Page 12 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

nine

. . .

Amber

I dab antiseptic on the cut above Cullen's eye, trying not to wince when he flinches.

Even unconscious, his face tightens at the sting.

Three days since my father stormed our home with his private security team, three days since Cullen chose mercy over vengeance, and still the aftermath lingers in purple bruises and split skin.

I should be horrified by the violence that unfolded after Daddy left the basement.

Instead, I feel only a fierce pride watching my husband breathe steadily despite his injuries—because this time, he fought not for revenge, but to protect what's ours.

The bedroom is quiet except for Cullen's deep, even breaths and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. Outside, snow falls in fat, lazy flakes, blanketing the world in silence. It feels fitting somehow—this hush, this clean white covering over the ugliness of what happened.

I set aside the antiseptic and gently apply ointment to his split lip, his bruised jaw.

Though I've been tending him for days, my hands still tremble when I touch the worst of his injuries—the deep purple bruising across his ribs where one of Daddy's men landed a vicious kick.

The doctor Cullen's security team called in says nothing's broken, just badly bruised, but every labored breath he takes cuts through me like a blade.

My husband's body, scarred before I ever knew him, now bears fresh marks because of me. Because of my father.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, though I know he can't hear me. The doctor gave him something for the pain, something that's kept him drifting in and out of consciousness since yesterday. "This is my fault."

But even as I say it, I know it's not true. This is Daddy's fault—his rage, his pride, his inability to accept that I've chosen my own path.

I close my eyes, and the scene replays behind my eyelids as it has a hundred times since it happened.

Daddy storming up from the basement, face twisted with fury. Me following, pleading with him to leave peacefully. Cullen behind me, a wall of protective muscle, hands gentle on my shoulders but voice hard as steel when he said, "It's time for you to go, Lockhart."

And Daddy had seemed to accept it, had even walked toward the front door where two of Cullen's security team waited to escort him to his car. But when he reached the entryway, he pressed something in his pocket—a panic button, a signal, something—and suddenly the front door burst open.

Four men in tactical gear, weapons drawn. Daddy's private security, the ones who were supposed to wait at the gate. They'd overpowered Cullen's men outside somehow, and now they surged into our home like an invading force.

"Take him," Daddy ordered, pointing at Cullen. "And get my daughter out of here."

Everything happened so fast after that. Cullen shoving me behind him, roaring for his own security. The sickening sounds of fists on flesh, of bodies hitting walls and floors. Me screaming, trying to reach Cullen as two of Daddy's men dragged me toward the door.

And Cullen—my gentle giant who names chickens and grows roses—transformed into something else entirely. Something primal and terrifying and magnificent.

He broke the arm of the man holding me in one sharp motion, tossed another through a glass coffee table like he weighed nothing. Even as they landed blows, even outnumbered, he was unstoppable—a force of nature protecting what was his.

Until one of them pulled a gun.

The shot still echoes in my memory—deafening in the enclosed space of the foyer. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought Cullen had been hit. But it was one of Daddy's men who crumpled, clutching his shoulder, put down by Cullen's head of security who'd finally fought his way inside.

The tide turned after that. Cullen's men regained control, disarming Daddy's security team, restraining them with quick, efficient movements that spoke of professional training.

And Daddy—my father, who I once thought hung the moon—stood in the chaos he'd created, face ashen as he realized what he'd done. What he'd almost done.

"This isn't over," he said, but the words were empty, defeated.

Cullen, bloodied but unbowed, his chest heaving with exertion, stared him down with cold fury. "Yes, it is. You lost her. Not to me. To yourself."

They took him away then—Daddy and his injured men—driven to the main road and left there with a warning: come back, and mercy would not be offered twice.

I pull myself back to the present, to the man lying pale against white sheets, to the hands I'm pressing gently against his bruised ribs.

It's over now. Daddy is gone, his pride wounded more severely than any of his men.

I doubt he'll risk coming back—not after Cullen's security team made it clear that next time, they wouldn't be so gentle.

