Page 30 of The Beast's Captive Bride
"I meant what I said," I tell him, tracing idle patterns on his chest, avoiding the worst of the bruising. "I'm never leaving you."
"Even knowing what I am?" he asks, echoing his earlier question. "What I've done?"
I prop myself up to look at him, making sure he sees the certainty in my eyes. "I know exactly who you are, Cullen Blackwood. You're the man who kidnapped me and then saved me. Who showed me what it means to be truly seen, truly wanted." I smile, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "You're my husband. My home. The love I dreamed of before I knew what love was."
He pulls me closer, his strength returning, his body warm and solid against mine. "I'll spend the rest of my life being worthy of that," he promises. "Of you."
"You already are," I whisper, settling against him as sleep begins to claim us both. "You always were."
As I drift off in his arms, I think of the strange path that brought me here—from frightened captive to beloved wife, from my father's controlled daughter to my own woman. It wasn't the life I expected, but it's the one I was always meant to have.
With this man. This love that will last a lifetime.
epilogue
. . .
Six months later
Cullen
My hands areraw from digging, muscles aching from hauling stone and timber, but I keep working as the late spring sun beats down on my back. The rose garden is taking shape—a semi-circle of trellises framing the view from our bedroom window, climbing roses in various stages of growth already reaching toward the sky. Amber will see it when she wakes from her afternoon nap, her first glimpse each morning a riot of blooms meant just for her. For her and the child growing inside her, the miracle I never thought I'd live to see, much less deserve.
Six months since her father stormed our home, since I chose mercy over vengeance. Five months since the last of my bruises faded, leaving only the old scars as reminders of a past that seems increasingly distant. Four months since Ambermissed her cycle and looked at me with wide, wondering eyes, a pregnancy test clutched in her trembling hand.
"We're having a baby," she'd whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Cullen, we made a baby."
I'd fallen to my knees before her, pressing my face to her still-flat stomach, overcome by emotions I had no names for. Terror, joy, disbelief, gratitude—all of it crashing through me in waves that left me speechless. My hands, so capable of violence, had somehow created life instead. My seed, planted in the woman I'd kidnapped and then married, had taken root and grown into something precious beyond measure.
Now, as I drive another post into the ground for the final trellis, I glance up at our bedroom window. The curtains stir slightly—she's awake, watching me. I can almost see her there, honey-gold hair tumbling around her shoulders, one hand resting on the swell of her belly where our son or daughter grows. We decided not to learn the sex, wanting that final surprise. But in my dreams, it's a little girl with Amber's blue eyes and stubborn chin, or a boy with her gentle heart and endless capacity for forgiveness.
I secure the post, testing its strength with a hard shake. It needs to last—this garden, this home, this legacy I'm building for them. Everything I do now is for the long term, for a future I once couldn't imagine beyond the next step in my revenge.
Richard Lockhart has kept his distance since that day, though his shadow still falls across our lives occasionally. He sent a baby gift last month—an obscenely expensive silver rattle that Amber politely acknowledged but tucked away in a drawer. I know she writes to him sometimes, brief letters that maintain connection without invitation. It's more than I would give him, but I've learned to trust her judgment, her capacity to hold complicated truths about the people she loves.
And somehow, impossibly, I am among those people.
The sound of the back door opening draws my attention. Amber steps outside, one hand supporting her lower back, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. She's wearing one of my t-shirts, stretched over her rounded belly, and loose cotton pants that ride low beneath the bump. Her hair is tousled from sleep, her cheeks flushed, and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"You're supposed to be resting," I call to her, setting down my shovel and moving to meet her halfway across the lawn.
"I was," she answers, smiling up at me as I reach her. "But someone was kicking my ribs like they're training for the World Cup, and I smelled fresh dirt. Couldn't resist coming to see what you're up to."
I rest one hand on her belly, rewarded immediately by a decisive kick against my palm. "Already strong," I murmur, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "Like their mother."
"Like both their parents," she corrects, covering my hand with hers. Her wedding ring catches the sunlight, a flash of gold against her skin. "What are you building out here? You've been secretive for weeks."
I step aside, allowing her to see the garden taking shape beyond me. "For you," I say simply. "For our family."
Her eyes widen as she takes in the curved row of trellises, the carefully planted roses, the stone path leading from our back door. "Cullen," she breathes, moving closer to examine my work. "It's beautiful."
"It will be," I qualify, seeing not what is but what will be. "Once the roses climb. They'll frame the view from our bedroom. Every morning when you wake up."
She turns to me, those blue eyes swimming with tears that come easily these days, her emotions closer to the surface with pregnancy. "You did this for me?"
"Everything I do is for you now." The admission comes easily, no longer a surrender but a simple truth. "For you and the baby."
She reaches up to touch my face, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw with familiar tenderness. "You're going to be such an amazing father."
