Page 26 of The Beast's Broken Angel

Isabelle's eyes widened, darting between Noah and me with dawning comprehension. The family resemblance extended to her perceptiveness, clearly reading the undercurrents flowing between us.

“That's... very generous,” she managed, her voice stronger than her frail appearance suggested. “But unnecessary. Two pieces have already sold independently.”

“I'm buying the entire collection,” I clarified, extending my business card to Christina without breaking eye contact with Noah. “Deliver everything to Ravenswood tomorrow. And ensure Ms. Hastings receives appropriate feature placement in your next major exhibition.”

The gallery owner accepted the card with barely concealed excitement, recognising the potential value of my patronage beyond this single transaction. “Absolutely, Mr. Calloway. We'd be honoured to continue showcasing Ms. Hastings' work.”

“Good.” I finally shifted my attention to Isabelle directly. “Your brother speaks highly of your talent. I see his assessment was accurate.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, artist's perception cutting through social niceties to the underlying dynamic. “Funny, he hasn't mentioned you much at all.”

Noah's fingers tightened on her shoulder in silent warning, but she ignored him, studying me with the same clinical detachment he had first shown toward my scars.

“An oversight I'm sure he'll correct,” I replied, enjoying the flash of alarm in Noah's eyes. “Your work deserves wider recognition. I have connections in several major galleries who would be interested in featuring an artist of your calibre.”

“Why?” she asked directly, ignoring the social protocols that typically governed such interactions. “You've already bought my brother's services. Why bother with my paintings too?”

The bluntness was refreshingly familiar. The Hastings siblings shared more than physical features, they possessed the same direct gaze that cut through pretence and performance to the core truth beneath.

“Art speaks truth where people cannot,” I answered, surprising myself with the honesty. “Your work captures the brutality of medical suffering without surrendering to it. I respect that perspective.”

Something in my response seemed to satisfy her, though wariness remained in her expression. “Thank you for the support, then. Though I'd have preferred earning it on merit alone.”

“You have,” I assured her, gesturing toward the small crowd still admiring her pieces. “My purchase simply ensures the collection remains intact rather than dispersed among multiple buyers.”

I turned to Noah, whose tension had only increased during this exchange. “I believe it's time to return your sister to Westminster Memorial. The doctors expressed concern about her outing.”

“How would you know that?” Noah challenged, voice tight.

“I know everything concerning those under my protection,” I replied simply. “Dominic is waiting outside with the car. He'll ensure you both return safely.”

Noah's jaw worked as he struggled with competing impulses, defiance warring with the practical reality that his sister did indeed need to return to medical supervision. Finally, he nodded stiffly.

“Fine. But I'm staying with Isabelle until she's settled back in her room.”

Not a request. A statement of intent. His continued boundary-testing should have irritated me. Instead, it only heightened my interest in what would happen when we were finally alone.

“Of course,” I agreed smoothly. “Family should always come first. I'll expect you at Ravenswood afterward.”

The unspoken promise of consequences hung between us, Noah's swallow the only indication he recognised what awaited him upon return. Isabelle missed nothing, her artist's perception cataloguing every expression exchanged.

“It was... interesting meeting you properly, Mr. Calloway,” she said as Noah prepared to wheel her toward the exit. “I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other.”

“I look forward to it, Ms. Hastings.”

I watched them leave, Noah's protective posture never relaxing even under Dominic's watchful eye. My phone vibrated with a text from Harrison:

Harrison

Meeting concluded. Investors satisfied. Should we discuss the Vega situation this evening?

His persistent interest in my movements continued to raise warning flags. I texted back a noncommittal response, mind already turning to the more immediate concern of Noah's punishment.

Adrian

Tomorrow. Other priorities tonight.

The drive back to Ravenswood crackled with tension, Noah's defiance radiating from the opposite seat.

We'd left Isabelle at Westminster Memorial under Dominic’s supervision, her return processed with the smooth operation that my name and money guaranteed.

Now, alone in the Bentley's luxurious confines, the reckoning could no longer be postponed.

“She needed this,” Noah finally broke the silence, voice quiet but unapologetic. “One normal achievement that wasn't bought with my bloody soul.”

The phrasing caught me, buying his soul. An accurate assessment of our arrangement, though not one I'd expected him to articulate so bluntly.

“Our deal says all departures from Ravenswood need my permission,” I replied, keeping my voice deliberately soft. Dangerous. “Taking your sister from medical supervision without asking violated our arrangement on multiple levels.”

“She's responding well to treatment. The doctors said a brief outing posed minimal risk.”

“That isn't the point.”

