Page 13 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

Six months later

Cullen

My hands are raw from digging, muscles aching from hauling stone and timber, but I keep working as the late spring sun beats down on my back.

The rose garden is taking shape—a semi-circle of trellises framing the view from our bedroom window, climbing roses in various stages of growth already reaching toward the sky.

Amber will see it when she wakes from her afternoon nap, her first glimpse each morning a riot of blooms meant just for her.

For her and the child growing inside her, the miracle I never thought I'd live to see, much less deserve.

Six months since her father stormed our home, since I chose mercy over vengeance.

Five months since the last of my bruises faded, leaving only the old scars as reminders of a past that seems increasingly distant.

Four months since Amber missed her cycle and looked at me with wide, wondering eyes, a pregnancy test clutched in her trembling hand.

"We're having a baby," she'd whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Cullen, we made a baby."

I'd fallen to my knees before her, pressing my face to her still-flat stomach, overcome by emotions I had no names for.

Terror, joy, disbelief, gratitude—all of it crashing through me in waves that left me speechless.

My hands, so capable of violence, had somehow created life instead.

My seed, planted in the woman I'd kidnapped and then married, had taken root and grown into something precious beyond measure.

Now, as I drive another post into the ground for the final trellis, I glance up at our bedroom window.

The curtains stir slightly—she's awake, watching me.

I can almost see her there, honey-gold hair tumbling around her shoulders, one hand resting on the swell of her belly where our son or daughter grows.

We decided not to learn the sex, wanting that final surprise.

But in my dreams, it's a little girl with Amber's blue eyes and stubborn chin, or a boy with her gentle heart and endless capacity for forgiveness.

I secure the post, testing its strength with a hard shake. It needs to last—this garden, this home, this legacy I'm building for them. Everything I do now is for the long term, for a future I once couldn't imagine beyond the next step in my revenge.

Richard Lockhart has kept his distance since that day, though his shadow still falls across our lives occasionally.

He sent a baby gift last month—an obscenely expensive silver rattle that Amber politely acknowledged but tucked away in a drawer.

I know she writes to him sometimes, brief letters that maintain connection without invitation.

It's more than I would give him, but I've learned to trust her judgment, her capacity to hold complicated truths about the people she loves.

And somehow, impossibly, I am among those people.

The sound of the back door opening draws my attention.

Amber steps outside, one hand supporting her lower back, the other shielding her eyes from the sun.

She's wearing one of my t-shirts, stretched over her rounded belly, and loose cotton pants that ride low beneath the bump.

Her hair is tousled from sleep, her cheeks flushed, and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"You're supposed to be resting," I call to her, setting down my shovel and moving to meet her halfway across the lawn.

"I was," she answers, smiling up at me as I reach her. "But someone was kicking my ribs like they're training for the World Cup, and I smelled fresh dirt. Couldn't resist coming to see what you're up to."

I rest one hand on her belly, rewarded immediately by a decisive kick against my palm. "Already strong," I murmur, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "Like their mother."

"Like both their parents," she corrects, covering my hand with hers. Her wedding ring catches the sunlight, a flash of gold against her skin. "What are you building out here? You've been secretive for weeks."

I step aside, allowing her to see the garden taking shape beyond me. "For you," I say simply. "For our family."

Her eyes widen as she takes in the curved row of trellises, the carefully planted roses, the stone path leading from our back door. "Cullen," she breathes, moving closer to examine my work. "It's beautiful."

"It will be," I qualify, seeing not what is but what will be. "Once the roses climb. They'll frame the view from our bedroom. Every morning when you wake up."

She turns to me, those blue eyes swimming with tears that come easily these days, her emotions closer to the surface with pregnancy. "You did this for me?"

"Everything I do is for you now." The admission comes easily, no longer a surrender but a simple truth. "For you and the baby."

She reaches up to touch my face, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw with familiar tenderness. "You're going to be such an amazing father."

The words hit something tender in me, something still raw despite months of her gentle assurances. "I hope so." I cover her hand with mine, turning to press a kiss to her palm. "I don't exactly have the best example to follow."

"Neither do I," she reminds me with a wry smile. "But we'll figure it out together."

Together. Such a simple word for such a profound change in my life. Before Amber, I lived in isolation, building walls around my pain, nurturing my vengeance like a poison flower. Now I'm building a garden, a home, a family—creating space for life instead of dwelling on what was taken from me.

"Come see what I've done so far," I say, guiding her carefully along the new stone path. Her balance has shifted with pregnancy, making her more cautious on uneven ground. "I've put in drip irrigation, so the roses will thrive even when we're busy with the baby."

"Always thinking ahead." She squeezes my hand, letting me lead her through the garden. "Planning for our future."

Our future. Another concept that would have been foreign to me a year ago, when the only future I imagined was the moment I would finally destroy Richard Lockhart.

I show her the different varieties of roses I've chosen—deep crimson, pale pink, creamy white, even a rare lavender hybrid I had imported from France. Their scents mingle in the warm air, sweet and heady.

"They'll bloom at different times throughout the season," I explain, watching her face light up as she examines each plant. "So there will always be flowers for you to see."

