Page 6 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

five

. . .

Amber

I trace my lips for the hundredth time since morning, still feeling the ghost of Cullen's kisses.

I should be horrified at myself—developing feelings for my kidnapper, responding to his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

Stockholm Syndrome, that's what they'd call it.

But this doesn't feel like a syndrome or a sickness.

It feels like recognition. Like finding a missing piece of myself in the most unexpected place.

I press my forehead against the cool window glass and watch storm clouds gather on the horizon, wondering if they're an omen or just weather.

After last night's... episode in the library, Cullen disappeared.

I woke alone in my bed, still wearing his flannel shirt, the memory of his hands on me so vivid I blushed in the empty room.

He didn't bring breakfast as usual. Instead, a tray appeared outside my door—delivered, I assume, during my shower. Avoidance, clear as day.

Now it's afternoon, and I'm pacing my luxurious prison, wondering what happens next. Do we pretend it never happened? Do we talk about it like adults? Do I even want to talk about the fact that I nearly gave myself completely to the man who kidnapped me?

A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. Three precise taps—Cullen's signature.

"Come in," I call, quickly smoothing my hair, annoyed at myself for caring how I look.

The door opens, and there he is—tall and forbidding in his customary black, but something's different. He's clean-shaven for the first time since I've been here, hair neatly combed, a strange tension in his broad shoulders. He looks... formal. Controlled.

"Amber." Just my name, but it carries weight.

"Cullen." I match his tone, unsure where we stand.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds deafening in the silence between us. I notice he's carrying something—a small wooden box clutched in one large hand.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, the mundane question almost comical after what happened between us.

"Fine," I lie. In truth, I barely slept, my body humming with remembered touches, my mind a battlefield of confusion. "You?"

"No." His honesty catches me off guard. He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting its neat arrangement. "I need to talk to you about something."

My heart lurches. Here it comes—regret, apology, boundaries. He's going to tell me it was a mistake, that I'm still just a prisoner, that whatever sparked between us needs to be extinguished.

"Your father has discovered where you are," he says instead, and the words take a moment to register.

"My father? How?"

Cullen's jaw tightens. "He has resources. People he pays to find things—and people—he wants."

A flicker of dread ignites in my stomach. "Is he coming here?"

"He's trying. My security is... robust, but he's persistent." Cullen paces to the window, his reflection superimposed over the darkening sky outside. "Things are going to change, Amber. They have to."

"What do you mean?" I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold.

He turns back to me, and there's something in his eyes I've never seen before—uncertainty.

"I've been thinking about our situation. About what happens next." His voice drops lower. "About last night."

Heat rushes to my face. So we are going to talk about it.

"This wasn't part of my plan," he continues, a rough edge to his words. "You weren't supposed to be... you. You were supposed to be a means to an end. Leverage."

"And now?" I barely breathe the question.

His eyes lock with mine, winter-gray and burning. "Now I can't bear the thought of letting you go."

The admission hangs between us, dangerous and thrilling. I should be terrified. This is my kidnapper declaring his intent to keep me. Instead, something warm unfurls in my chest.

"Cullen—"

"I'm giving you a choice," he interrupts, crossing the room until he stands before me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Two options."

My breath catches at his proximity, at the intensity radiating from him. "What options?"

"The first is that you remain as you are—my prisoner. Comfortable, safe, but not free." He speaks clinically, as if reciting terms from a contract, but his eyes betray him—they're alive with barely contained emotion. "The second..."

He hesitates, and I realize with a start that Cullen Blackwood, this mountain of a man who radiates danger and power, is nervous.

"The second?" I prompt, my voice barely a whisper.

In a movement that steals my breath, he drops to one knee before me, the wooden box now open in his palm. Inside sits a ring—an antique piece with a center diamond surrounded by sapphires that match my eyes almost exactly.

"The second is that you become my wife."

The world seems to tilt on its axis. I stare at him, certain I've misheard. "Your... what?"

"My wife." His voice is stronger now, more certain. "Legally. Permanently."

I step back, my knees hitting the edge of the bed. This can't be happening. It's too absurd, too impossible.

"You want to marry me?" I sound dazed even to my own ears. "Why? As part of your revenge against my father?"

Something like pain flashes across his features. "No. That's not why."

"Then why?" My voice rises. "You kidnapped me a week ago, Cullen. This is—this is insanity."

"Yes." He doesn't deny it. "By any normal standard, it's insane."

"So why?—"

"Because I can't stop thinking about you.

" The words burst from him, raw and honest. "Because when you say my name, it doesn't sound like something dirty.

Because when you look at me, I don't feel like a monster.

" He takes a ragged breath. "Because I've been drowning in hate for fifteen years, and you're the first breath of air I've found. "

My heart thunders against my ribs. This isn't happening. This isn't real.

"I'm your prisoner," I remind him, my voice shaking. "This is Stockholm Syndrome. This is?—"

"This is more." He rises to his feet, towering over me again. "You know it is. You've dreamed of me, Amber. Just as I've dreamed of you, though I didn't know it was you I was waiting for."