Not after I made it clear that my choice was made.

A soft groan pulls me from my thoughts. Cullen's eyelids flutter, then open, revealing those winter-gray eyes I've come to love so deeply. They're clouded with pain and medication, but they find me immediately, focus sharpening as he recognizes my face.

"Amber," he rasps, voice rough from disuse.

"I'm here." I take his hand, careful of the split knuckles, the purpling bruises. "Right here."

He tries to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls at his injured ribs. "Your father?—"

"Is gone," I soothe, gently pressing him back against the pillows. "It's been three days, Cullen. Everything's quiet. We're safe."

He subsides, but his eyes scan my face, my body, looking for injuries. Even now, barely conscious, his first thought is my safety.

"I'm fine," I tell him before he can ask. "Not a scratch. You made sure of that."

A ghost of a smile touches his split lip, then fades as a spasm of pain crosses his features. "Shouldn't have happened," he murmurs. "Should have been more prepared."

"You couldn't have known he'd bring armed men to our door." I reach for the glass of water on the bedside table, holding it to his lips. "Small sips," I instruct as he drinks thirstily.

When he's had enough, I set the glass aside and resume my gentle ministrations, checking bandages, applying fresh ointment where needed. He watches me through half-lidded eyes, still hazy from medication but tracking my every movement.

"You're good at this," he observes after a while.

"I've had practice." I smile wryly. "Three days of it."

His hand catches mine, stilling my movements. "You've been here the whole time?"

"Where else would I be?" The question seems absurd. "You're my husband. You were hurt protecting me."

Something complicated crosses his face—disbelief, wonder, a vulnerability he rarely shows. "You could have gone with him. After what I did. What I almost did."

I understand what he means. After seeing him in the basement with my father, after witnessing the violence he's capable of, I could have run. Maybe should have run, by normal standards.

"I could never leave you," I say simply, turning my hand in his to thread our fingers together. "Not then, not now. Not ever."

His eyes search mine, looking for any trace of doubt, of fear. He won't find any. Whatever uncertainties I had about us—about the strange, twisted path that brought us together—dissolved the moment he chose me over his revenge.

"Why?" he asks, the question barely audible. "After everything. After seeing what I am. What I'm capable of."

I set aside the medical supplies and carefully lie down beside him, mindful of his injuries. Propped on one elbow, I look into those questioning eyes and let him see everything I feel—all the love, the certainty, the bone-deep knowledge that I am exactly where I'm meant to be.

"I've always seen what you're capable of," I tell him.

"From the very beginning. I saw the monster and the man.

I chose both." My free hand comes up to trace the sharp line of his jaw, careful of the bruising.

"But you know what I saw in that basement?

When you had every reason, every right to hurt my father? "

He waits, breath held, for my answer.

"I saw a man choose love over hate. Mercy over vengeance. Me over everything else." I lean down, pressing the gentlest of kisses to his forehead. "How could I not love you for that? How could I ever leave?"

His breath releases in a shuddering exhale. His hand comes up to tangle in my hair, drawing me down for a proper kiss, heedless of his split lip. I taste copper and desperation and relief.

"Say it again," he murmurs against my mouth when we part. "Please."

"I love you." I kiss him between each word, gentle but insistent. "I love you, Cullen Blackwood. The man who kidnapped me and protected me. The beast who became my home."

A sound escapes him—something between a laugh and a groan—and he pulls me closer despite his injuries, burying his face against my neck. "I don't deserve you."

"You do," I insist, running my fingers through his hair, cradling his head against me. "You do, and I'll spend the rest of my life convincing you of it."

We stay like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the silence of the snow-covered world outside our cocoon. His breathing evens out, and I think he might have fallen asleep again until his lips press against my collarbone.

"I need you," he murmurs, and the hunger in his voice has nothing to do with food or drink.

