Page 4 of The Beast's Captive Bride
I consider this. Lockhart has resources—private security, connections in law enforcement. Once he figures out I'm behind this, he'll come at me with everything he has.
"Double the guard rotation. No one in or out without my explicit authorization. And make sure our friends in the local police are well compensated for their... discretion."
"Yes, sir."
The intercom goes silent, and I'm left with my thoughts again. With her face in my mind.
I shouldn't go back to her room tonight. I should let her stew in uncertainty, in fear. That was the plan—psychological warfare before I make my demands.
Instead, I find myself in the kitchen, preparing a tray. Soup. Bread. A pot of tea. An apple, sliced the way my mother used to do it for me when I was a boy. My hands move with a will of their own, arranging everything just so.
What the hell am I doing?
I carry the tray upstairs anyway, my boots silent on the thick carpet runner. Outside her door, I pause, listening. No sound of crying. No screams for help. Just silence.
I shift the tray to one hand and unlock the door with the other, expecting to find her huddled on the bed or hiding in the bathroom.
Instead, she's standing by the window, looking out at the night. She's found clothes in the wardrobe—a simple sweater and jeans that are slightly too big on her small frame. Her honey-blonde hair falls in waves down her back, catching the light from the bedside lamp.
She turns when I enter, and there it is again—that flash of recognition in her eyes, like she knows me. Like she's been waiting.
"You came back," she says, and there's no fear in her voice. Just... curiosity.
I kick the door shut behind me, keeping my expression neutral as I set the tray on a small table near the fireplace.
"You need to eat."
She doesn't move from the window. "I'm not hungry."
"I don't care if you're hungry or not. You'll eat."
A flash of that stubbornness again as she lifts her chin. "Or what? You'll force me?"
Something hot and dangerous curls in my gut at her words. "Don't test me, Miss Lockhart."
"Amber," she says, and hearing her name in her own voice does something strange to me. Makes her more real. Less a symbol of my revenge and more... a person. "If I'm going to be your prisoner, you might as well use my name."
I don't respond to that. Can't respond to that. Instead, I gesture to the tray. "Eat."
She hesitates, then crosses the room with a grace that seems unconscious. She sits at the small table, looking up at me with those too-blue eyes.
"Aren't you going to join me?"
The question catches me off guard. I should leave. I have work to do, preparations to make for tomorrow when all hell breaks loose.
Instead, I find myself sitting across from her, the small table between us making me acutely aware of how large I am compared to her. How breakable she looks.
She takes a spoonful of soup, and I watch the movement of her throat as she swallows. Something protective and possessive twists inside me. Mine, a voice whispers in my head. The thought is as unwelcome as it is unexpected.
"You know my father," she says after a moment. Not a question.
"Yes."
"He hurt you." Her eyes flick to my scar.
"Yes."
She takes another spoonful of soup, considering this. "And you think hurting me will hurt him."
