Page 4 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

four

. . .

Cullen

I haven't slept in days. Not since she laughed in the garden, her face tilted toward the sun like she wasn't a prisoner, like the world wasn't a cesspool of betrayal and pain.

That laugh keeps echoing in my head, crowding out the vengeance that's sustained me for fifteen years.

I pace my study like a caged animal, phone clutched in my hand.

Richard Lockhart's latest message glows on the screen: "Whatever you want, name your price.

Just don't hurt her." As if she could be reduced to a transaction.

As if I would ever harm a single honey-gold hair on her head.

I toss the phone onto my desk and rub a hand over my face, feeling the stubble that's grown beyond its usual maintenance. I look like hell. Feel like it too.

This isn't going according to plan. Lockhart was supposed to panic, to crumble, to agree to my demands immediately. Instead, he's stalling—asking for proof of life, trying to negotiate terms, playing for time while he undoubtedly works every angle to find her. To find me.

But that's not what's keeping me awake. It's her. Amber. The way she looked at the chickens like they were the most fascinating creatures on earth. The way she trails her fingers along book spines like they're old friends. The way she says my name—Cullen—like it doesn't hurt to look at me.

It's been a week since I took her. A week of careful distance and growing obsession. I tell myself it's the isolation, the years of solitude making me vulnerable to the first bit of softness that's entered my life in over a decade. But I know it's more than that. It's her.

I should end this now. Call Lockhart, make my final demands, get what I'm owed, and let her go. Before I do something I can't take back.

Instead, I find myself leaving my study, feet carrying me toward the library where she's spent most of her afternoons since I showed it to her. It's nearly midnight. She should be in her room, asleep. But I heard movement earlier, the soft creak of the library door that needs oiling.

I tell myself I'm just checking on her. Making sure my prisoner is secure. It's a lie so transparent I don't even try to believe it.

The library is mostly dark when I enter, just a single lamp burning near the fireplace where a small blaze still flickers. And there she is, curled in my favorite chair, a book open in her lap.

She's wearing my shirt.

My breath catches in my throat. It's an old flannel I left draped over a chair days ago, black and red plaid, soft from years of wear.

On me, it's just a shirt. On her, it's a goddamn revelation—hanging to mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up multiple times to free her delicate hands, collar gaping to reveal the elegant line of her collarbone.

She hasn't noticed me yet, absorbed in her book, and I take a moment to just..

. look at her. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, gleaming gold in the firelight.

Her legs are tucked under her, bare from mid-thigh down, skin like cream in the warm light.

She looks... comfortable. At home. As if she belongs here, in my chair, in my shirt, in my life.

The thought hits me like a physical blow. Mine.

She must sense my presence because she looks up suddenly, eyes widening when she sees me standing in the shadows.

"Cullen," she says, and there it is again—my name without fear. "I didn't hear you come in."

"It's late," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "You should be in bed."

She marks her place in the book— Wuthering Heights , I note absently—and sets it aside. "I couldn't sleep."

"So you decided to steal my shirt?" The words come out with an edge that makes her cheeks flush.

"I was cold," she says, fidgeting with the too-long sleeve. "I found it on the chair. I should have asked, I'm sorry?—"

"Keep it." The possessive part of me—the part that's growing stronger by the day—loves seeing her in my clothes. Marked by me in some small way. "It looks better on you anyway."

Her blush deepens, highlighting the delicate structure of her cheekbones. "Thank you."

I should leave. Turn around and walk out before I do something stupid. Instead, I find myself moving closer, drawn to her like a meteor pulled into orbit.

"What are you reading?" I ask, though I already saw the title.

She holds up the book. "Wuthering Heights. Have you read it?"

"Years ago. Heathcliff is a monster."

She tilts her head, considering me with those too-perceptive eyes. "A monster made, not born. Shaped by rejection and cruelty."

"That doesn't excuse what he becomes."

"No," she agrees softly. "But it explains it."

There's a weight to her words that makes me think we're not really talking about Heathcliff anymore. I move to the fireplace, adding another log though it doesn't need it, just to give my hands something to do besides reach for her.