I pull back slightly, concerned. "You're injured. The doctor said?—"

"I don't care what the doctor said." His eyes have cleared, darkening now with desire rather than pain. "I need to feel you. Need to know you're real. That this is real."

The naked vulnerability in his voice undoes me. How can I deny him when he looks at me like that? When my own body responds so immediately to his need?

"Let me," I whisper, understanding what he needs, what we both need. "Don't move. Let me take care of you."

He watches, eyes hooded, as I slip from the bed and undress slowly—not a tease, but a revelation. Each piece of clothing removed is another layer of armor shed, another step toward the complete vulnerability I want to show him.

When I'm naked, I carefully pull back the sheets covering him, mindful of his injuries. He's wearing only boxer briefs, his magnificent body mapped with bruises but still breathtaking in its power. Even wounded, he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I ease the briefs down his legs, my breath catching at the evidence of his desire for me. No matter how many times we've been together in the past weeks, the sight of him still fills me with awe—and a flutter of intimidation at his size.

"Amber," he groans as I straddle him carefully, positioning myself above him without putting pressure on his bruised ribs. "You don't have to?—"

"I want to," I interrupt, lowering myself slowly, taking him inch by careful inch. "I want you. Every part of you."

His hands come to my hips, steadying but not directing, letting me set the pace. I move slowly, reverently, watching his face for any sign of pain. There's only pleasure there, and something deeper—a wonder, a gratitude that breaks my heart and heals it all at once.

"Look at me," I whisper, and his eyes lock with mine as I begin to move in earnest. "See me. See us."

"I see you," he answers, voice rough with emotion and desire. "My wife. My heart."

The words push me closer to the edge. I lean down, careful of his ribs, and kiss him deeply as our bodies move together in the ancient rhythm we've perfected in our weeks together. His hands roam my back, my sides, cupping my breasts with exquisite gentleness.

"Mine," he murmurs against my lips, the possessiveness that once frightened me now a comfort, a certainty in an uncertain world. "All mine."

"Yours," I agree, the word catching on a gasp as he shifts slightly, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. "Always yours."

We move together like that, slowly, deeply, a joining more profound than mere bodies. I feel him everywhere—in my blood, my bones, my soul. This man, this scarred and beautiful man who stole me from my life and gave me a better one in return.

"I love you," he says, the words still new on his tongue but gaining confidence each time. "God, Amber, I love you so much."

The declaration pushes me over the edge. I shatter around him, crying out his name as pleasure courses through me in waves. He follows immediately, his release triggered by mine, his hands gripping my hips as he spills himself deep inside me.

For long moments after, we remain joined, my forehead resting against his, our breathing slowly returning to normal. I can feel his heart beating against mine, strong and steady despite everything it's endured.

"Are you okay?" I ask eventually, worried about his injuries. "Did I hurt you?"

He laughs, a soft, genuine sound that warms me from within. "The opposite," he assures me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You've healed me."

I ease off him carefully, settling at his side with my head on his shoulder, my hand over his heart. Outside, the snow continues to fall, erasing tracks, covering scars, making everything new.

"I meant what I said," I tell him, tracing idle patterns on his chest, avoiding the worst of the bruising. "I'm never leaving you."

"Even knowing what I am?" he asks, echoing his earlier question. "What I've done?"

I prop myself up to look at him, making sure he sees the certainty in my eyes.

"I know exactly who you are, Cullen Blackwood.

You're the man who kidnapped me and then saved me.

Who showed me what it means to be truly seen, truly wanted.

" I smile, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "You're my husband.

My home. The love I dreamed of before I knew what love was. "

He pulls me closer, his strength returning, his body warm and solid against mine. "I'll spend the rest of my life being worthy of that," he promises. "Of you."

"You already are," I whisper, settling against him as sleep begins to claim us both. "You always were."

As I drift off in his arms, I think of the strange path that brought me here—from frightened captive to beloved wife, from my father's controlled daughter to my own woman. It wasn't the life I expected, but it's the one I was always meant to have.

With this man. This love that will last a lifetime.