Page 2 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

two

. . .

Cullen

I slam the door behind me and press my forehead against the cold stone wall, breathing like I've run ten miles uphill.

My hands are shaking. My hands, which have broken men twice my size, which have built empires from nothing, which never, ever betray weakness—they're trembling like leaves in a storm because a slip of a girl with honey-blonde hair looked at me and asked my name.

Pathetic. Fifteen years planning this revenge, and I'm coming apart at the first hurdle.

"Get it together, Blackwood," I mutter, pushing away from the wall.

The key to her room feels heavy in my pocket, a tangible reminder of what I've done. What I'm doing. Kidnapping. Imprisonment. The kind of crimes that end with men like me in concrete cells for decades. But justice requires sacrifice, and the legal system failed me long ago.

I stride down the hallway, my footsteps echoing off stone walls that have stood for over a century. This place—this mausoleum of a mansion deep in the northern woods—has been my sanctuary since everything fell apart. Since Richard Lockhart took everything from me and left me for dead.

And now his precious eighteen-year-old daughter is in my house, wearing clothes I provided, breathing air I allow her to breathe.

It should feel like victory. Instead, there's a knot in my chest I can't identify.

I make my way to my study, the one room in this massive house that feels truly mine. Dark paneling, shelves of books I've actually read, a desk that belonged to my grandfather. I pour three fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler and knock it back in one burning swallow.

Her face swims in my vision. Those wide blue eyes. That stubborn lift of her chin when she asked if I was going to hurt her.

I wasn't prepared for her to look like that—so delicate but with steel underneath.

In all my planning, she was just a pawn.

A means to an end. Richard Lockhart's beloved only child, his Achilles' heel.

In the photographs I'd collected, she was pretty in that bland, privileged way of girls who've never known hardship.

Easy to objectify. Easy to use for my purposes.

But in person...

"Fuck." I slam the tumbler down so hard it cracks. I don't care.

The plan was simple. Take the girl. Make Lockhart suffer the way I suffered.

Force him to sign over what he stole from me.

Make him watch as I dismantled his empire brick by brick, the way he dismantled mine.

Then, maybe, let his daughter go—damaged but alive, the way I was left damaged but alive that night fifteen years ago.

My hand rises unconsciously to the scar on my neck. Fifteen years, and I can still feel the bite of the knife, still taste the copper of my own blood, still hear Richard Lockhart's voice: "Nothing personal, Cullen. Just business."

Just business. As if betraying a partner, stealing everything I'd built, and leaving me to bleed out in an alley was nothing more than a footnote in a quarterly report.

I grab the bottle and pour another drink, ignoring the crack spreading through the tumbler. The whiskey burns, but it doesn't touch the cold at my core. Nothing has, not for fifteen years. Not until I saw her standing there with that ridiculous lamp raised like she planned to fight me.

It was supposed to be simple. I took precautions—had her room prepared with everything she might need, made sure the chloroform dose was carefully measured, carried her myself rather than trust any of my men to touch her.

I even found that modest nightgown for her to wear, directing my housekeeper to change her while I waited outside the door.

Everything meticulously planned, except for my own reaction to her.

I expected screaming. Hysteria. Begging. I was prepared for all of that, had rehearsed my cold responses, my intimidation tactics.

I wasn't prepared for her to look at me like she'd been expecting me all her life.

The intercom on my desk buzzes, pulling me from my thoughts. My security chief, checking in.

"Sir, the perimeter is secure. No activity from Lockhart's men yet."

"He doesn't know she's missing," I say, voice rough from the whiskey. "It'll be morning before her father realizes she didn't come home."

And then the real game begins. The panicked calls. The police reports. The dawning horror as he realizes who might have taken his precious girl and why.

"Should we prepare for company tomorrow, then?"

I consider this. Lockhart has resources—private security, connections in law enforcement. Once he figures out I'm behind this, he'll come at me with everything he has.

"Double the guard rotation. No one in or out without my explicit authorization. And make sure our friends in the local police are well compensated for their... discretion."

"Yes, sir."

The intercom goes silent, and I'm left with my thoughts again. With her face in my mind.

I shouldn't go back to her room tonight. I should let her stew in uncertainty, in fear. That was the plan—psychological warfare before I make my demands.

Instead, I find myself in the kitchen, preparing a tray. Soup. Bread. A pot of tea. An apple, sliced the way my mother used to do it for me when I was a boy. My hands move with a will of their own, arranging everything just so.

What the hell am I doing?

I carry the tray upstairs anyway, my boots silent on the thick carpet runner. Outside her door, I pause, listening. No sound of crying. No screams for help. Just silence.

I shift the tray to one hand and unlock the door with the other, expecting to find her huddled on the bed or hiding in the bathroom.

Instead, she's standing by the window, looking out at the night. She's found clothes in the wardrobe—a simple sweater and jeans that are slightly too big on her small frame. Her honey-blonde hair falls in waves down her back, catching the light from the bedside lamp.

She turns when I enter, and there it is again—that flash of recognition in her eyes, like she knows me. Like she's been waiting.

"You came back," she says, and there's no fear in her voice. Just... curiosity.

I kick the door shut behind me, keeping my expression neutral as I set the tray on a small table near the fireplace.

"You need to eat."

She doesn't move from the window. "I'm not hungry."

"I don't care if you're hungry or not. You'll eat."

A flash of that stubbornness again as she lifts her chin. "Or what? You'll force me?"

Something hot and dangerous curls in my gut at her words. "Don't test me, Miss Lockhart."

"Amber," she says, and hearing her name in her own voice does something strange to me. Makes her more real. Less a symbol of my revenge and more... a person. "If I'm going to be your prisoner, you might as well use my name."

