Page 3 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

three

. . .

Amber

I should hate him. That's what any normal person would do—hate their kidnapper, fear them, plot escape at every turn.

Instead, I find myself watching Cullen Blackwood through my lashes as he silently repairs the hinge on my bathroom door, his massive hands surprisingly gentle with the tiny screwdriver.

There's a concentration to his movements, a care that doesn't match the monster he's supposed to be.

The monster he wants me to believe he is.

Three days I've been here now. Three days of meals delivered by those same hands, of careful distance maintained between us, of questions answered with minimal words. Three days of trying to understand the man who took me from my life and locked me in this beautiful prison.

"It was sticking," he says without looking up, as if he needs to justify his presence in my room. "You mentioned it yesterday."

I had mentioned it, in passing, not expecting him to actually fix it himself. I'd assumed he'd have staff for such things, though I've seen no evidence of anyone else in this massive house except for a glimpse of what must be security patrolling the grounds.

"Thank you," I say, because Daddy raised me to be polite, even to men who kidnap me.

His eyes flick to mine, startled by the gratitude, then quickly return to his work. "Almost done."

I pull my knees to my chest, watching him from my perch on the window seat.

Morning light streams through the glass, catching in his black hair, illuminating the silver at his temples.

He's older than I first thought—late thirties, perhaps.

The lines around his eyes speak of experience, of a life lived hard.

"Did you sleep?" he asks, the question so unexpected I almost miss it.

"Some." It's not a lie. I did sleep, fitfully, my dreams filled with his face, with hands both rough and gentle, with feelings I shouldn't be having for the man who stole me away.

He nods, testing the door. It swings smoothly now, without the squeak that had been driving me crazy. "Good."

An awkward silence falls between us. It should be comfortable, this distance, this detachment.

Instead, I find myself wanting to bridge it, to understand him better.

It's a strange impulse, born perhaps from my isolation, or maybe from the dreams that have haunted me since childhood—dreams of a dark prince with ice-gray eyes who would one day come for me.

"Have you contacted my father yet?" I ask, the question that's been burning in me since I arrived.

Cullen's jaw tightens, his hands stilling on the doorframe. "Yes."

"And?"

"And nothing." He straightens, pocketing the screwdriver. "The first move is his."

I bite my lip, wondering what Daddy is thinking, what he's planning. Is he frantic with worry? Or simply furious that someone has dared to take what's his? I suspect the latter. Richard Lockhart doesn't panic; he calculates.

"What did you tell him?" I press, needing to know.

Cullen's eyes meet mine, a flash of something almost like guilt crossing his features. "That you're safe. That you'll remain safe as long as he follows my instructions."

"Which are?"

"None of your concern." His voice hardens, the brief moment of openness gone.

I should leave it alone. Should be grateful he's at least keeping me comfortable, not harming me. Instead, that stubborn streak Daddy always complained about rises in me.

"It is my concern," I say, uncurling from the window seat to stand. I'm tall for a woman, but next to Cullen, I feel tiny, delicate. "I'm the bargaining chip. I deserve to know what I'm being bargained for."

For a moment, I think I've pushed too far. His face darkens, those large hands flexing at his sides. But then something shifts in his expression—a reluctant respect, perhaps.

"Justice," he says finally. "I want him to admit what he did, publicly. To return what he stole. To face consequences for once in his privileged life."

There's such raw pain in his voice that I can't help but respond to it. "And me? What happens to me when this is over?"

He looks away, and I realize he hasn't thought that far ahead. Or if he has, he doesn't want to tell me.

"You go back to your life," he says, but there's a hesitation that makes me wonder if he's trying to convince himself as much as me.

Before I can press further, he changes the subject. "You've been in this room for three days. Would you like to see more of the house?"

The offer surprises me. "You'd let me out?"

"Not out," he clarifies quickly. "But there's more to see inside. This place has been in my family for generations."

Curiosity wins over caution. "Yes, I'd like that."

He gestures for me to precede him through the door, and for the first time since I woke in this place, I step beyond the confines of my luxurious cell.

The hallway stretches in both directions, lined with paintings and tapestries that must be worth a fortune. The floors are stone, covered in places with antique rugs that muffle our footsteps. It's like walking through a museum, or a castle frozen in time.

"This way," Cullen says, directing me with a hand that hovers near my lower back but doesn't quite touch.