“Isn't it?” Noah challenged, finally looking directly at me.

“Over the past few weeks, I've delivered on my end of the bargain.

I treat your scars. I stitch up your men when they get shot.

I kept my mouth shut about Parker. But Isabelle isn't your property just because you're paying for her treatment.”

The Bentley passed through Ravenswood's gates, security personnel nodding deferentially as we swept up the long driveway toward the main house.

I studied Noah as he turned away from me, jaw set in stubborn lines, gaze fixed determinedly on the passing landscape rather than meet my eyes after his challenge.

His body remained coiled with anticipation of coming confrontation, the tension radiating from him in waves.

His continued resistance proved surprisingly arousing, a challenge that demanded response rather than the boring submission most offered.

The car stopped at the main entrance, Viktor opening my door with silent deference. I stepped out, then turned to Noah still seated inside.

“My study. Now.”

The command brooked no argument. Staff scattered as we entered the mansion, recognising the tone that typically preceded violence. Noah followed with resigned determination, chin lifted in that particular way that simultaneously infuriated and intrigued me.

The heavy door to my private study closed behind us with finality. I locked it, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. With deliberate slowness, I removed my suit jacket, hanging it precisely on the coat rack beside my desk.

“Remove your shirt,” I instructed, watching the predictable flash of alarm in Noah's eyes. “Your punishment should leave no visible marks. I prefer not to explain bruising to your sister during her next hospital visit.”

To his credit, Noah didn't plead or argue.

Instead, he held my gaze while unbuttoning his shirt with steady fingers, a silent defiance in the careful movements.

When he finally stood shirtless in the study's centre, the afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows highlighted the lean musculature of his torso, unmarked skin a perfect canvas for the lesson in consequences about to be delivered.

I circled him slowly, assessing. Physical punishment was standard procedure for disobedience in my organisation, the severity calibrated to the transgression. Yet something about this particular moment felt different, charged with currents beyond simple discipline and control.

“You're intriguing, Noah,” I observed, trailing fingers lightly across his shoulder blades, feeling the involuntary shiver my touch elicited. “Most men in your position would grovel for mercy. You prepare to endure instead.”

His muscles tensed beneath my touch, but he remained silent, eyes fixed straight ahead. The control he maintained only increased my desire to break it, to find the point where his composed exterior finally shattered.

I turned to my desk, opening the drawer where I kept certain specialised implements.

The thin leather strap felt familiar in my hand, its flexibility ideal for delivering pain without permanent damage.

I tested it against my palm, watching Noah's reflection in the window flinch slightly at the sound.

“In my experience, pain creates clarity,” I said, positioning myself behind him. “After this, you'll remember what you agreed to quite precisely.”

I stepped closer, near enough that my breath disturbed the fine hairs at his nape.

His scent reached me, hospital antiseptic from Isabelle's room, gallery champagne, and beneath it all, the distinctive notes of adrenaline and fear he couldn't quite suppress.

The proximity sent unexpected heat through my body, desire mixing with the anticipated satisfaction of punishment.

The first strike never fell. Instead, my hand found Noah's throat from behind, tilting his head back against my shoulder. “Unless,” I murmured directly into his ear, “you'd prefer alternative correction.”

My free hand slid deliberately down his bare torso, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, the hammering of his heart beneath warm skin. The contact sparked something electric between us, a dangerous current of attraction neither of us had acknowledged directly until this moment.

Noah's body went rigid against mine, caught between instinctive retreat and involuntary response. I could feel the war within him, revulsion at his captor's touch battling with the undeniable physical reaction his body couldn't hide .

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rough with confusion and something darker.

“Offering choice,” I replied, fingers tracing the waistband of his jeans with deliberate intent. “Pain or pleasure. Both leave lasting impressions. Both remind you who holds power.”

His breathing accelerated, pupils dilating as my meaning registered. “That wasn't part of the deal.”

“Our arrangement gives me complete authority over your time and presence,” I reminded him, lips close enough to brush the sensitive skin below his ear. “How I choose to exercise that authority remains my prerogative.”

The shudder that ran through him wasn't entirely fear, a fact that seemed to startle him as much as it pleased me. The healer attracted to the monster, despite everything he'd witnessed. The moral boundary he hadn't expected to find himself crossing.

Before he could respond, the study door crashed open, the heavy lock splintering as Viktor burst through without ceremony. His usual composed expression had shattered, replaced by a tension I'd seen only during the worst crises.

“Sir,” he managed, taking in the scene before him with professional blankness. “There's been an attack. The Raven's Nest is burning.”