Page 118 of The Beast's Broken Angel

“Noah?” She looked up, surprised. “What are you doing here? You're not scheduled to visit until—” She stopped, taking in our expressions, Viktor's imposing presence, the subtle positioning of security personnel. “What's happened?”

“Harrison's associates made threats,” Adrian said simply, no sugar-coating. “You're not safe here anymore.”

I expected Isabelle to panic. Instead, she set down her brushes with steady hands and looked Adrian directly in the eye. “Because of Noah's involvement with you?”

“Yes,” Adrian admitted.

“Then I suppose you'll have to protect me,” she said matter-of-factly. “Unless you're planning to abandon your responsibilities now that things are complicated?”

The challenge in her voice surprised everyone, I think. My little sister, facing down one of London's most dangerous men like she was scolding a misbehaving child.

Adrian's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “I protect what's mine. And you're Noah's, which makes you mine by extension.”

“Charming,” Isabelle said dryly. “Do I get a say in this arrangement?”

“Izzy,” I started, but she waved me off.

“I'm not a child, Noah. Or a damsel. I'm a grown woman who's been dying for two years. Death threats don't scare memuch anymore.” She looked back at Adrian. “What are you proposing?”

“Ravenswood has a fully equipped medical wing,” Adrian said. “Private care, better security than any hospital, and space for your art. You'd be my guest until the threat is neutralised.”

“Your prisoner, you mean,” Isabelle countered.

“My protected guest,” Adrian corrected. “Free to leave once it's safe. Free to refuse now, though I'd strongly advise against it.”

Isabelle studied him for a long moment, artist's eyes dissecting him with uncomfortable intensity. “You love my brother.”

It wasn't a question. Adrian stiffened slightly but didn't deny it.

“And he loves you, though God knows why.” She started gathering her art supplies. “Fine. But I want a proper studio space. Natural light. And no hovering security in my room.”

“Done,” Adrian agreed immediately.

“That easy?” She seemed suspicious.

“Your brother saved my life. Protecting yours is the least I can do.” He paused. “Plus, your work is extraordinary. I've been meaning to commission some pieces.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Isabelle said, but I caught her pleased smile. “When do we leave?”

The move happened with Adrian's typical swift organisation. By evening, Isabelle was installed in a sun-filled conservatory that had been rapidly converted to studio space, her medical equipment discretely integrated into what looked like luxury accommodations.

“This is insane,” she said, wheeling around the space in obvious delight. “The light is perfect. And the space... I could work on large scale pieces here.”

“Then do,” Adrian said simply. “Whatever supplies you need, just ask.”

Later,I found him in his study, the day's threats adding new tension to his frame.

“Thank you,” I said. “For Isabelle. For protecting her.”

“She's your family,” he replied, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

“Adrian.” I moved closer, needing to address what had been building between us. “About my contract.”

Something shuttered in his expression. “You still have a long time remaining. Though given the circumstances, if you want to void it early, I'd understand. Take Isabelle somewhere safe. Start fresh.”

“You're giving me an out?”

“Harrison's dead, but his associates remain. The danger's escalating. You didn't sign up for this level of threat.” He wasn't looking at me, focusing instead on whiskey he wasn't drinking. “I can arrange new identities, money, security. You and Isabelle could disappear. Be safe.”