Page 9 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

seven

. . .

Amber

The third vase of freshly cut roses finds its home on the writing desk in the east wing.

Strange how quickly this massive stone prison has become home—my home.

Three weeks of marriage to Cullen Blackwood, and I've already marked my territory in a hundred small ways: throw pillows softening the hard edges of antique furniture, candles warming the cold corners, and flowers—always flowers—bringing life to rooms that have been dead for too long.

Like the man himself, this house needs someone to remember it was meant for living.

I step back to admire my work. The roses are from Cullen's garden, deep crimson blooms that seemed wasted outside where no one sees them.

When I first cut them, he watched me with that unreadable expression, saying nothing as I gathered them in my arms. Only later did I find the silver shears left on my dressing table—sharp, expensive, clearly new.

A gift without the vulnerability of giving it directly. That's Cullen in a nutshell.

He's full of these small gestures now—wordless permissions, silent encouragements. A book left casually on my pillow. Kitchen cupboards rearranged to accommodate my shorter reach. The temperature of the entire house raised three degrees without comment after I mentioned being cold one evening.

Each tiny concession feels like a victory, a crack in the walls he's built so high.

I adjust a bloom that's drooping, careful of the thorns. My wedding ring catches the light, still strange and wonderful on my finger. How did I get here? From prisoner to wife in less than two weeks, and now playing lady of the manor as if I've always belonged.

Stockholm Syndrome, my rational mind whispers.

But my heart knows better. This isn't pathology; it's recognition.

I've known him all my life in dreams. Now I'm learning him in reality—the way his mouth quirks up at one corner when he's amused but trying to hide it, the gentleness of his massive hands when he touches me, the nightmares that still wake him gasping in the dark.

My latest project waits in the kitchen—a stew simmering in the ancient crockpot I unearthed from a pantry cabinet.

It's my mother's recipe, one of the few things I have from her besides faded photographs and whispered childhood memories.

Cullen has a private chef who delivers meals twice weekly, but there's something impersonal about the sterile containers stacked in the refrigerator.

Today, I want him to come home to something made by my hands, something that smells like comfort.

I've been cooking more often lately, gradually taking over the kitchen as if it were my right. Cullen watches me with that same intensity he brings to everything, but he never interferes. Just eats what I place before him with such focused attention that it makes me blush.

The grandfather clock in the hall strikes four.

He'll be back soon from whatever mysterious business occupies his days.

He never tells me where he goes or what he does, and I've learned not to ask.

Some doors remain firmly closed between us, and my father's name is written across them in invisible ink.

I hurry to our bedroom—our bedroom, not just his now—to change.

The massive space has transformed under my touch, the severe masculine lines softened with throw blankets and decorative pillows.

Photographs in silver frames now grace the mantel—wedding pictures mostly, hastily taken but treasured.

I've hung gauzy curtains that filter the light without blocking it, bringing airiness to a room that once felt like a tomb.

Cullen grumbled about the changes at first. "I can't find anything now," he complained one morning, searching for cufflinks that had been moved to make room for my jewelry box.

"That's because you never had anything to find before," I teased back, earning a scowl that lacked any real heat.

The next day, he installed a larger dresser with separate drawers for each of us, and I knew I'd won a small battle in our unspoken war.

I slip into a simple dress—nothing fancy, but nicer than the jeans and sweaters I've been living in. A touch of mascara, a dab of the perfume I found on my vanity last week (another wordless gift), and I'm ready.

Back in the kitchen, I check the stew, add a pinch more salt, and set the small table by the window rather than the formal dining room. Intimacy over formality, that's my strategy with Cullen. Break down the barriers bit by bit until he forgets they were ever there.

The sound of the front door opening sends a flutter through my stomach. His footsteps in the hall are distinctive—heavy, measured, impossible to miss. I smooth my dress, suddenly nervous.

"Amber?" His voice echoes through the house, and there's something in the way he says my name that still makes my heart skip.

"In the kitchen," I call back, lighting the candles I've placed on the table.

He appears in the doorway, filling it with his presence.

No matter how often I see him, his sheer size still takes my breath away—six-foot-seven of solid muscle, broad shoulders straining against his black button-down, strong jaw now clean-shaven at my request. His eyes scan the room, taking in the set table, the candles, me.

"What's all this?" he asks, voice gruff but not displeased.

"Dinner," I say simply. "I thought we could eat here tonight. It's cozier."

He steps inside, setting down his keys and wallet in the spot I've designated for them. Another small victory—he's learning my systems without complaint.

"It smells good." He comes closer, bending to press a kiss to my hair—another new habit, these casual affections that seem to surprise him as much as they delight me.

"My mother's recipe," I explain, stirring the pot one last time. "Beef stew with rosemary and red wine."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps even a touch of emotion. "You've never mentioned your mother before."

I shrug, suddenly shy. "There isn't much to tell. She died when I was young. But I remember her cooking. It's one of the few things I have from her."

His large hand comes to rest on my shoulder, a gesture of comfort that speaks volumes from a man so sparing with words. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

The simple acknowledgment brings a lump to my throat. "Go wash up. It's ready when you are."

He obeys, another small miracle. Cullen Blackwood, bending to another's will without argument. When he returns, I have the food served, wine poured into the crystal glasses I found gathering dust in a cabinet.

We eat in companionable silence at first, the stew filling the kitchen with savory warmth.

Outside, dusk settles over the mountains surrounding our isolated home.

I still haven't left the property since arriving as a prisoner, but somehow the confinement chafes less now.

Maybe because the prison has grown larger—from one room to an entire house and grounds.

Or maybe because my jailer has become something else entirely.

