Page 16 of The Beast's Broken Angel

THE BEAST'S DOMAIN

ADRIAN

N oah signed the final page of our contract, his hand steady as the pen glided across paper.

Something stirred in my chest as his signature completed the document.

Another piece on my chessboard, though this one felt different.

Not just about fixing my shoulder or replacing Montgomery.

Something about him pulled at me in ways I couldn't quite name.

The scratch of pen against expensive paper filled my study. When he finished, he set it down carefully, like putting down a scalpel after surgery. Most people who sign their lives away to me are shaking by now. Not him.

“Dominic will show you to your room in the east wing,” I said, sliding the contract into my desk drawer. “We'll grab your stuff from your flat tomorrow. Everything you need for tonight's already there.”

Noah's chin lifted slightly, a quiet defiance in his eyes despite what he'd just agreed to. Most people are broken or grovelling by this point. His stubborn dignity sent a jolt through me that wasn't entirely unpleasant .

“The contract says weekly visits with my sister,” he said, his voice steady. “I want those scheduled ASAP.”

“Already sorted,” I replied, watching his face. The tiny flicker of relief around his eyes, gone in an instant. “Viktor will drive you, with security, of course.”

Noah nodded once. No argument. His sister came first. Always. That kind of loyalty was rare in my world, where everyone typically looked out for themselves.

“Seven tomorrow morning in the medical suite,” I continued, lacing my fingers together on the desk. “My shoulder needs a proper look, and we'll sort out how this is going to work going forward.”

My shoulder throbbed under its bandage, a reminder of the Vega attack from two nights ago.

Montgomery had barely touched it earlier during his cursory examination, too bloody careful as always.

The bullet graze had torn through old scar tissue in ways he clearly didn't understand.

The thought of Noah's more capable hands on the injury created a warmth I hadn't expected.

“And my sister?” Noah asked, still standing tall. “I need to know her treatment's continuing. Like you promised.”

I might have smacked anyone else down for that tone. Instead, I found myself respecting it.

“Her doctor got all the paperwork two hours ago,” I told him, grabbing my tablet and turning it to show him the confirmation. “Full treatment approved no matter how long it takes or what it costs. Her next treatment's tomorrow morning, right on schedule.”

Relief washed across his face for just a second before he got it under control. But I saw it—the slight drop of his shoulders, the tiny exhale, the quick blink. The weight he carried was visible if you knew where to look.

“Thanks,” he said simply, and I could tell he meant it .

“Let's be clear—this isn't charity,” I said, not wanting his gratitude. It felt wrong somehow. “You work for me, I pay for her treatment. Business, not kindness.”

“Business,” Noah repeated, with something almost like a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Right. Because this is totally normal employment.”

His little challenge sent a thrill through me. Most people are falling over themselves to agree with everything I say by this point.

“When you're drowning, you don't haggle over the price of a life raft, Mr. Hastings.” I said, watching him carefully. “Your sister needs treatment. I need medical care. The rest is just details.”

“Noah,” he said, catching me off guard. “If I'm living in your house and treating your wounds, we might as well use first names. Like you said earlier.”

I nodded slightly. “Noah, then. Dominic will show you to your room.” I pressed the button under my desk, and my right-hand man appeared almost instantly. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow's when the real work starts.”

Dominic appeared silently at the doorway. Noah squared his shoulders like a soldier heading into battle, his jaw set with determination.

As Dominic led him away, I stayed at my desk, thinking about what I'd just acquired.

Noah Hastings wasn't like my usual staff.

There was something about him—the way he stood his ground, the way he looked at my scars without flinching, the quiet strength behind his eyes.

It wasn't just that I needed a new doctor.

Something about him had gotten under my skin the moment I saw him working in that hospital.

Whatever it was, I found myself unusually interested in this particular acquisition, in ways that went beyond business. That was new. And potentially dangerous.

I couldn't sleep. Midnight came and went, and I was still prowling the halls of Ravenswood like a restless ghost. The old clock in the main hall struck one, its deep gong echoing through the quiet house.

