Page 17 of The Beast's Broken Angel
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my shoulder as he examined the damage.
The proximity created an unfamiliar tightness in my chest. His touch was clinical, but my body's response wasn't. Each brush of his fingers seemed to wake something long dormant, nerve endings firing in ways that had nothing to do with pain.
“The bullet did more damage than it looked like at first,” Noah said, completely focused on the wound while I fought to stay focused on his words rather than his touch. “It's torn along the old graft lines. That's why it's bleeding again.”
His directness was oddly appealing. No sugar-coating, no careful phrasing to spare my feelings. Just straight facts delivered while his fingers worked magic on my damaged skin.
“Montgomery always treats me like I might shatter,” I admitted, surprised by my own honesty. “Like my scars are some delicate thing he's afraid to touch properly.”
Noah's hands never paused as he cleaned the wound, his touch firm but careful. Each stroke of his fingers sent warmth spreading beyond the injury site, a strange awakening in tissue I'd long considered dead to sensation.
“Burn tissue needs proper handling, not kid gloves,” he said, reaching for fresh bandaging.
His fingers brushed across a particularly sensitive area where scarred skin met undamaged flesh, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain up my spine that I had to fight not to react to.
“Your old doctor's methods are seriously outdated.”
The confidence in his assessment, offered without seeking approval or tempering his criticism, was strangely arousing.
Most staff seek constant validation, terrified of overstepping.
Noah simply stated facts and kept working, his hands moving across my skin with a competence that was somehow more intimate than any deliberate caress.
“You think Montgomery's treatment has been crap?” I asked, genuinely curious rather than testing him.
“For this kind of injury? Yeah, absolutely.” Noah applied antiseptic with steady hands, the sting barely registering against the more distracting sensation of his fingertips tracing the boundary between scarred and healthy skin.
“The junction between original burns and grafts needs special treatment when there's new trauma.
Your inflammation shows he doesn't get that.”
He kept explaining as he worked, technical terms flowing easily as his hands moved with sure strokes across my chest and shoulder.
His touch was setting off reactions I hadn't experienced in years, awakening nerves I'd thought permanently deadened.
The clinical nature of the contact somehow made it more potent, more forbidden.
When he finished, he stepped back, but the ghost of his touch lingered on my skin like an afterimage.
“Most people can't even look at my scars,” I said, staying seated instead of covering up immediately. Testing him. “They try to act normal, but I see them flinching.”
Noah gathered his supplies, his eyes meeting mine directly. “I've treated soldiers with worse scars, acid attack victims with more visible damage, and kids with fresher burns. Yours are bad, yeah, but they're just scars. It's the treatment history that's actually interesting.”
No pity, no revulsion—just professional interest. It hit me in a way I wasn't prepared for, stirring something deeper than physical response.
“What do you mean by treatment history?” I asked, suddenly needing to hear more.
Noah paused, looking at me properly. For a moment I thought he might back down, remember his place in our new arrangement. Instead, his professional interest visibly took over.
“Whoever treated you after you got burned used old-school methods,” he said, gesturing toward specific areas of my scarring, his fingers coming close enough that I could feel the heat of them without actual contact.
“The keloid patterns here, the tightness along your neck and shoulder—that's from inadequate pressure therapy and range-of-motion work.”
He leaned closer, his eyes focused on a section of particularly bad scarring near my collarbone. The proximity sent my pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with medical concerns.
“With modern techniques, you wouldn't have half these mobility issues or sensitivity problems,” he continued, apparently oblivious to the effect his nearness was having. “The nerve regeneration pattern shows classic signs of delayed treatment.”
His analysis without any emotional coating created an unexpected connection between us. Just facts, expertise, shared understanding without the weight of pity or disgust that usually came with discussions of my scars.
“You think different treatment would have given better results?” I asked, genuinely interested rather than just maintaining control.
“No question,” Noah said confidently, his professional certainty compelling. “The last ten years have completely changed how we handle burns like yours. Combination therapies with targeted pressure, specialised massage, nerve desensitisation—the outcomes are night and day different.”
“Could that still work now?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, revealing more vulnerability than I'd intended. Montgomery had insisted for years that my condition was as good as it would ever get.
Noah considered this seriously, his eyes tracing the map of my scars with genuine professional interest. “Some of it, yeah. Nerve pathways can be rehabilitated even years later. Some contracture treatments would still help.” His eyes met mine directly.
“I'd need to do a full assessment to work out exactly what would help most. ”
The possibility of improvement after years of resignation created an unexpected surge of hope. Noah's matter-of-fact approach cut through the protective shell of acceptance I'd built around my condition.
“You'd do that as part of our deal?” I asked, watching him carefully.
“That's what you're paying for, isn't it?” he replied with a shrug. “Proper medical care using my training. Using outdated methods would be shit practice, no matter how weird our... situation is.”
His brief hesitation acknowledging our unusual arrangement showed awareness of the boundaries still settling between us, but his medical standards clearly weren't negotiable. Another contradiction in a man who kept defying expectations.
“Tomorrow we'll start with a full assessment then,” I decided, finally reaching for my shirt. The movement sent fresh pain through my shoulder, and I couldn't quite hide the wince.
Noah noticed immediately. “The pain's getting worse. I can give you something for it now.”
“I'm fine,” I dismissed automatically, used to handling pain on my own.
“That's bollocks,” Noah countered, already reaching for the medical supplies on the counter. “Pain increases inflammation, which makes healing harder. Not taking proper pain meds isn't being tough—it's just bad medicine.”
The blunt assessment without any deference created an interesting tension. Most staff would've backed down immediately after the slightest pushback.
“You think your medical opinion trumps what I want?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral despite the challenge.
“For medical stuff? Yeah,” Noah replied without hesitation, though his stance showed he knew he was on dangerous ground. “You hired me for my medical expertise. That's what I'm giving you. Outside of that, obviously you call the shots.”
The clear line he drew impressed me. Most acquisitions either surrender completely or fight everything. Noah's balanced approach suggested possibilities I hadn't considered.
“Interesting take,” I acknowledged, buttoning my shirt without taking the offered medication. “We'll see how these professional boundaries work out as we go.”
Noah put the medication away without arguing, recognising when to push and when to back off. Strategic thinking. Unusual.
“Seven tomorrow morning, then,” he confirmed, professional mask back in place though exhaustion shadowed his eyes. The strain of the day showed in the slight tightness around his mouth, the barely perceptible droop of his shoulders.
“Get some sleep, Noah,” I said, moving toward the door. “Tomorrow's when this really starts.”
As I left his room, I found myself oddly aware of the sound of the door closing, separating us after this unplanned midnight meeting. The brief treatment session had revealed more than expected, layers beneath the simple transaction we'd agreed to.
I headed back to my wing through the silent halls, my shoulder throbbing under Noah's fresh bandaging. Sleep would probably still elude me despite the late hour, my mind racing with the unexpected complication Noah Hastings represented.
He was different—professional skill without simpering submission. Ethical lines he wouldn't cross despite desperate circumstances. Adaptable without surrendering who he was.
And his touch... his hands had awakened sensations I'd thought long dead, nerve endings responding in ways that had nothing to do with pain or medical treatment. The clinical contact had somehow been more intimate than any deliberate touch I'd experienced in years.