I don't respond to that. Can't respond to that. Instead, I gesture to the tray. "Eat."

She hesitates, then crosses the room with a grace that seems unconscious. She sits at the small table, looking up at me with those too-blue eyes.

"Aren't you going to join me?"

The question catches me off guard. I should leave. I have work to do, preparations to make for tomorrow when all hell breaks loose.

Instead, I find myself sitting across from her, the small table between us making me acutely aware of how large I am compared to her. How breakable she looks.

She takes a spoonful of soup, and I watch the movement of her throat as she swallows. Something protective and possessive twists inside me. Mine, a voice whispers in my head. The thought is as unwelcome as it is unexpected.

"You know my father," she says after a moment. Not a question.

"Yes."

"He hurt you." Her eyes flick to my scar.

"Yes."

She takes another spoonful of soup, considering this. "And you think hurting me will hurt him."

"I know it will." My voice comes out harder than I intend. "You're the only thing in this world that matters to Richard Lockhart."

A shadow passes over her face, something complicated and pained. "You're wrong about that."

"Am I?"

She sets down her spoon, meeting my eyes directly. There's that steel again, shining through her fear. "My father loves his reputation. His legacy. His control. I'm just... an extension of those things."

Her insight surprises me. It doesn't match the image I've built of Lockhart's sheltered, adored daughter.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I say, but there's less conviction in my voice than there should be.

"Don't I?" She laughs, but it's a hollow sound. "Why do you think I was out alone that night? I'd finally stood up to him. Told him I was moving out, getting my own place. He said if I left, I was dead to him." She looks down at her soup. "I guess now I might be."

I shouldn't care about her relationship with her father. It's irrelevant to my plans. And yet, I find myself leaning forward, drawn in by the quiet pain in her voice.

"What happened?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

She looks up, surprise flickering across her delicate features. She wasn't expecting interest from me, just as I wasn't expecting to feel it.

"I graduated college last month. Art history.

" Her fingers trace patterns on the tablecloth.

"I want to work in a museum, maybe teach someday.

Daddy thinks it's a waste of time. He had my life planned out—business school, then a position at his company, eventually taking over when he retires.

" She shakes her head. "But that's his dream, not mine. "

I know this about Lockhart. His obsession with legacy, with control. It was one of the reasons he betrayed me—I wouldn't let him dictate terms, wouldn't bend to his will.

"So you defied him." I can't keep the approval from my voice.

"I tried." She takes a sip of tea. "He cut off my credit cards, froze my bank account. Said if I wanted independence, I could have it completely." Her mouth curves in a wry smile. "I was staying with a friend, looking for a job. That's where I was coming from when you... took me."

I should be glad to hear confirmation that Lockhart is exactly the controlling bastard I know him to be. Instead, I feel an unexpected surge of anger on her behalf.

"And yet you think he'll pay to get you back."

Something flickers in her eyes—hurt, resignation. "Oh, he'll pay. Not because he loves me, but because he can't stand to lose. Especially not to someone who hurt him before."

She's smarter than I gave her credit for. More perceptive. It's... inconvenient.

"Eat your soup before it gets cold," I say, because I can't think of any other response.

She obeys, and we sit in silence for a few minutes. I watch her hands, her face, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear. Each movement feels significant somehow, like I'm memorizing her without meaning to.

"What did he do to you?" she asks finally, setting down her spoon. "To make you hate him so much?"

I should lie. Or better yet, say nothing at all. My vendetta against Richard Lockhart is my business, not hers.

But those eyes are watching me, waiting. And for the first time in fifteen years, I want someone to know my side of the story.

"We were business partners," I say, the words feeling rusty in my mouth. "Built a company together from nothing. I had the vision, the technical skills. He had the connections, the polish." I gesture to myself, to the rough edges I've never bothered to smooth away. "I trusted him."

She nods, encouraging me to continue.

"He set me up. Made it look like I was embezzling funds, stealing client information.

By the time I realized what was happening, he'd turned everyone against me—our board, our investors, even the woman I was going to marry.

" The old pain rises, familiar as breathing.

"I confronted him, and he had his men beat me, cut me, and leave me for dead in an alley. "

I expect to see fear in her eyes at this revelation of violence. Instead, there's something like compassion. It makes me uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," she says softly.

"I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity." She reaches across the table as if to touch my hand, then thinks better of it. "It's recognition. Of pain."

I stand abruptly, needing distance from her and the understanding in her eyes. "Finish your food. I'll be back in the morning."

I turn to leave, but her voice stops me.

"Cullen."

My name in her mouth does something to me, something that resonates in places long dead. I look back at her.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asks, her voice steady despite the question.

"No." The answer comes without thought, instinctive and true. I hadn't realized until this moment that I've never intended to harm her, not really. Use her, yes. Frighten her father through her, absolutely. But hurt her? The thought makes something inside me recoil.

Relief softens her features. "Thank you for telling me the truth."

I nod once, unable to form words around the strange feeling in my chest. Then I leave, locking the door behind me.

In the hallway, I pause, pressing my palm flat against the wood of her door. On the other side is a girl who should mean nothing to me beyond her usefulness as a pawn. A means to an end.

Instead, I find myself wondering what she dreams about, whether she likes the apple slices I prepared, if she'll sleep tonight or lie awake thinking of me the way I know I'll lie awake thinking of her.

This isn't part of the plan. This... softening. This interest. It's dangerous.

But as I force myself to walk away, I know with cold certainty that something in me has already broken—something I thought long dead, stirring to life at the sound of my name on Amber Lockhart's lips.