The mention of my dreams pierces me. How many nights had I woken gasping, haunted by gray eyes and gentle hands? How many times had I drawn his face, only to hide the sketches from Daddy, who would never understand?

"It's not possible," I whisper, more to myself than to him.

"Isn't it?" He steps closer, and I don't back away. "You recognized me from the moment you saw me. I felt it—the shock, the familiarity. As if you'd been waiting."

"I was afraid of you."

"Yes. And still, you looked at me like you knew me." His hand rises, not quite touching my face. "Like you'd always known me."

I want to deny it, but the truth burns in my throat. I had known him. Somehow, impossibly, I had.

"I'm not offering fairytales," he continues, his voice dropping to a rumble that I feel in my bones. "I'm a hard man. Damaged. But with you..." His fingers finally make contact, brushing my cheek with exquisite gentleness. "With you, I remember what it was to feel something besides rage."

I lean into his touch, unable to help myself. "What would this marriage mean? Would I be free to leave?"

His hand stills. "No."

At least he's honest. "Then how is it different from being your prisoner?"

"You would be my wife, not my captive. This would be your home, not your cell." His thumb traces my lower lip, and my breath hitches. "You would share my bed, my name, my life."

The image his words conjure sends heat spiraling through me—nights in his arms, days by his side. It's terrifying and tempting in equal measure.

"And my father?" I force myself to ask. "Your revenge?"

Something dark flashes across his face. "That's between him and me. You don't have to be part of it."

"But I am part of it. I'm his daughter."

"You're more than that." His voice roughens. "You're mine now. Or you could be."

The possessiveness in his tone should repel me. Instead, it sends a shiver of want down my spine that I can't disguise.

"This is crazy," I whisper, but I'm looking at the ring in his hand, at the way the stones catch the fading light.

"I know." There's a hint of a smile now, grim but real. "Say yes anyway."

I close my eyes, trying to think clearly through the fog of confusion and desire. Marry Cullen Blackwood. Become the wife of the man who kidnapped me, who still holds me prisoner, who threatens my father with unknown consequences. It's madness. It's wrong on every level.

And yet...

"What if I say no?" I ask, opening my eyes to find him watching me with that intense gaze.

"Then nothing changes. You stay as you are—safe, provided for, but not free." His voice is steady, but I see the tension in his jaw. "I won't force this on you, Amber. It has to be your choice."

Choice . Such a small word for such an impossible decision. Stay a prisoner with no future, or become the wife of a man I barely know but somehow recognize to the core of my being.

"If I say yes," I begin slowly, "I want promises."

His eyebrows lift, surprise and something like admiration crossing his features. "What promises?"

"That you'll never hurt me." I hold his gaze. "That you'll be honest with me, always. That whatever is between you and my father, you'll find a way to resolve it that doesn't destroy either of you."

He considers this, his expression unreadable. "I will never hurt you. That I can promise without reservation. The rest..." He sighs. "I will try, Amber. That's all I can say. I will try."

It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough. And yet, looking into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability he's showing me and no one else, I believe him.

"Ask me properly," I say, the words emerging before I can think better of them.

Confusion flickers across his face. "What?"

"If you want me to marry you, ask me properly." I straighten my spine, finding a strength I didn't know I possessed. "Not as a jailer offering terms to a prisoner. As a man asking a woman to be his wife."

For a moment, I think he'll refuse, retreat behind the walls that have protected him for so long. Instead, he drops to one knee again, but this time takes my hand in his much larger one.

"Amber Lockhart," he says, his voice dropping to that low rumble that makes my insides flutter, "from the moment I saw you, something in me changed.

Something I thought was dead forever came back to life.

" His thumb strokes over my knuckles. "I don't deserve you.

I probably never will. But if you'll have me, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to become worthy of you.

" His eyes, usually so cold, burn with an intensity that steals my breath.

"Will you marry me? Be my redemption, my salvation, my wife? "

Tears prick at my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome. This is insane. This man kidnapped me, holds me prisoner, threatens my father. And yet, looking into those eyes that have haunted my dreams for years, I can't make myself say no.

"Yes," I whisper, and the word feels like fate, like destiny, like falling off a cliff and finding I can fly. "God help me, yes."

Relief and something wilder flash across his face. Without warning, he rises and pulls me into his arms, lifting me clean off the floor. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's both tender and possessive, a claiming and a promise.

When he sets me down, he takes the ring from its box and slides it onto my finger. It fits perfectly, as if made for me. Perhaps it was.

"My wife," he murmurs, lifting my hand to press a kiss to the ring, to my palm, to the inside of my wrist where my pulse races. "Mine."

"Yours," I agree, and the word feels like surrender and victory all at once. "God help us both."

Outside, thunder rumbles as the storm finally breaks, rain lashing against the windows.

I'm not sure if it's an omen or just weather.

All I know is that I've just agreed to marry my kidnapper, and instead of terror, all I feel is a strange, wild hope that this madness might somehow lead to happiness.

Cullen's arms tighten around me, and I lean into him, accepting what I can't change, embracing what I've chosen. His prisoner or his bride—perhaps in the end, the difference matters less than the man himself, this scarred, dangerous, beautiful man who looks at me like I'm his salvation.

And perhaps I am.