Page 32 of The Beast's Broken Angel

WRATH AND RUIN

ADRIAN

I watched the security feeds from my office, fingers drumming against the mahogany desk as Noah moved through the east wing corridor with his usual purposeful stride.

Medical supplies balanced in his arms, that focused expression he wore when treating patients, completely unaware that in five minutes his world was about to collapse around him.

I knew he was innocent. Every instinct screamed it, every moment we'd shared proved Harrison's accusations were fabricated lies designed to misdirect my suspicions.

But knowing and being absolutely certain were different beasts entirely, and in my world, that sliver of doubt could get us both killed.

Harrison stood behind me, radiating satisfaction as he watched his carefully orchestrated trap spring shut. “Painful, but necessary,” he murmured with paternal sympathy. “Better to discover betrayal now than during our next vulnerability.”

The condescending tone grated against my nerves, but I kept my expression neutral. Harrison needed to believe his manipulation was working, that I was wrestling with emotional attachment rather than seeing through his elaborate frame job.

“Viktor, Marcus,” I spoke into the intercom, voice deliberately cold. “Bring him down.”

On screen, Viktor and Marcus appeared at either end of the corridor like the closing jaws of a vice.

Noah's confusion looked genuine—too genuine, and that's what would have unsettled me if I hadn't already spotted the inconsistencies in Harrison's evidence.

The way his face shifted from mild curiosity to dawning alarm, the instinctive step backward when he registered the threat.

“What's going on?” Noah's voice crackled through the security system, bewildered rather than defiant. “Viktor, what are you doing?”

Viktor didn't answer, just kept advancing with the methodical pace of a predator who'd cornered prey countless times before. Behind him, Marcus emerged from the opposite direction, military coordination leaving no escape routes.

The medical supplies scattered across marble floors as Viktor's massive frame blocked Noah's retreat. Bandages and antiseptic bottles rolling like dice across stone that had witnessed countless betrayals over the decades.

“Secure him properly,” I instructed, studying Noah's face on the monitors while performing for Harrison's benefit. “I need him able to answer questions.”

Noah tried to back against the wall, probably hoping to de-escalate through communication. “There's been some kind of mistake,” he said, voice steady despite the circumstances. “Whatever you think I've done?—”

“No mistake,” Viktor interrupted, accent thick with practiced menace. “You come now. No resistance.”

That's when Noah's composure cracked, and I felt an unexpected surge of something complex watching him fight despite impossible odds. “Fuck that,” he snarled, surprising me with the venom in his voice. “I'm not going anywhere until someone explains what the hell is happening.”

He tried to push past Viktor—desperation rather than tactical thinking. The Russian caught his wrist with casual ease, twisting Noah's arm behind his back with controlled force that could either restrain or shatter bones depending on pressure applied.

“Don't make this harder than necessary,” Viktor advised, voice almost gentle despite the violence implicit in his grip.

Noah struggled against the hold, cursing in language that would have scandalized his hospital colleagues. The healer's oath apparently forgotten in the face of impending violence, and part of me admired his refusal to go quietly.

That's when Marcus lost patience. The ex-Marine struck without warning, the back of his hand connecting with Noah's face in a blow that split his lip and sent blood spraying across pristine white walls.

The sudden violence triggered something primal in my chest—possessive rage that caught me off guard. Only I should mark what belonged to me. Only I had the right to draw Noah's blood, to leave bruises on that unmarked skin, to reduce him to desperate submission.

“Bring him to the basement,” I ordered, voice rougher than intended. “Intact. I need him able to answer questions.”

The amendment drew Viktor's sharp glance toward the camera, his expression unreadable but knowing. Few subjects arrived intact in the basement interrogation room. Most came broken, bloodied, already halfway to confession before the real work began.

“Adrian!” Noah shouted at the cameras as Viktor hauled him toward the service elevator. “Whatever you think I've done, you're wrong! I've never betrayed you! I wouldn't! ”

The desperation in his voice sent another unwelcome jolt through my chest. Either he was still trying to manipulate me, or he genuinely believed in his innocence. The problem was, I couldn't let Harrison see which interpretation I favoured.

