Her Beast (Beauty and the Captor 1)

“Yes. We. Can,” I said as I pushed off him and sat up. “You put me through hell, and I’ve come out of it stronger. I know myself better than I ever did before and I’ve accepted parts of myself that I never thought I could. And you, you’re not the same person you were when you first walked in that room—and you know it. Maybe it’s crazy—the circumstances that brought us to where we are—but we’re here. I’m not going anywhere without you. And you’re not leaving here without me.”

It was true. It was all true. What he’d done may have been wrong, but would I have gotten to this point without him? And if what he’d put me through meant he could cast off his dark past and live as a whole person again…well, I’d do it all over again if I had to. Because that’s what you did for someone you loved. For the man who had all your heart, you were willing to go to hell and back.

We’d been there, in hell, in the years we’d been apart and in the weeks or months since being thrust together—I really had no idea how much time had passed, now that I thought of it. But we’d been in hell, and now we were walking out of its flames together. Together—whether he was ready to admit he wanted it or not.

He was silent, eyeing me, assessing me. But I wasn’t backing down. Not this time.

Eventually, he leaned up. He didn’t say a word. He held me tight against him and he kissed me. A kiss that was filled with all the things he wasn’t ready to say—maybe he didn’t even know how to say. But he meant them, the emotions he conveyed with his mouth instead of his words.

And that was fine with me because we had more than enough time now—all the time in the world, actually—to learn to say all the things we wanted to say. His kiss told me he was staying, and that was all that mattered.

We would have to go back to hell together, but just for a little while. Just long enough to cover our tracks so that no demons could ever follow us out.

And that’s just what we did. Twenty-four hours later, we stood in front of the blazing wreckage, the funeral pyre of a man who had been a friend, and a father—though he was worthy of neither title.

I still didn’t know how to feel. Neither did Derek, I think. But we would sort it out together. Together—that was all that mattered.

We walked away without a backward glance. I held two thick envelopes tight in my arms. One contained our future—all the documents we would need for our new life. The other held the past—the documents, the list of patrons, pictures—the proof we would mail to the state’s FBI branch. Marcos was dead, and soon, his empire would be too.

And our new life had only just begun.

To be continued…