I'm acutely aware of him behind me—his height, his breadth, the heat that seems to radiate from his body. He could overpower me in an instant if he wanted to. Instead, he keeps that careful distance, as if he's as aware of me as I am of him.

We descend a grand staircase to the main floor, where soaring ceilings and massive windows create a sense of openness despite the ancient stone walls. The house is a strange mix of medieval and modern—centuries-old architecture updated with subtle contemporary comforts.

"It's beautiful," I admit, running my fingers along a polished banister. "How long has it been in your family?"

"Since the 1800s. My great-great-grandfather built it." There's pride in his voice, perhaps the first positive emotion I've heard from him. "I spent summers here as a boy."

I try to picture him as a child, running through these grand halls, and can't quite manage it. Cullen Blackwood seems like someone who was born fully formed, scowling and massive.

"And now you live here alone?" I ask, following him through what must be a formal dining room, large enough to seat twenty.

"I prefer solitude."

"No one prefers complete solitude," I counter before I can stop myself.

He glances back at me, one eyebrow raised. "Don't they?"

"No. People need connection. It's human nature."

"Perhaps I'm not entirely human." There's a self-deprecating twist to his mouth that catches me off guard.

"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.

We stay like that for several minutes, feeding chickens in companionable silence.

It's surreal—me and my kidnapper, sharing a peaceful moment with a flock of named hens.

I should be looking for weapons, for escape routes.

Instead, I'm noticing how the sunlight catches in his eyelashes, how his hands look less threatening when they're gentle with small creatures.

"There are rabbits, too," he says eventually, collecting the empty grain container. "Wild ones. They come to the garden at dusk sometimes."

"You don't chase them away? They must eat your vegetables."

He shrugs. "There's enough to share."

The words strike me as significant somehow, revealing a generosity at odds with the man who stole me from my life.

We move on to the vegetable garden, where Cullen shows me tomatoes ripening on the vine, lettuce growing in tidy rows, herbs that fill the air with fragrance when he brushes his fingers across them.

"You grew all this yourself?" I ask, trying to reconcile the image of this large, intimidating man patiently tending seedlings.

"I find it... calming." He plucks a ripe cherry tomato and holds it out to me. "Try it."

I hesitate only a moment before accepting the offering, popping the tiny fruit into my mouth. It bursts with flavor—sweet and tart and nothing like the bland supermarket tomatoes I'm used to.

"Mmm," I murmur, closing my eyes to savor it. When I open them, Cullen is watching me with an expression I can't quite decipher—hunger, but not for food.

He looks away quickly. "There's more to see inside."

The rest of the tour passes in a blur of grand rooms and forgotten corners.

Cullen clearly loves this house, for all its isolation.

He knows every creaking floorboard, every draft, every piece of history embedded in its stones.

As he speaks, his voice loses that hard edge, becoming almost passionate when he describes the craftsmanship of a particular piece of furniture or the story behind a painting.

I find myself drawn to this version of him—the man who names chickens and grows tomatoes and cares about beauty and history. It's confusing, this duality. The man who kidnapped me, who holds me prisoner to punish my father, and the man who carefully repairs door hinges and speaks gently to animals.

By the time we return to my room—my prison—I'm no longer certain what to think. What to feel.

"Thank you," I say as we pause at my door. "For showing me."

He nods, that familiar distance returning to his eyes. "The library is yours to use. And the garden, when I'm with you."

"And the chickens?" I ask, a small smile playing at my lips.

Something in his face softens. "The chickens too."

Our eyes hold for a moment too long, and I feel that same spark from earlier, stronger now. It's not static electricity this time. It's something else—a recognition, a connection that makes no logical sense but feels inevitable somehow.

I think of my dreams—the ones I've had since I was a little girl. Dreams of a dark prince with ice in his eyes and fire in his heart, coming to steal me away from a life that never quite fit. Dreams I've never told anyone about, because who would understand?

"Goodnight, Cullen," I say softly.

"It's still afternoon," he points out, but his voice has roughened again.

"Nevertheless." I slip inside my room, needing distance from the confusion he stirs in me.

As the door closes between us, I press my hand to the wood, imagining I can feel him on the other side, doing the same. My captor. My dark prince. The monster who isn't quite so monstrous after all.

I should be plotting escape. I should be hating him with every fiber of my being.

Instead, I find myself wondering what other secrets Cullen Blackwood is hiding behind those walls he's built so high—and why, despite everything, I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to discover them.