"It's perfect," she says, turning to me with such naked love in her eyes that it still staggers me. "You're perfect."

I shake my head at that. "Far from it."

"Perfect for me," she insists, taking my dirt-streaked hands in hers. "The perfect father for our child. The perfect husband I didn't know I needed."

Husband. Father. Roles I never thought I'd claim, identities that still feel new and fragile compared to the hardened shell of hatred I wore for so long.

"Do you ever regret it?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. "How we started? What I did?"

Her head tilts, considering the question with the seriousness it deserves.

"I regret the pain you suffered," she says finally.

"I regret that my father hurt you badly enough that you felt you had to hurt him back through me.

" Her hands tighten on mine. "But I don't regret where we've ended up. I don't regret us."

"Even knowing what I was capable of? What I almost did to your father?"

"But didn't do," she reminds me gently. "That's what matters, Cullen. Not what we're capable of in our darkest moments, but what we choose in the end."

I pull her carefully against me, mindful of her belly between us. "How did you get so wise?" I murmur into her hair.

"I married a complicated man," she says, smile evident in her voice. "Had to learn fast."

We stand like that for a long moment, surrounded by the garden I'm building for her, the scent of earth and roses mingling with the sweet smell of her skin. Inside her, our child shifts, a nudge against my stomach where we're pressed together.

"Oh," Amber gasps, placing a hand on her belly. "Feel that? Someone's doing somersaults."

I drop to my knees before her, placing both hands on the swell of her stomach, feeling the movements within. Each kick, each roll is a miracle I still can't quite believe I had any part in creating.

"Hello, little one," I say, voice dropping to a gentleness I never knew I possessed before Amber. "Are you dancing in there? Showing off for your parents?"

Another kick, right against my palm, as if in answer. Amber laughs, running her fingers through my hair as I commune with our unborn child.

"I think they know your voice," she says. "They always get more active when you talk."

Pride swells in my chest, fierce and protective. This child, this innocent life we've created, will never know the pain I knew. Will never feel abandoned or betrayed or consumed by hatred. I'll make sure of it.

"I love you," I tell the bump, then look up at Amber, the words coming easier each time I say them. "Both of you. More than I knew was possible."

She smiles down at me, radiant in the afternoon light. "We love you too. So much."

I stand, drawing her into my arms again, overwhelmed by the simple perfection of this moment. Six months ago, I was a man defined by vengeance, by pain so old it had become part of my identity. Now I'm a husband. A soon-to-be father. A man with soil under his nails instead of blood.

"Are you happy?" Amber asks, searching my face with those perceptive eyes that see too much, too clearly.

"Yes," I answer without hesitation, surprising myself with the truth of it. "Happier than I deserve to be."

"That's the last time I want to hear you say that," she says, sudden fierceness in her tone.

"That you don't deserve this. Deserve us.

" Her hands frame my face, forcing me to meet her gaze.

"You deserve every bit of happiness, Cullen Blackwood.

Every moment of joy. Every blessing that comes your way. "

"Amber—"

"No." She cuts me off with uncharacteristic sharpness.

"Listen to me. The past is done. The man you were—the man shaped by pain and betrayal—he's not gone, but he's not all of you anymore.

" Her expression softens, thumb stroking over my cheekbone.

"You're my husband. The father of my child.

The man who builds rose gardens and feeds chickens and holds me like I'm the most precious thing in the world. "

"You are," I murmur, turning to press a kiss to her palm.

"So are you," she insists. "To me. To our baby. You are everything, Cullen. And I need you to believe that you deserve this life we're building. This love. This family."

Looking into her eyes, feeling the conviction in her words, the strength of her love, I find I finally can believe it. Not because I've atoned for my sins or balanced some cosmic scale, but because she sees goodness in me, and I trust her vision more than my own.

"I believe you," I say simply, and it feels like setting down a burden I've carried too long. "I'll try to see myself as you see me."

Her smile is worth every moment of doubt, every struggle to redefine myself beyond the man shaped by Richard Lockhart's betrayal.

"Good," she says, rising on tiptoe to press a kiss to my lips. "Because that's how our child will see you too. As their father. Their protector. Their hero."

Hero. The word should feel false, applied to a man who once kidnapped a young woman to punish her father. Instead, it feels like a promise I can strive to fulfill—not a declaration of what I am, but of what I'm becoming.

"Come inside," Amber says, tugging gently at my hand. "You've worked enough for today. I want my husband to hold me while this little acrobat does their daily workout."

I allow her to lead me back toward the house, this home she's transformed with her presence. Behind us, the rose garden waits in silent promise, buds preparing to open, vines ready to climb. Ahead of us, a future brighter than any I dared imagine when hate was my only companion.

As we cross the threshold, Amber's hand in mine, our child moving between us, I finally let myself believe what she's been telling me all along: this is where I belong.

This is what I deserve. This woman, this child, this life rising from the ashes of my revenge—it's mine.

All mine. And for the first time in my life, that possessiveness feels not like a claim staked in fear, but like a gift received in gratitude.

My wife. My child. My forever. My family.