Page 117 of The Beast's Broken Angel

25

THE BEAST’S REDEMPTION

NOAH

Ifound Adrian in the medical suite, cleaning the gun he'd used to execute Harrison with the same meticulous care I'd use for surgical instruments. The ritual felt heavy with meaning, like washing blood from hands that would never truly be clean.

“The programming doesn't just vanish because he's dead,” I said from the doorway, not quite ready to enter his space yet. The tentative peace between us felt like walking on broken glass, beautiful but treacherous.

He looked up, those mismatched eyes finding mine with an openness that still caught me off guard. “I know. Years of conditioning doesn't disappear with a single bullet.”

It was the first real invitation to conversation since I'd drugged him, since I'd stolen his revenge and saved his life in one desperate moment. I took it, stepping into the room that smelled of antiseptic and gun oil, an oddly fitting combination for what we'd become.

“You should rest,” I offered, defaulting to medical necessitywhen the personal felt too raw. “It's been a long night, and your body's still processing the stress.”

His nod was all the permission I needed. He set the gun aside with careful reverence, then began removing his tactical vest and shirt with movements that were mechanical yet somehow vulnerable. Like he was stripping away armour in more ways than one.

I moved closer, our distance gradually shrinking until I could see the exhaustion etched into every line of his body. The weight of twenty years of programming, of systematic betrayal, of finally facing the architect of his trauma. It showed in the slump of his shoulders, the careful way he held himself.

“How do you feel?” I asked, though I knew the question was inadequate for everything he'd just been through.

“Empty,” Adrian replied after a moment. “I thought killing him would feel different. More... satisfying.”

“Death rarely fixes what we expect it to,” I said softly. “Sometimes it just creates space for healing to start.”

“You're lecturing me about medical compliance?” he asked, voice carrying that familiar edge. “After everything that just happened?”

“Especially after everything that just happened,” I replied firmly. “Harrison's dead. The immediate threat is over. Now we deal with the aftermath, starting with making sure you don't die from a preventable infection.”

My hands lingered longer than medically necessary, tracing the geography of scars I'd memorised but never tired of mapping. Each ridge and valley told a story of survival, of a boy who'd walked through fire and emerged as something harder but not unbreakable.

“Noah.” Just my name, but weighted with everything we couldn't quite say yet.

I met his eyes, saw my own tangledemotions reflected back. Want and wariness, need and the knowledge that need could destroy us both. We'd danced around this thing between us for weeks, through violence and betrayal, through blood and desperate choices.

“I know,” I said, because I did. Some things didn't need words.

The next morningbrought threats I hadn't anticipated. My phone buzzed with an unknown number, the voice on the other end cold and professional.

“Mr. Hastings. Your sister's at Westminster Memorial. Alone. Vulnerable. Harrison had friends who are quite upset about recent events.”

The line went dead before I could respond. Ice flooded my veins as I processed the implicit threat. Isabelle, exposed at the hospital while I'd been focused on Adrian.

“What is it?” Adrian appeared in the doorway, already reading the danger in my expression.

“Isabelle. Someone just threatened her. She's at the hospital.”

His face went deadly calm. “Viktor,” he called without raising his voice, knowing his security chief would be within earshot. “Full team to Westminster Memorial. Now. Secure Noah's sister.”

I was already moving, grabbing my jacket, medical instincts screaming at me to get to her immediately. Adrian caught my arm.

“Together,” he said firmly. “You don't go anywhere alone right now.”

The ride to Westminster felt like hours though it took minutes. Viktor drove while Adrian coordinated securitythrough rapid-fire phone calls. I sat frozen, imagining every possible harm that could come to Isabelle while we raced through London traffic.

“She'll be fine,” Adrian said quietly, his hand finding mine. “I've got people en route already.”

We found her in the art therapy room, blissfully unaware of danger, working on a new piece with several other patients. Relief hit me so hard my knees nearly buckled.