Page 1 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

one

. . .

Amber

I wake to darkness and the smell of pine.

Not my floral sheets, not my childhood bedroom with its familiar shadows.

My head pounds like someone's taken a hammer to it, and when I try to move, the world tilts sideways.

Where am I? The last thing I remember is walking home from Lily's apartment, keys clutched between my fingers like Daddy taught me, and then.

.. nothing. Just the sweet, chemical smell that came out of nowhere and swallowed me whole.

My fingers trace unfamiliar silk sheets, too luxurious to be mine.

The mattress beneath me is firm but yielding, nothing like my sagging twin bed.

I blink hard, willing my eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Slowly, shapes emerge from the darkness—the hulking silhouette of a four-poster bed, heavy drapes pulled against what must be windows, the faint outline of furniture too massive for any normal room.

My throat feels like I've swallowed sand. "Hello?" The word scratches its way out, falling dead in the heavy silence.

No answer comes, just the distant tick of a clock I can't see and the soft whisper of wind against stone. This isn't a hospital. Not a friend's house. The room smells of wood polish and old money, of disuse and secrets.

I push myself upright, ignoring the protest of my aching body.

My clothes have been changed—I'm wearing a nightgown of soft cotton that reaches my ankles, modest but not mine.

The thought of unknown hands undressing me sends a violent shiver down my spine.

I wrap my arms around myself, fighting back tears.

This isn't happening. This is the stuff of nightmares, of true crime podcasts Daddy forbids me to listen to.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I find the floor cold beneath my bare feet. Stone. Who has stone floors in a bedroom? I take one tentative step, then another, arms outstretched in the dark until my fingers brush against what feels like a wall switch.

Light floods the room, momentarily blinding me. I blink against the sudden brightness, and as my vision clears, I gasp.

The room is enormous, easily four times the size of my bedroom at home.

Vaulted ceilings arch overhead, and tapestries in rich, muted colors hang on stone walls.

The furniture is all dark wood and velvet, ornate and clearly antique.

A fire smolders in a fireplace big enough to stand in, casting dancing shadows across the floor.

It looks like something from another century, preserved and perfect.

It's beautiful and terrifying all at once.

"No, no, no," I whisper, hurrying to the nearest window. I yank back heavy curtains to reveal—nothing. Just darkness and the reflection of my own pale face. Beyond the glass is pitch black, as if the world itself has been swallowed.

I try the window latch. Locked. Of course it's locked.

Next, I rush to what must be the door, an imposing slab of carved oak. The handle turns in my grip, but the door doesn't budge. I pull harder, then pound against the wood with my fist.

"Let me out!" I shout, my voice breaking. "Please, someone?—"

Memories flash through my mind—walking home in the dark, the strange car that slowed beside me, the hand that clamped over my mouth from behind. The sickly-sweet smell. The world going black around the edges.

I've been kidnapped.

The reality of it hits me like a physical blow, and I sink to the floor, back against the door.

This is what Daddy always warned me about, why he kept me so close, why I had to account for every minute away from home.

Twenty-one years old and still treated like a child because the world is full of monsters.

And now, apparently, I've met one.

I force myself to breathe, to think. There must be a way out, a weakness in this velvet cage. I search the room systematically, checking every drawer, looking under the bed, testing the bathroom door—which, thankfully, opens to reveal a luxurious en suite with a claw-foot tub and marble counters.

No windows in the bathroom. No phone anywhere. Nothing I could use as a weapon except maybe the heavy brass lamp on the bedside table.

Time stretches, elastic and uncertain. I have no watch, no phone. The ornate clock on the mantel reads three, but I don't know if it's afternoon or morning, or even if it's right. I sit on the edge of the bed, the lamp clutched in my hands, and wait.

I must doze off, because the next thing I know, I'm startled awake by the sound of a key turning in the lock.

I leap to my feet, lamp raised, heart thundering against my ribs. The door swings open, and?—

Oh.

The man who fills the doorway is... enormous.

That's the only word for him. He has to duck to enter the room, his shoulders nearly spanning the width of the doorframe.

