Page 20 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

BEAUTY’S CORRUPTION

ADRIAN

P arker screamed again. Controlled, measured, the trained rhythm of someone who'd seen trauma before. Most civilians would've been hyperventilating or passed out by now, but Noah’s medical background gave him composure under pressure. Fucking promising.

Parker hung from the ceiling restraints, his once expensive shirt now soaked with blood and sweat.

The room smelled of fear and disinfectant, a blend I'd grown accustomed to over years of similar conversations.

I selected another tool from Viktor's neatly arranged tray, a small blade designed for shallow but exquisitely painful cuts.

“The supplier's name, Mr. Parker,” I repeated, keeping my voice casual like we were discussing the weather rather than his continued existence.

Blood had already stained my custom shirt cuffs, but that's what I kept a personal tailor for.

“Simple exchange, really. Information for mercy. Your choice entirely.”

Parker's eyes bulged, darting between the blade in my hand and Noah's rigid form against the wall. Having a new witness clearly unsettled him, adding another layer of humiliation to his breaking.

“Alvarez,” he finally choked out, spittle and blood spraying from his split lips. “Carlos Alvarez runs distribution from a garage in Brixton. Factory converted to flats, number sixteen, Coldharbour Lane.”

I nodded to Viktor, who tapped the information into his secure tablet.

My eyes never left Noah, cataloguing his reactions.

The rigid posture, the deliberately neutral expression that couldn't quite hide the horror in his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands that he tried to control by clenching them at his sides.

Beautiful.

Not his discomfort, exactly, but the struggle playing out across his features. Moral outrage warring with survival instinct. Professional detachment battling visceral reaction. He was a study in controlled chaos, and I found it more fascinating than I'd anticipated.

“Anything else we should know about Alvarez?” I asked Parker, who was now babbling details about security, distribution routes, and everyone involved in the operation. Fear made him thorough.

When he'd emptied himself of everything useful, I wiped my hands meticulously on a black towel. Blood never comes out of fine cotton easily, and I preferred to minimise the damage to my clothes when possible.

“Finish this,” I instructed Viktor, the euphemism's meaning perfectly clear to everyone in the room. I crossed to Noah, placing my hand at the small of his back to guide him toward the elevator. He flinched at my touch but didn't pull away, another small victory.

We were in the elevator when the gunshot echoed through the tiled room below. Noah's body tensed beneath my hand, but he remained silent as the doors closed and we began our ascent to the club above.

In the enclosed space, I could study him properly.

He was pale but composed, his breathing still measured despite what he'd just witnessed.

The complexity of his reactions intrigued me.

Not simple horror or disgust, but a layered response that suggested both ethical outrage and a deeper, perhaps unconscious understanding of necessity.

“You're wondering if all that was necessary,” I observed, straightening my blood-spattered cuffs.

His eyes tracked the movement, fixating momentarily on the crimson stains.

“The information could have been gotten with less blood. Perhaps. But the message his death sends to others is equally valuable.”

Noah's eyes snapped to mine, that defiant light flaring again. Fascinating how quickly it returned even after witnessing such violence. Most people stayed broken longer.

“Is that what I was there for? To witness your message?” His voice was steady despite everything. Impressive.

“Partly,” I admitted as the elevator doors opened onto the club's pounding heartbeat. “And partly to understand the full scope of your new position.”

I guided him through the VIP section, past beautiful people too absorbed in pleasure to notice the blood on my cuffs or the tension radiating from Noah's body.

My private office overlooked the main floor, soundproofed walls and one-way glass allowing me to observe while remaining separate from the revelry below.

Once inside, Noah immediately moved to the window, putting distance between us. The city lights played across his features, illuminating eyes too bright with emotions he was struggling to contain.

I poured scotch into crystal tumblers, selecting the Macallan 25-year I kept for significant occasions. Tonight qualified. The amber liquid caught the light as I approached him, offering a glass.

“Say it,” I instructed when he predictably refused the drink. “Whatever moral condemnation you're formulating. You've earned that much after tonight's performance.”

