Page 22 of The Beast's Broken Angel

HANDS THAT HARM

NOAH

I woke up screaming, the echo of that single gunshot still ringing in my head. My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape, sweat plastering my t-shirt to my skin. For a few seconds, I couldn't remember where I was. The plush king-sized bed and fancy wallpaper felt alien, wrong.

Then it all came crashing back. Ravenswood. Adrian. The deal I'd made. The man I'd watched being tortured and executed in a nightclub basement.

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 3:17 AM, its red numbers accusatory in the darkness.

I stumbled out of bed, legs shaky beneath me, and barely made it to the en-suite bathroom before my stomach heaved.

Nothing came up—I hadn't eaten since before The Raven's Nest—but my body went through the motions anyway, trying to purge what couldn't be expelled.

When the dry heaving finally stopped, I splashed cold water on my face and forced myself to look in the mirror.

The bloke staring back looked like shit, all bloodshot eyes and grey skin.

Forty-eight hours ago, I was just an emergency nurse with clear moral boundaries.

Now I was complicit in torture and murder.

“What have you done?” I asked my reflection. No answer came back.

My phone sat on the nightstand where I'd dropped it, probably monitored like everything else in this gilded cage. Three missed calls from Mika. One text:

Mika

Where the hell are you? Hayes said you quit with no notice. Call me back, you wanker.

The guilt hit like a sucker punch. I'd disappeared from my life without warning, without explanation to the people who actually gave a damn about me. And for what? To save my sister by becoming the pet nurse of a monster?

The walls of the fancy prison suddenly felt too close, the air too thick.

I needed to move, to breathe, to do something besides replay Parker's screams in my head.

Throwing on jeans and a t-shirt, I headed for the door, not caring if it was against the rules to wander at night. Let them stop me if they cared so much.

To my surprise, the door wasn't locked. The corridor beyond was dimly lit, silent except for the faint ticking of an antique clock somewhere. I picked a direction at random and started walking.

Ravenswood at night was a different creature from the daytime version I'd glimpsed.

Moonlight spilled through tall windows, painting silver patterns across marble floors and wooden paneling.

The place was massive, a maze of corridors and staircases that seemed designed to confuse.

I passed rooms filled with furniture shrouded in white covers, galleries of paintings watching from walls with judging eyes, libraries where leather-bound books lined shelves from floor to ceiling .

It felt like walking through a museum after hours, each room preserved in perfect, unlived-in stillness. Not a home so much as a monument to power and wealth accumulated over generations.

After about twenty minutes of wandering, I found myself in what looked like the main part of the house. A grand staircase curved down to a massive entrance hall, moonlight streaming through stained glass windows to create pools of coloured light on the marble floor.

“You are far from the east wing, Mr. Hastings.”

The voice nearly gave me a heart attack.

I spun around to find Viktor standing in the shadows by a suit of armour, his massive frame somehow blending into the darkness despite his size.

He wasn't in his usual suit but wore track bottoms and a fitted t-shirt that showed muscles you'd expect on a professional fighter, not a chauffeur.

“Fucking hell,” I gasped, heart racing. “Do you always creep around in the dark?”

“I am head of security,” he replied, his Eastern European accent more pronounced in the quiet. “Night patrol is part of job.”

I'd only interacted with Viktor briefly during the drive to The Raven's Nest and back. Up close, in the moonlight, I could see now that what I'd taken for stoicism was actually something else—a kind of contained intensity, like a tightly coiled spring.

“Couldn't sleep,” I explained unnecessarily. “Needed to walk.”

Viktor nodded as if this made perfect sense. “Nightmares. Normal after first time.”

“First time?” I echoed, then realised what he meant. “First time watching someone being tortured and killed, you mean?”

“Da.” He didn't seem bothered by my bluntness. “First is hardest. Gets easier. ”

The casualness with which he said it, like we were discussing a workout routine or learning to drive, made my stomach turn again.

“I don't want it to get easier,” I said. “That's not why I'm here.”

Viktor studied me, his face impossible to read in the moonlight. “Why are you here then?”

“My sister needs medical treatment. Expensive treatment.” I leaned against the banister, suddenly tired. “Calloway's paying for it in exchange for my... services.”