Six and a half feet at least, with the solid build of someone who could snap me in half without effort.

He's dressed entirely in black—black jeans, black sweater, heavy black boots that thud against the stone floor as he steps inside.

But it's his face that makes me lower the lamp slightly, my mouth going dry.

He's beautiful in a way that hurts to look at—all sharp angles and grim lines, like someone carved him from granite.

Raven hair swept back from a broad forehead, shot through with silver at the temples.

A strong jaw darkened with stubble. And eyes—God, his eyes—the pale gray of winter ice, watching me with an intensity that makes me want to hide.

A jagged scar runs from his jaw down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. It's a violent thing, puckered and white against his tanned skin, like someone tried to open his throat once.

I should be screaming. I should be attacking him with my pathetic lamp or running for the door he's left ajar. Instead, I stand frozen, because something about him is... familiar. Like I've seen him before. Like I've dreamed him.

"Who are you?" My voice comes out steadier than I expect. "Why am I here?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Just studies me, his massive hands flexing at his sides. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, rough rumble that seems to vibrate through the stone walls.

"You're awake." Not a question. A statement of fact.

"Obviously." The word slips out before I can stop it—a flash of the stubborn streak I usually keep hidden. "Where am I? What do you want from me?"

He takes another step forward, and I raise the lamp again, my momentary boldness evaporating.

"Don't." It's all he says, but there's such command in that single word that my arms lower almost against my will.

"Please," I whisper, hating the tremor that's crept into my voice. "My father will pay whatever you want. Just let me call him?—"

Something dark and terrible flashes across his face at the mention of my father. His mouth twists into what might be a smile but looks more like a grimace, revealing white teeth.

"Your father," he says, and the words drip with venom, "is precisely why you're here, Miss Lockhart."

He knows my name. Of course he does. This isn't random; I've been targeted.

"I don't understand." Tears press hot behind my eyes, but I blink them back. "What did he do to you?"

The man—my captor—moves further into the room, and I back away until my legs hit the bed. He stops, leaving a careful distance between us, as if he knows exactly how terrifying he is.

"What did he do?" He laughs, a harsh, broken sound. One finger traces the scar on his neck. "He took everything from me. And now I'm taking everything from him."

"Me." The word falls like a stone between us. "I'm... payment?"

His eyes narrow slightly, something shifting in their icy depths. "You're leverage."

I swallow hard, trying to process this. "And... what happens to me?"

For the first time, he looks away, his jaw tightening. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On him. On you." His gaze returns to mine, burning with something I can't name. "On whether you do exactly as I say."

I should be terrified. I am terrified. But underneath the fear is something else—a whisper of recognition, a sense of déjà vu so strong it makes me dizzy.

I've seen this man before, in dreams that have haunted me since childhood.

Dreams of a dark prince, scarred and beautiful, coming to steal me away.

"What's your name?" I ask, the question slipping out unbidden.

He looks startled, as if it's the last thing he expected me to ask. For a moment, I think he won't answer.

"Cullen," he says finally. "Cullen Blackwood."

The name settles into me like it belongs there. Like I've been waiting to hear it.

"Are you going to hurt me, Cullen Blackwood?" I ask, my voice small but steady.

Something complicated passes over his face—conflict, confusion, maybe even a flash of pain. He takes a step back toward the door.

"Get some rest, Miss Lockhart. There's food in the bathroom. Clean clothes in the wardrobe." His hand rests on the doorknob. "This room is the safest place for you in this house. I suggest you stay in it."

"Wait—" I start, but he's already closing the door, the lock clicking into place with terrible finality.

I'm left alone again, the lamp still clutched in my hands, my heart beating too fast. I should be screaming, beating on the door, trying to escape. Instead, I find myself sitting slowly on the edge of the bed, my mind spinning with confusion.

My captor is a stranger with familiar eyes. A monster with a beautiful face. A man who hates my father enough to steal me away, but who looks at me like... like I'm something that hurts to see.

And the strangest part? Despite everything—the fear, the confusion, the danger—something deep inside me whispers that I've been waiting for him my whole life.