Page 28 of The Beast's Broken Angel

“It's similar to specific field techniques,” I admitted reluctantly. “Military, possibly special forces. The depth is controlled, designed to maximise pain while extending consciousness.”

Adrian's expression shifted subtly. “How do you know this kind of thing?” he asked.

“Hospital rotation in Birmingham during the 2017 gang wars,” I replied, the partial truth easier than explaining my father's graphic descriptions of interrogation techniques from his military days.

“We saw similar cutting patterns. One of the trauma surgeons was ex-military and recognised the methods.”

Adrian seemed to accept this explanation, though something in his gaze suggested he was filing away the information for future consideration.

“What else can you tell me from the body?” he asked, gesturing for me to continue my examination.

I forced myself to look more closely, separating the human horror from the medical evidence. “The killer was right-handed, approximately six foot tall based on the angle of the cuts. The carving was done with a curved blade, possibly a karambit or similar tactical knife.”

I pointed to a distinctive bruise pattern on the victim's face. “He was struck with a ringed hand before death. The impression there—that's from a signet ring or similar.”

Adrian leaned closer, studying the mark I'd indicated. Something flashed across his features too quickly to read, then disappeared behind his controlled mask.

“Have the body transported to our facility,” he instructed Viktor. “Full documentation of all wounds before disposal.”

The casual way he discussed “disposal” of what had been a living person hours ago sent a chill through me despite the room's heat. This was the reality of Adrian’s world—death as a business transaction, bodies as messages to be read and then discarded.

“What about the police investigation?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

Adrian's smile held no warmth. “There won't be one. At least, not one that finds anything useful.”

His power to make a murder investigation disappear should have shocked me more than it did. But after what I'd witnessed in the basement of this very club, my capacity for shock was wearing dangerously thin.

Hours later, Ravenswood's kitchen provided incongruous normalcy—gleaming copper pots hanging above a massive island, state-of-the-art appliances standing ready for the breakfast none of us had the stomach to eat.

I mechanically prepared tea, the familiar ritual settling my nerves after the night's horrors.

Dominic had been transported to a private medical facility that rivalled any hospital I'd worked in, staffed by doctors who asked no questions about shrapnel wounds at three in the morning.

I'd accompanied him there, establishing treatment protocols before returning to Ravenswood with Adrian's convoy.

Now, as false dawn crept through the windows, I found myself moving through the motions of normality while Adrian spoke quietly with a distinguished grey-haired man who'd arrived in an unmarked car. Their conversation stopped abruptly when I approached with the tea tray.

“Harrison Blackwood, our financial director,” Adrian introduced with unusual formality. “Mr. Blackwood, this is Noah Hastings, my personal medical consultant.”

The older man rose smoothly, offering a handshake that was perfectly calibrated—firm but not aggressive. His manicured appearance and bespoke suit contrasted sharply with Adrian's blood-spattered shirt and my rumpled medical scrubs.

“A pleasure, Mr. Hastings,” Harrison said, his accent pure old-money British, the kind that spoke of public schools and inherited privilege. “I've heard impressive things about your performance tonight.”

I accepted his handshake, noting the heavy signet ring on his left hand. Something about it triggered a memory I couldn't quite place, a detail hovering just beyond conscious recognition.

“Your assistance tonight was invaluable,” Harrison continued, studying me with unsettling intensity. “Adrian has always had an eye for talent. Though I admit I'm curious how he convinced someone with your... ethical background... to join our enterprise.”

The implied question hung in the air between us, wrapped in polite phrasing but sharp underneath. I met his calculated assessment directly, refusing to be intimidated despite my exhaustion.

“Family obligations can require compromise,” I replied simply.

Something flickered in Harrison's expression—recognition, perhaps, or unexpected respect. Adrian watched our interaction with unreadable focus, something almost predatory in his stillness.

“The Turner situation requires immediate response,” Harrison stated, returning his attention to Adrian. “I've prepared options for your review.”

As they spoke, the detail that had been nagging at me suddenly clicked into place. Harrison's signet ring matched the distinctive bruise pattern I'd seen on the dead bartender's face. The specific shape of the crest, the size, the positioning—it was too similar to be coincidence.