“Medical services,” Viktor clarified, though something in his tone suggested he knew it wasn't that simple.

“That's what the paperwork says.”

Viktor was quiet for a moment, then gestured for me to follow him. “Come. Kitchen is this way. Tea helps with bad dreams.”

I hesitated, but followed. What else was I going to do? Go back to my room and stare at the ceiling until morning?

The kitchen was unexpectedly cozy compared to the rest of the mansion, with warm copper pots hanging from a rack and a large wooden table in the centre. Viktor moved with surprising grace for such a big man, filling a kettle and setting it on the Aga without turning on the main lights.

“Sit,” he instructed, pulling out a chair at the table.

I sat, watching as he prepared tea with methodical movements. There was something almost meditative about the way he did it, each motion exact and deliberate.

“You've worked for Calloway a long time?” I asked, just to break the silence.

“Eight years.” He set a steaming mug in front of me, then sat with his own. “Before that, other work.”

“What kind of other work? ”

His eyes met mine over the rim of his mug. “The kind that makes me valuable to Mr. Calloway.”

Right. Probably better not to know.

“Does it bother you?” I couldn't help asking. “The things he does. The things he makes you do.”

Viktor considered this, his face thoughtful rather than offended. “In my country, I see worse things before I was twenty. At least Mr. Calloway has... code. Rules.” He sipped his tea. “Not random cruelty. Always purpose.”

“Purpose doesn't make it right,” I argued.

“Right, wrong.” Viktor shrugged massive shoulders. “These are luxury concepts. Survival is what matters. Mr. Calloway understands this.”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “Your sister. She survives because of him now. You understand survival, I think. Better than most soft English.”

There was something close to respect in his tone that caught me off guard. I'd assumed all of Calloway's people saw me as just another acquisition, a possession to be managed.

“What happened to him?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. “The burns. His medical file has the treatment records but not the cause.”

Viktor's expression shuttered immediately. “Not my story to tell. But know this—Mr. Calloway was not born monster you think he is. He was made.”

We drank our tea in silence for a while after that. It was strong and sweet, nothing like the English breakfast I usually drank.

“Russian tea,” Viktor explained, seeing me examine it. “Good for shock.”

“I'm not in shock,” I protested.

His look was knowing. “Witnessed first killing. Not sleeping. Wandering strange house at night. This is shock.”

Put that way, maybe he had a point.

“Mr. Calloway has interest in you,” Viktor said abruptly. “Different than others.”

“What do you mean?”

“Watches you. Studies you.” Viktor's eyes were penetrating, assessing. “Be careful with this interest. Can be dangerous.”

“Is that a threat?” I bristled.

“No. Warning.” He stood, taking our empty mugs to the sink. “Sun comes soon. You should try to sleep more before breakfast. Mr. Calloway notices weakness.”

I rose as well, strangely reluctant to end this unexpected conversation. “And you? Do you notice weakness too?”

Viktor's smile was small but genuine. “I notice everything, Mr. Hastings. Is my job.” He gestured toward a door different from the one we'd entered through. “This way leads back to east wing. Second right, then left at painting of hunting dogs.”

As I turned to go, he added, “Mr. Calloway is complicated man. Not good, not evil. Something between. Remember this.”

I made my way back to my room following Viktor's directions, his words turning over in my mind.

Not born a monster, but made. The implication that there was more to Adrian than the cold-blooded killer I'd witnessed last night was disturbing.

I'd been trying to convince myself he was simply evil, a straightforward villain I'd made a deal with for Isabelle's sake.

It would have been easier if that were true - easier than acknowledging the confusing pull I'd felt toward him even during our clinical interactions, the way my body had responded to his proximity despite knowing what he was capable of.

It was easier to think of him as simply evil, a straightforward villain I'd made a deal with for Isabelle's sake.

The idea that he might be complex, might have reasons behind his brutality, made everything messier, more confusing.

When I finally crawled back into bed as the first light of dawn crept through the windows, my mind was still racing. But at least Parker's screams had receded slightly, replaced by Viktor's accented voice.

Mr. Calloway has interest in you. Different than others.

What the hell did that mean? And why did the thought send that strange shiver down my spine again?