"How was your day?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He looks up from his food, a flash of surprise crossing his features. Such a normal question, so domestic. "Productive," he answers after a pause. "And yours?"

"I found more of your family photographs in the attic," I tell him. "Your grandmother was beautiful."

His eyes sharpen. "You've been in the attic?"

"I've been everywhere," I admit without apology. "This is my home too now, isn't it?"

For a moment, I think I've pushed too far. Then his expression softens, the harsh lines around his mouth easing. "Yes. It is."

We finish dinner, and I clear the plates despite his offer to help. "Go start the fire," I tell him instead. "I'll bring coffee in a minute."

Another domestic scene, so ordinary it almost makes me laugh. The feared Cullen Blackwood, obediently building a fire while his wife brings after-dinner coffee. Who would believe it?

When I join him in the library—my favorite room in the house with its towering shelves and comfortable chairs—he's standing before the fireplace, staring into the flames. The flickering light casts shadows across his face, highlighting the strong lines of his profile.

"Here," I say, handing him a mug of coffee, prepared exactly as he likes it—black, with a single sugar.

His fingers brush mine as he takes it, and I feel that spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts me nonetheless. Even after three weeks of marriage, three weeks of sharing his bed, his touch still affects me like a live wire.

"Thank you for dinner," he says, his voice rumbling low in his chest. "It was... nice."

From anyone else, it would be faint praise. From Cullen, it's practically a sonnet.

"You're welcome." I settle into my usual chair, tucking my feet beneath me. "I thought maybe tomorrow we could eat in the dining room. Light the chandelier. Make it an occasion."

He watches me over the rim of his mug. "What's the occasion?"

"Being alive," I say simply. "Being here. Together."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability he rarely allows himself to show. "Amber..."

"What?" I meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away from whatever emotion he's struggling with.

He shakes his head slightly. "You've changed things."

"The house needed it," I say, though we both know he's not just talking about the décor.

"Not just the house." He sets down his mug and crosses to the window, staring out at the darkness. His broad back is tense, shoulders rigid beneath his shirt.

I uncurl from my chair and follow him, drawn by the rare admission of feeling. Standing behind him, I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his back. He stiffens for a moment, then relaxes into my embrace—another small victory.

"Is that so terrible?" I ask softly. "The changes?"

His hands come up to cover mine where they rest against his stomach. "It should be," he admits, voice so low I barely catch it. "I didn't want this. Any of it."

"And now?"

He turns in my arms, looking down at me with those winter-gray eyes that have haunted my dreams for years. "Now I can't imagine anything else."

The admission costs him; I can see it in the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw clenches. Cullen Blackwood, admitting weakness. Admitting need.

"Come sit with me," I say, taking his hand and leading him to his favorite chair, a massive leather monstrosity that fits his frame perfectly.

He allows himself to be guided, settling into the chair with a questioning look. Before he can ask what I'm doing, I climb into his lap, curling against his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. Despite our size difference, despite how we came to be here, my body recognizes its place against his. I fit perfectly in the space he makes for me, my head tucked under his chin, his arms coming around me automatically.

"What are you doing?" he asks, but his arms tighten, betraying his words.

"Getting comfortable with my husband," I say, the word still new and thrilling on my tongue. "Is that allowed?"

His breath catches at the word—husband—as if he's still not used to hearing it. "Amber..."

I twist in his lap to look up at him, finding his eyes darker than usual, pupils expanded in the firelight. "What, husband?" I say again, testing the power of the word.

His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my lower lip with exquisite gentleness. "You shouldn't be able to look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something good. Something worth loving." Raw honesty, rare as diamonds from this man.

My heart twists at the pain behind his words. I turn my face to press a kiss into his palm. "You are to me."

A shadow crosses his features. "You don't know everything I've done. Everything I still plan to do."

My father hangs unspoken between us, the debt Cullen still believes must be paid. I could push, could demand answers about his plans, but instead I choose another path.

"I know enough," I tell him, shifting to straddle his lap, bringing us face to face.

"I know you've never hurt me, even when you could have.

I know you're gentle with things that are smaller than you—me, the chickens, the wild rabbits in the garden.

" I cup his face between my hands, holding his gaze.

"I know you call out in your sleep sometimes, and it's not just anger in your voice, but grief. "

He tries to turn away, but I hold him fast—not with strength, which would be useless against him, but with tenderness, which he has no defense against.

"Look at me, husband," I insist, and his eyes return to mine, dark with emotions he won't name. "Whatever you've done, whatever you still think you need to do—it doesn't change what's between us."

"And what is that?" he challenges, voice rough with feeling.

I could say love. It would be true, at least for me. But he's not ready to hear that word, not ready to believe it. Instead, I lean forward and press my lips to his, pouring everything I feel into the kiss.

He responds instantly, one hand tangling in my hair, the other spanning my lower back to pull me closer. There's desperation in the way he kisses me, like a drowning man finding air. I meet it with my own hunger, opening to him completely.

When we break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against his. "That," I whisper. "That's what's between us. And nothing—not the past, not my father, not your revenge—can take it away."

His arms tighten around me, almost painfully, before he buries his face in my neck. I hold him, feeling the shudder that runs through his massive frame. Not crying—Cullen Blackwood doesn't cry—but something close to it. A breaking. A surrender.

"Amber," he breathes against my skin, my name a prayer on his lips.

"I'm here," I promise, running my fingers through his hair, holding him as he would never allow anyone else to hold him—vulnerable, exposed, human. "I'm right here, husband."

We stay that way for a long time, wrapped in each other as the fire burns low. Outside, snow begins to fall, the first of the season, blanketing the world in silence. And inside, in the circle of my husband's arms, I feel his heart softening beneath my touch, one beat at a time.