My breath caught, the observation lodging like a splinter in my mind. It was impossible, surely. Harrison was Adrian's financial director, his trusted advisor. He wouldn't be involved with the group that had attacked The Raven's Nest.

Yet the evidence was literally on his hand.

I busied myself with pouring tea, mind racing with implications. If Harrison was connected to the attack, did Adrian know? Was this some elaborate internal power struggle I'd stumbled into? Or worse, was Harrison playing both sides without Adrian's knowledge?

“Mr. Hastings appears to be falling asleep on his feet,” Harrison observed with a thin smile. “Perhaps medical consultants require rest like ordinary mortals.”

“Noah has earned his rest,” Adrian replied, the use of my first name striking in its casual intimacy. “His skills proved exceptionally valuable tonight.”

The compliment shouldn't have warmed me, not after everything I'd seen, everything Adrian was and represented. Yet some pathetic part of me responded to the approval, a Pavlovian reaction I despised even as I felt it.

“I should check on Dominic,” I said, needing to escape the room and sort through my thoughts. “The antibiotics need monitoring. ”

“Of course,” Adrian nodded. “Viktor will drive you. I expect a full report on Dominic's condition upon your return.”

The dismissal was clear, though wrapped in medical necessity. As I turned to leave, Harrison's voice stopped me.

“Mr. Hastings,” he called, that assessing gaze fixed on me once more. “In my experience, family obligations make for complicated loyalties. Be careful where you place yours.”

The warning—for it could only be interpreted as such—sent a chill down my spine. I nodded stiffly and left, the weight of Harrison's signet ring burning in my memory.

In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, suddenly lightheaded with exhaustion and the implications of what I might have discovered. If Harrison was somehow connected to the Wolves, to the attack on The Raven's Nest, then I was sitting on information that could get me killed.

Knowledge was dangerous in Adrian's world. I'd learned that much already.

Yet keeping this observation to myself felt equally dangerous. If Adrian was being betrayed by someone he trusted, someone close enough to have insider knowledge of club operations and security protocols...

“You look like shit, doc,” Viktor observed, appearing silently beside me with his usual uncanny timing. “Car's ready when you are.”

I straightened, forcing composure. “Viktor, how long has Harrison worked for Adrian?”

The question seemed to surprise him, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Since before Mr. Calloway took control. He was financial advisor to Adrian's father, then grandfather after the fire.”

“The fire?” I repeated, seizing on the casual reference to something I'd only seen hints of in Adrian's medical records.

Viktor's expression closed immediately. “Not my story to tell. But Harrison was there after. Helped rebuild the family business when Adrian was still a child.”

That long-standing connection made my suspicion seem even more far-fetched. Yet the matching ring mark couldn't be dismissed as coincidence.

“Why do you ask about Harrison?” Viktor pressed, too perceptive to let my question slide.

I hesitated, torn between sharing my observation and keeping it to myself until I had more evidence. But if Harrison truly was involved with the Wolves, every moment of silence potentially put Adrian and his people—including Dominic, currently fighting infection from his wounds—at greater risk.

“The bruise on the bartender's face,” I said carefully. “It matches Harrison's signet ring. Exactly.”

Viktor's face revealed nothing, but a new tension radiated from him, a predatory stillness that reminded me uncomfortably of Adrian.

“You're certain?” he asked quietly.

“I've been treating wound patterns for years,” I replied. “The size, shape, distinctive crest detail—it's the same ring that made that mark.”

Viktor was silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving mine. “You tell anyone else this observation?”

“No.”

He nodded once. “Keep it that way. For now.”

Before I could ask what he planned to do with this information, he was already moving toward the kitchen door, his usual measured gait now carrying a new urgency.

Left alone in the hallway, I sagged against the wall, the night's horrors and revelations crashing over me in waves. In less than a week, I'd gone from witnessing torture to treating victims of a gang war to potentially identifying a traitor in Adrian's inner circle .

And somewhere in between, I'd felt Adrian's hand slide down my bare chest with an intent that had nothing to do with punishment and everything to do with possession.

The memory of that touch lingered beneath all the blood and violence, a different kind of danger that frightened me in ways I wasn't ready to examine.

What the fuck had I gotten myself into? And how much deeper would I be pulled before this year was over?