Page 7 of The Beast's Captive Bride
I bite my lip, wondering what Daddy is thinking, what he's planning. Is he frantic with worry? Or simply furious thatsomeone has dared to take what's his? I suspect the latter. Richard Lockhart doesn't panic; he calculates.
"What did you tell him?" I press, needing to know.
Cullen's eyes meet mine, a flash of something almost like guilt crossing his features. "That you're safe. That you'll remain safe as long as he follows my instructions."
"Which are?"
"None of your concern." His voice hardens, the brief moment of openness gone.
I should leave it alone. Should be grateful he's at least keeping me comfortable, not harming me. Instead, that stubborn streak Daddy always complained about rises in me.
"It is my concern," I say, uncurling from the window seat to stand. I'm tall for a woman, but next to Cullen, I feel tiny, delicate. "I'm the bargaining chip. I deserve to know what I'm being bargained for."
For a moment, I think I've pushed too far. His face darkens, those large hands flexing at his sides. But then something shifts in his expression—a reluctant respect, perhaps.
"Justice," he says finally. "I want him to admit what he did, publicly. To return what he stole. To face consequences for once in his privileged life."
There's such raw pain in his voice that I can't help but respond to it. "And me? What happens to me when this is over?"
He looks away, and I realize he hasn't thought that far ahead. Or if he has, he doesn't want to tell me.
"You go back to your life," he says, but there's a hesitation that makes me wonder if he's trying to convince himself as much as me.
Before I can press further, he changes the subject. "You've been in this room for three days. Would you like to see more of the house?"
The offer surprises me. "You'd let me out?"
"Not out," he clarifies quickly. "But there's more to see inside. This place has been in my family for generations."
Curiosity wins over caution. "Yes, I'd like that."
He gestures for me to precede him through the door, and for the first time since I woke in this place, I step beyond the confines of my luxurious cell.
The hallway stretches in both directions, lined with paintings and tapestries that must be worth a fortune. The floors are stone, covered in places with antique rugs that muffle our footsteps. It's like walking through a museum, or a castle frozen in time.
"This way," Cullen says, directing me with a hand that hovers near my lower back but doesn't quite touch.
I'm acutely aware of him behind me—his height, his breadth, the heat that seems to radiate from his body. He could overpower me in an instant if he wanted to. Instead, he keeps that careful distance, as if he's as aware of me as I am of him.
We descend a grand staircase to the main floor, where soaring ceilings and massive windows create a sense of openness despite the ancient stone walls. The house is a strange mix of medieval and modern—centuries-old architecture updated with subtle contemporary comforts.
"It's beautiful," I admit, running my fingers along a polished banister. "How long has it been in your family?"
"Since the 1800s. My great-great-grandfather built it." There's pride in his voice, perhaps the first positive emotion I've heard from him. "I spent summers here as a boy."
I try to picture him as a child, running through these grand halls, and can't quite manage it. Cullen Blackwood seems like someone who was born fully formed, scowling and massive.
"And now you live here alone?" I ask, following him through what must be a formal dining room, large enough to seat twenty.
"I prefer solitude."
"No one prefers complete solitude," I counter before I can stop myself.
He glances back at me, one eyebrow raised. "Don't they?"
"No. People need connection. It's human nature."
"Perhaps I'm not entirely human." There's a self-deprecating twist to his mouth that catches me off guard.