"Why do you live out here all alone?" she asks, watching me from her chair. "Hide from the world?"

The question catches me off guard. No one's asked me that in years. No one's gotten close enough to ask.

"I'm not hiding," I say, though we both know it's a lie. "I prefer solitude."

"So you said before. I still don't believe it." There's that stubborn streak again, the one that keeps surprising me. "No one chooses to be completely alone."

I turn to face her, finding her closer than I expected. She's uncurled from the chair and now stands just feet away, my shirt hanging to her mid-thighs, her hair a golden curtain around her shoulders. She looks like everything I've denied myself, everything I don't deserve.

"I did," I say, and there's a rawness in my voice I can't disguise. "After what your father did—after the company was gone, after Elise left me for him, after I spent months rebuilding what was left of my face—the world made it clear I wasn't welcome in it anymore."

Her eyes widen slightly at the mention of Elise, a detail I hadn't shared before. "My father... took your fiancée?"

I laugh, a harsh sound without humor. "Fiancée, company, reputation, nearly my life. Richard Lockhart is nothing if not thorough."

She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the light floral scent of her hair, see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"Is that why you took me? Because he took someone you loved?"

The question hits too close to home, exposes nerves I thought long dead. "I took you because you're the only thing he cares about. The only way to make him feel a fraction of what I felt."

"And now?" Her voice drops, almost a whisper. "Is that still why I'm here?"

God help me, I don't know anymore. The lines have blurred, my motivations tangled with feelings I never expected to have again.

All I know is that the thought of her leaving—of never seeing her curled in my chair in my shirt, of never hearing her laugh in the garden, of never having her say my name like that again—fills me with cold dread.

"You're here because I'm not finished with your father," I say, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears.

She's looking up at me with those blue eyes, searching my face like she's trying to solve a puzzle.

I'm acutely aware of our size difference—her head barely reaches my chest, her delicate frame dwarfed by my bulk.

I could break her with my hands, the same hands that itch to touch her, to see if her skin is as soft as it looks.

"What about me?" she asks quietly. "Are you finished with me?"

Something snaps inside me—restraint, common sense, whatever thin thread has been holding me back. I close the distance between us in one stride, my hands coming up to frame her face. She gasps, but doesn't pull away.

"I'll never be finished with you," I growl, and then my mouth is on hers.

The kiss is everything I've been denying myself—hot and hard and desperate. I expect her to struggle, to push me away, to remind me that I'm her captor, her enemy, a monster who took her from her life.

Instead, she makes a small, broken sound against my lips and kisses me back.

Her hands come up to clutch at my shirt, not pushing me away but pulling me closer. Her mouth opens under mine, yielding, inviting. She tastes like tea and something sweeter, something uniquely her, and I'm lost in it, drowning in the softness of her lips, the little sounds she makes in her throat.

I lift her easily, one arm around her waist, the other still cradling her face.

Her legs wrap around me instinctively, and Christ, the feel of her against me, warm and soft and perfect, nearly brings me to my knees.

I press her back against the nearest bookshelf, swallowing her gasp as books tumble around us, neither of us caring.

"Cullen," she breathes against my mouth, and my name has never sounded so right, so necessary.

I trail kisses down her throat, drunk on the taste of her skin, the rapid flutter of her pulse under my lips. My shirt—her shirt now—has slipped off one shoulder, exposing the delicate curve to my hungry mouth. I nip at it gently, relishing her shiver.

"You're mine," I murmur against her skin, unable to stop the words, not even sure if I've said them aloud until she responds.

"Yes," she whispers, her fingers threading through my hair, holding me to her as if afraid I'll pull away. "Yes, Cullen."

The sound of my name in that breathless voice nearly undoes me. I reclaim her mouth, kissing her deeply, possessively, trying to brand her with my touch. One of my hands slides under the shirt—my shirt—to find the warm skin of her thigh, and we both groan at the contact.

"So soft," I murmur, amazed that anything in this harsh world could feel so perfect under my rough hands. "I've dreamed of touching you like this."

She arches against me, shameless in her response. "I've dreamed of you too. For years."

The words penetrate the haze of desire, striking something deep in my memory. "What do you mean?"