He stayed silent, his reflection in the glass showing a war of emotions I found myself wanting to catalogue properly. Fear, yes, but buried beneath layers of outrage, calculation, and something darker he might not even recognise in himself yet.

“You killed him to make a point,” he finally said, voice steady despite his evident disgust. “Not just to me. To everyone who works for you. Fear was the goal, not just getting information.”

His perceptiveness caught me slightly off guard. Most people missed the broader strategy, too fixated on immediate violence to see its purpose.

I sipped my scotch, letting the accusation hang between us. The smoky liquid warmed my throat, a pleasant contrast to the cool calculation required for Parker's interrogation.

“Fear prevents greater violence,” I replied, watching his face for reactions. “One death deters dozens. Your hospital treats the aftermath when such deterrence fails—gunshot victims, overdoses, gang beatings. My methods prevent more suffering than they cause.”

“Do you actually believe that bullshit,” Noah challenged, turning from the window to face me directly, “or is it just convenient justification?”

The audacity simultaneously irritated and intrigued me. Most employees would be begging for their lives after such insubordination. Even Dominic, who'd been with me for years, would never speak to me with such blunt disregard for hierarchy.

I set my glass down and closed the distance between us with deliberate steps, invading his personal space—a tactic that reliably intimidated. Yet Noah stood his ground, his pulse visibly racing at his throat but his gaze unflinching.

“Your moral outrage is noted,” I said softly, close enough that he had to tilt his head slightly to maintain eye contact. “But ultimately irrelevant. You signed away such concerns last night along with your autonomy.”

The scent of him reached me this close—antiseptic from the medical suite, a hint of expensive cologne from the clothes Dominic had provided, and underneath, the unmistakable adrenaline tang of fear his controlled expression couldn't hide.

“I signed away my time and medical expertise,” he countered, jaw set stubbornly. “Not my conscience. That wasn't in the contract.”

His continued defiance sent an unexpected current of heat through my body. This close, I could see every detail of his face—the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar near his temple that I'd need to ask about someday.

I reached out, watching his subtle flinch as my scarred hand approached his face—but instead of the violence he clearly expected, I merely straightened his collar with slow, deliberate movements.

“Your conscience is your own,” I conceded, letting my fingers linger against the warm skin of his neck, feeling his pulse jump at the contact. “Your obedience, however, belongs to me.”

The tension between us shifted perceptibly, something electric and dangerous charging the minimal space separating our bodies.

I recognised it instantly—that intoxicating edge where fear blends with attraction, power with submission.

Noah's dilated pupils confirmed he felt it too, though he'd likely deny the recognition.

For a breathless moment, we stood there, neither advancing nor retreating, caught in a gravity field of mutual awareness that transcended our adversarial positions.

I could have pushed further, used that tension to break his resistance completely.

But something told me that breaking Noah Hastings would destroy precisely what made him valuable—and unexpectedly fascinating.

“I'll have Viktor drive you back to Ravenswood,” I said instead, stepping back to restore a semblance of professional distance. “I have business to conclude here tonight.”

Relief and something like disappointment flickered across his features before he controlled his expression again. “Is that business going to involve more dead bodies?”

“Would it matter if it did?” I countered, returning to my desk.

“It might,” he said quietly. “To me.”

I studied him, trying to determine if this was manipulation or genuine moral concern. With most people, I could read intentions easily, but Noah remained surprisingly opaque despite his apparent forthrightness.

“No more dead bodies tonight,” I finally answered truthfully. “Though I make no promises about tomorrow.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “At least you're honest about that much.”

“I'm honest about most things, Noah. It's just that few people want to hear honest answers to the questions they ask.”

I peeled off my bloodied clothing slowly, analysing every flicker of my reaction to Noah’s defiance. Most disobedience triggered cold rage. A predictable, useful response. But this wasn’t that. This was something darker, hungrier. Something that curled behind my ribs and pulsed low in my abdomen.