Page 6 of The Beast's Captive Bride
I stand abruptly, needing distance from her and the understanding in her eyes. "Finish your food. I'll be back in the morning."
I turn to leave, but her voice stops me.
"Cullen."
My name in her mouth does something to me, something that resonates in places long dead. I look back at her.
"Are you going to kill me?" she asks, her voice steady despite the question.
"No." The answer comes without thought, instinctive and true. I hadn't realized until this moment that I've never intendedto harm her, not really. Use her, yes. Frighten her father through her, absolutely. But hurt her? The thought makes something inside me recoil.
Relief softens her features. "Thank you for telling me the truth."
I nod once, unable to form words around the strange feeling in my chest. Then I leave, locking the door behind me.
In the hallway, I pause, pressing my palm flat against the wood of her door. On the other side is a girl who should mean nothing to me beyond her usefulness as a pawn. A means to an end.
Instead, I find myself wondering what she dreams about, whether she likes the apple slices I prepared, if she'll sleep tonight or lie awake thinking of me the way I know I'll lie awake thinking of her.
This isn't part of the plan. This... softening. This interest. It's dangerous.
But as I force myself to walk away, I know with cold certainty that something in me has already broken—something I thought long dead, stirring to life at the sound of my name on Amber Lockhart's lips.
three
. . .
Amber
I should hate him.That's what any normal person would do—hate their kidnapper, fear them, plot escape at every turn. Instead, I find myself watching Cullen Blackwood through my lashes as he silently repairs the hinge on my bathroom door, his massive hands surprisingly gentle with the tiny screwdriver. There's a concentration to his movements, a care that doesn't match the monster he's supposed to be. The monster he wants me to believe he is.
Three days I've been here now. Three days of meals delivered by those same hands, of careful distance maintained between us, of questions answered with minimal words. Three days of trying to understand the man who took me from my life and locked me in this beautiful prison.
"It was sticking," he says without looking up, as if he needs to justify his presence in my room. "You mentioned it yesterday."
I had mentioned it, in passing, not expecting him to actually fix it himself. I'd assumed he'd have staff for such things, thoughI've seen no evidence of anyone else in this massive house except for a glimpse of what must be security patrolling the grounds.
"Thank you," I say, because Daddy raised me to be polite, even to men who kidnap me.
His eyes flick to mine, startled by the gratitude, then quickly return to his work. "Almost done."
I pull my knees to my chest, watching him from my perch on the window seat. Morning light streams through the glass, catching in his black hair, illuminating the silver at his temples. He's older than I first thought—late thirties, perhaps. The lines around his eyes speak of experience, of a life lived hard.
"Did you sleep?" he asks, the question so unexpected I almost miss it.
"Some." It's not a lie. I did sleep, fitfully, my dreams filled with his face, with hands both rough and gentle, with feelings I shouldn't be having for the man who stole me away.
He nods, testing the door. It swings smoothly now, without the squeak that had been driving me crazy. "Good."
An awkward silence falls between us. It should be comfortable, this distance, this detachment. Instead, I find myself wanting to bridge it, to understand him better. It's a strange impulse, born perhaps from my isolation, or maybe from the dreams that have haunted me since childhood—dreams of a dark prince with ice-gray eyes who would one day come for me.
"Have you contacted my father yet?" I ask, the question that's been burning in me since I arrived.
Cullen's jaw tightens, his hands stilling on the doorframe. "Yes."
"And?"
"And nothing." He straightens, pocketing the screwdriver. "The first move is his."