Security checks buzzed occasionally in my earpiece, a soft reminder of the invisible web of protection surrounding me.

Knowing Noah was in the east wing kept distracting me. Usually when I bring someone new into the fold, I set things up and forget about them until they're needed. But tonight, my thoughts kept circling back to him.

I ended up in my private office, sinking into the chair by the security monitors. The screens lit up with a gesture, showing me every corner of Ravenswood. It took me seconds to find Noah's feed.

Instead of sleeping, he was exploring his suite with the careful attention of someone mapping escape routes.

Not panicking, not crying—just methodically checking every inch of his new cage.

He examined the bathroom with its medical cabinets, went through the wardrobe filled with clothes in his size, and studied the security features with cool assessment.

Not your typical reaction. Most new acquisitions either fall apart or try something stupid. Noah was strategizing, figuring out what he had to work with. Smart.

I pulled up his file on my tablet, suddenly wanting to know more. Council estate kid from South London. Worked two, sometimes three jobs while getting his nursing degree with top marks. Took on full responsibility for his sister's care without complaint when she got sick.

The psych profile painted a picture of someone who wouldn't break easily—stubborn, protective, with a core of steel underneath the healer's compassion. The combination stirred something in me. Most people were either soft or hard, not both at once.

My shoulder chose that moment to send a spike of pain through me. Montgomery's half-arsed bandaging job wasn't holding up. The inflammation was getting worse, the bullet graze tearing at the old scar tissue with every movement.

Perfect excuse to see what Noah was made of.

Decision made, I closed his file and left my desk. Usually new residents get the first night alone to stew in their new reality. But tonight, I wanted to test the waters.

I walked through the quiet corridors to the east wing, where Noah's suite sat in the prime spot. Close enough to reach quickly, isolated enough to make a point about his new position. I knocked softly on the heavy door, not wanting to seem like I was checking up on him.

The door opened almost immediately. Noah stood there fully dressed, his eyes instantly dropping to my shoulder where a small bloodstain had seeped through my shirt.

“Your shoulder needs looking at,” he said simply, stepping aside to let me in. No questions about why I was there at one in the morning. No awkward small talk. Straight to the point.

I stepped into the suite, everything as I expected. The bathroom counter was stocked with the medical supplies I preferred—restocked every morning by staff who understood the consequences of negligence. The wardrobe held fresh shirts and suits in my size, pressed and arranged by color.

“Take your shirt off,” Noah said, already reaching for his supplies. The casually authoritative tone caught me off guard. Nobody tells me what to do in my own house. But the medical command bypassed my usual defences, and I found myself complying before I could think about it.

I unbuttoned my shirt slowly, watching his face as my scarred chest came into view. His eyes stayed clinical, focused on the injury instead of the mess of scar tissue around it. No disgust, no pity—just professional assessment. It was... refreshing.

“Sit there,” he pointed to a chair under the best light. “Need to get that bandage off first.”

Noah snapped on a pair of latex gloves from the medical supplies, the practiced motion automatic and professional.

His hands were warm when they touched my skin.

Professional, yes, but there was something else in the contact that I hadn't felt in years.

Just the simple human touch without revulsion or fear.

His fingers moved over the damaged tissue with confident strokes, probing the edges of the wound, sending unexpected shivers across my skin.

“This is shit work,” he said bluntly, peeling away the bloody bandage to reveal another layer beneath. “Whoever redressed this after the hospital doesn't understand burn scars at all. My original sutures are fine, but this bandaging job is completely wrong for damaged tissue like yours.”

The casual criticism of Montgomery's work, delivered without a hint of deference, caught me by surprise. Most people tiptoe around anything that might sound like criticism.

“Montgomery's been treating me for fifteen years,” I said, watching Noah's face as he worked.

“Then he should know better by now,” Noah muttered, his fingers pressing lightly around the wound, sending little jolts of sensation through nerve endings I'd thought long dead. “Bullet trauma on old burn tissue is totally different from normal wounds.”