Page 8 of The Beast's Captive Bride
"I don't believe that." The words come out softer than I intend.
He doesn't respond, just leads me through another doorway into what must be a library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, filled with books both ancient and modern. A massive fireplace dominates one wall, with leather chairs arranged before it. It's the kind of room I've dreamed about—cozy despite its size, perfect for losing oneself in stories.
"Oh," I breathe, unable to hide my delight. "This is wonderful."
Cullen watches me as I move deeper into the room, trailing my fingers along leather-bound spines. "You like to read."
"I love to read. Always have." I pull a volume from the shelf—a collection of poetry, its pages well-worn. "My father thinks it's a waste of time."
"Your father is an idiot."
I laugh, the sound startling both of us. It's the first time I've laughed since I've been here, and from Cullen's expression, it's the last thing he expected to hear.
"Sorry," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.
"Don't be." He clears his throat. "You can come here, if you want. To read. As long as I know where you are."
It's a small freedom, but it makes my heart lift nonetheless. "Thank you."
He nods, then gestures toward another door. "There's something else I want to show you."
We pass through a kitchen that would make a professional chef weep with joy, then down a short hallway to a door that leads outside. I hesitate, hope rising in me at the sight of sunlight, of potential freedom.
"Just the garden," Cullen says, reading my thoughts. "It's enclosed. Don't get any ideas."
The warning is unnecessary. The moment we step outside, I see the high stone walls that surround the space, the security cameras mounted discreetly in corners. Still, it's outside—fresh air, sunshine, the scent of growing things. After three days indoors, it feels like paradise.
The garden is beautiful, clearly tended with care. Roses climb trellises, vegetables grow in neat rows, and fruit trees form a small orchard in one corner. But what catches my attention is the chicken coop tucked against one wall, and the tall, intimidating man now crouching before it, holding out grain to the plump hens that cluster around him.
"They know you," I say, watching as one particularly bold chicken pecks gently at his fingers.
"I feed them every morning." There's that softness again, at odds with everything I thought I knew about him. "They're good layers. Fresh eggs."
I move closer, careful not to startle the birds. "Can I try?"
He looks up at me, surprise evident in his face, then holds out the container of grain. "Hold your hand flat."
Our fingers brush as I take the grain, and I feel a spark – static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless. From his slight intake of breath, Cullen feels it too.
I crouch beside him, holding out my hand as instructed. The chickens eye me suspiciously at first, then one brave soul approaches, pecking delicately at the offering. I giggle at the ticklish sensation.
"She likes you," Cullen says, and when I glance at him, he's watching me, not the chicken. The intensity in his gaze makes my cheeks warm.
"What's her name?" I ask, to break the tension.
"Eleanor."
"You name your chickens?" This surprises me more than anything else I've learned about him.
He looks almost embarrassed. "They have distinct personalities."
"I can see that." Eleanor has now been joined by her sisters, all pecking happily at my hand. "Who's this one with the speckled feathers?"
"That's Mabel. She's the troublemaker. Always getting out."
I laugh again, delighted by this unexpected side of him. "And the little brown one?"
"Henrietta. She's shy, but she lays the best eggs." His voice has softened, the rough edges smoothed away by simple pleasure.