“Betrayal wounds deepest when unexpected,” Harrison offered, his clinical detachment perfectly calculated. “Your interest in him clouded usual judgment. Understandable, but dangerous.”

“My judgment is fine,” I replied curtly, standing to retrieve my suit jacket. “I just need to be certain.”

“Of course,” Harrison agreed, but something in his voice suggested he found my defensive reaction telling. “Shall I accompany you? Might need objective perspective while you work on him.”

The offer was reasonable, even sensible given my supposed emotional investment. But something about Harrison's eagerness to observe set my instincts on edge. He wanted to witness Noah's breaking, wanted to see his manipulation succeed.

“I'll handle this alone,” I decided. “Your presence might complicate matters.”

Harrison's nod was understanding, but I caught the brief flash of disappointment before he masked it. “As you wish.”

The basement felt like descending into hell itself. Each concrete step echoed off soundproof walls that had swallowed countless screams over the decades, the fluorescent lights buzzing with that particular frequency designed to fray nerves before the real work began.

The interrogation room was a masterpiece of psychological warfare. Drain-lined floors for easy cleanup. Specialised equipment arranged on surgical trays, promising pain beyond imagining for those who refused to cooperate.

Viktor had already secured Noah to the steel chair bolted at the room's centre when I entered, the restraints heavy-duty leather and steel designed to hold men much larger and stronger.

Noah tested them anyway, wrists already chafing against bonds that wouldn't yield to anything less than industrial cutters.

I adjusted the single overhead light with methodical precision, harsh illumination creating dramatic shadows that transformed familiar features into something alien and threatening.

The effect was calculated—strip away humanity, reduce the subject to nothing more than flesh and bone containing information that needed extraction.

“Do you recognise these tools?” I began, voice deliberately controlled as I removed my suit jacket and hung it on the provided hook. Rolling up my sleeves with mechanical care, I let Noah catalog the implements of persuasion arrayed before us.

Scalpels for delicate work. Pliers for crude extraction.

Electrical devices that could turn nerve endings into instruments of exquisite torture.

Chemical compounds that transformed pain receptors into symphonies of suffering.

A complete orchestra of agony, refined through decades of use against enemies who'd thought themselves unbreakable.

“Given your medical background,” I continued, selecting a thin blade and testing its edge against my thumb, “you understand what each one does to human flesh.”

Blood welled up bright crimson against scarred skin, and Noah's eyes tracked the movement with professional assessment even as terror crept into his expression.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Adrian?” he demanded, voice cracking slightly. The blood from his split lip had stained his shirt collar—the same blue button-down I'd watched him put on that morning, appreciating how the colour brought out his eyes.

All of it calculated performance. All of it manipulation designed to create the emotional vulnerability that would allow him to operate within my defences.

Except it wasn't. I knew it wasn't.

“Your infiltration was professionally done,” I acknowledged, moving closer until he could see the blade clearly. “Medical credentials provided perfect cover. Even I had doubts about my suspicions.”

The lie tasted like poison on my tongue, but it was necessary. I needed Harrison to believe his manipulation was working when I reported back to him.

“You think I'm what, a spy?” Noah's incredulity sounded authentic because it was authentic. “Working with the people who attacked your club? Are you completely fucking mental?”

The insult sparked genuine anger, cutting through the cold calculation I was trying to maintain. I stepped closer, letting him feel the heat of my presence, the weight of barely controlled violence.

“Careful, Noah,” I said softly, voice carrying the promise of pain I had no intention of delivering. “Your situation is precarious enough without pushing me further.”

“This isn't a bloody courtroom, Adrian,” he shot back, desperation sharpening his voice. “This is you having lost your goddamn mind based on whatever lies someone's been feeding you.”

I moved behind his chair, letting the blade trace along his shoulder without breaking skin—cold steel through fabric, just a reminder of how easily I could draw blood if I chose. His pulse hammered against his throat, fear and confusion mixing in his scent .

“Then explain the security footage,” I said, knowing the footage was fabricated but needing to maintain the performance. “Explain your presence in my private office during the attack. Explain how you knew exactly where to find classified documents.”