Page 28 of The Beast's Captive Bride
The shot still echoes in my memory—deafening in the enclosed space of the foyer. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought Cullen had been hit. But it was one of Daddy's men who crumpled, clutching his shoulder, put down by Cullen's head of security who'd finally fought his way inside.
The tide turned after that. Cullen's men regained control, disarming Daddy's security team, restraining them with quick, efficient movements that spoke of professional training.
And Daddy—my father, who I once thought hung the moon—stood in the chaos he'd created, face ashen as he realized what he'd done. What he'd almost done.
"This isn't over," he said, but the words were empty, defeated.
Cullen, bloodied but unbowed, his chest heaving with exertion, stared him down with cold fury. "Yes, it is. You lost her. Not to me. To yourself."
They took him away then—Daddy and his injured men—driven to the main road and left there with a warning: come back, and mercy would not be offered twice.
I pull myself back to the present, to the man lying pale against white sheets, to the hands I'm pressing gently against his bruised ribs. It's over now. Daddy is gone, his pride wounded more severely than any of his men. I doubt he'll risk coming back—not after Cullen's security team made it clear that next time, they wouldn't be so gentle.
Not after I made it clear that my choice was made.
A soft groan pulls me from my thoughts. Cullen's eyelids flutter, then open, revealing those winter-gray eyes I've come to love so deeply. They're clouded with pain and medication, but they find me immediately, focus sharpening as he recognizes my face.
"Amber," he rasps, voice rough from disuse.
"I'm here." I take his hand, careful of the split knuckles, the purpling bruises. "Right here."
He tries to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at his injured ribs. "Your father?—"
"Is gone," I soothe, gently pressing him back against the pillows. "It's been three days, Cullen. Everything's quiet. We're safe."
He subsides, but his eyes scan my face, my body, looking for injuries. Even now, barely conscious, his first thought is my safety.
"I'm fine," I tell him before he can ask. "Not a scratch. You made sure of that."
A ghost of a smile touches his split lip, then fades as a spasm of pain crosses his features. "Shouldn't have happened," he murmurs. "Should have been more prepared."
"You couldn't have known he'd bring armed men to our door." I reach for the glass of water on the bedside table, holding it to his lips. "Small sips," I instruct as he drinks thirstily.
When he's had enough, I set the glass aside and resume my gentle ministrations, checking bandages, applyingfresh ointment where needed. He watches me through half-lidded eyes, still hazy from medication but tracking my every movement.
"You're good at this," he observes after a while.
"I've had practice." I smile wryly. "Three days of it."
His hand catches mine, stilling my movements. "You've been here the whole time?"
"Where else would I be?" The question seems absurd. "You're my husband. You were hurt protecting me."
Something complicated crosses his face—disbelief, wonder, a vulnerability he rarely shows. "You could have gone with him. After what I did. What I almost did."
I understand what he means. After seeing him in the basement with my father, after witnessing the violence he's capable of, I could have run. Maybe should have run, by normal standards.
"I could never leave you," I say simply, turning my hand in his to thread our fingers together. "Not then, not now. Not ever."
His eyes search mine, looking for any trace of doubt, of fear. He won't find any. Whatever uncertainties I had about us—about the strange, twisted path that brought us together—dissolved the moment he chose me over his revenge.
"Why?" he asks, the question barely audible. "After everything. After seeing what I am. What I'm capable of."
I set aside the medical supplies and carefully lie down beside him, mindful of his injuries. Propped on one elbow, I look into those questioning eyes and let him see everything I feel—all the love, the certainty, the bone-deep knowledge that I am exactly where I'm meant to be.
"I've always seen what you're capable of," I tell him. "From the very beginning. I saw the monster and the man. I chose both." My free hand comes up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, careful of the bruising. "But you know what I saw in thatbasement? When you had every reason, every right to hurt my father?"
He waits, breath held, for my answer.
