains falling away. "God help me, I love you, Amber."
She rises on tiptoe, bringing her lips to mine in a kiss that tastes of salt and sweetness and something like redemption. "That's all I needed to hear," she murmurs against my mouth. "That's all I ever needed."
As I hold her in that stone basement where moments ago I'd planned to exact my revenge, I realize the truth of what she's done. She hasn't just saved her father, or even me. She's saved something I thought long dead—the man I was before hate consumed me, the man who could love without fear, who could choose mercy over vengeance.
That man was never truly gone, just buried beneath scar tissue and rage. And somehow, this slender woman with her honey-gold hair and stubborn heart has brought him back to life.
"Take me upstairs," she says, resting her head against my chest. "Take me home."
Home. The word has never held meaning until now, until her. I scoop her into my arms, cradling her against me as I carry her up the stairs, leaving the basement and its ghosts behind.
Whatever comes next—with her father, with the past that still looms between us—I'll face it with her by my side. Because for the first time in fifteen years, I'm choosing life over death, love over hate.
For the first time in fifteen years, I'm choosing to live.
nine
. . .
Amber
I dab antisepticon the cut above Cullen's eye, trying not to wince when he flinches. Even unconscious, his face tightens at the sting. Three days since my father stormed our home with his private security team, three days since Cullen chose mercy over vengeance, and still the aftermath lingers in purple bruises and split skin. I should be horrified by the violence that unfolded after Daddy left the basement. Instead, I feel only a fierce pride watching my husband breathe steadily despite his injuries—because this time, he fought not for revenge, but to protect what's ours.
The bedroom is quiet except for Cullen's deep, even breaths and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. Outside, snow falls in fat, lazy flakes, blanketing the world in silence. It feels fitting somehow—this hush, this clean white covering over the ugliness of what happened.
I set aside the antiseptic and gently apply ointment to his split lip, his bruised jaw. Though I've been tending him for days,my hands still tremble when I touch the worst of his injuries—the deep purple bruising across his ribs where one of Daddy's men landed a vicious kick. The doctor Cullen's security team called in says nothing's broken, just badly bruised, but every labored breath he takes cuts through me like a blade.
My husband's body, scarred before I ever knew him, now bears fresh marks because of me. Because of my father.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, though I know he can't hear me. The doctor gave him something for the pain, something that's kept him drifting in and out of consciousness since yesterday. "This is my fault."
But even as I say it, I know it's not true. This is Daddy's fault—his rage, his pride, his inability to accept that I've chosen my own path.
I close my eyes, and the scene replays behind my eyelids as it has a hundred times since it happened.
Daddy storming up from the basement, face twisted with fury. Me following, pleading with him to leave peacefully. Cullen behind me, a wall of protective muscle, hands gentle on my shoulders but voice hard as steel when he said, "It's time for you to go, Lockhart."
And Daddy had seemed to accept it, had even walked toward the front door where two of Cullen's security team waited to escort him to his car. But when he reached the entryway, he pressed something in his pocket—a panic button, a signal, something—and suddenly the front door burst open.
Four men in tactical gear, weapons drawn. Daddy's private security, the ones who were supposed to wait at the gate. They'd overpowered Cullen's men outside somehow, and now they surged into our home like an invading force.
"Take him," Daddy ordered, pointing at Cullen. "And get my daughter out of here."
Everything happened so fast after that. Cullen shoving me behind him, roaring for his own security. The sickening sounds of fists on flesh, of bodies hitting walls and floors. Me screaming, trying to reach Cullen as two of Daddy's men dragged me toward the door.
And Cullen—my gentle giant who names chickens and grows roses—transformed into something else entirely. Something primal and terrifying and magnificent.
He broke the arm of the man holding me in one sharp motion, tossed another through a glass coffee table like he weighed nothing. Even as they landed blows, even outnumbered, he was unstoppable—a force of nature protecting what was his.
Until one of them pulled a gun.
