Page 37 of The Beast's Broken Angel
DEADLY MERCY
NOAH
I 'd been summoned to the basement twenty minutes after Viktor's men dragged Hayes back from the groundskeeper's cottage. He was conscious but pale from blood loss, the bullet wound in his thigh still seeping despite the rough field dressing someone had applied.
My hands stayed steady despite the chaos raging inside my skull, needle diving through Hayes' flesh like I was mending a torn shirt instead of patching up the bastard who'd manipulated my sister's illness for Queen and country.
Blood seeped through the gauze as I worked, each stitch pulling skin together that should have been left to rot for what he'd done to us.
To me. To Isabelle. The steady rhythm of my movements was automatic, muscle memory from years of trauma care overriding the part of my brain that wanted to let the fucker bleed out on Ravenswood's basement floor.
“He'll need antibiotics to prevent infection,” I said without looking up. Professional detachment was the only thing keeping me functional right now, a thin wall between composure and the complete mental breakdown that lurked just beneath the surface.
Adrian watched from the doorway like a predator sizing up wounded prey, all coiled muscle and contained violence despite his relaxed posture.
The man could make leaning against a wall look threatening, and right now, with Hayes' blood under my fingernails and the memory of my own interrogation still fresh, everything about him screamed danger.
“Interesting choice,” he noted, voice carrying that particular edge that meant someone was about to get hurt. “Providing optimal care to the man who weaponised your sister's illness for operational advantage.”
I disposed of the bloodied instruments with methodical care, each movement precise despite the tremor in my hands that I hoped he couldn't see. “I took an oath. Medical ethics don't have convenient exceptions.”
The words came out automatically, professional reflex that had been drilled into me through years of training.
But even as I said them, my mind was racing through everything Hayes had revealed during his interrogation.
Harrison as the real traitor. Three years of investigation.
Financial anomalies that painted the Calloway empire in a different light entirely.
“Ethics are luxury few can afford,” Adrian countered, moving closer to examine my handiwork. His fingers brushed mine as we both reached for the bandage roll, casual contact that sent electricity racing up my arm despite the anger still churning in my gut.
The touch lasted longer than necessary, his scarred skin warm against mine, and I found myself frozen between pulling away and leaning into the contact.
This was the man who'd strapped me to a chair and threatened to carve truth from my flesh.
The same man who'd touched my lip like I was something precious, who'd made my pulse race with nothing more than proximity and possibility.
Adrian continued, voice dropping lower as his thumb traced across my knuckles. “Go clean up and make yourself presentable.”
It wasn't a request.
Adrian debriefed me privately afterward, sharing Hayes' intelligence about Harrison's long-term manipulation.
We agreed to maintain normal operations while gathering evidence, but the weight of that knowledge sat heavy between us.
Harrison wasn't just stealing money—he'd been systematically positioning himself to inherit control of the entire Calloway empire.
Sleep was a joke after the night we'd had.
I paced my quarters like a caged animal, mind cycling through the same bloody carousel of revelations and betrayals until I thought I might go mental from the repetition.
Hayes' manipulation. My own torture. The vindication that came too late to erase the memory of Adrian's hands on my body, extracting confessions and something darker that I wasn't ready to name.
The sound of my door opening without so much as a knock made me spin around, heart hammering against my ribs. Adrian stood in the doorway with a tumbler of what looked like expensive scotch, his presence filling the space like smoke from a fire you can't quite see yet.
“Your suspicions about Harrison,” he said without preamble, stepping into my room like he owned it. Which, technically, he did. “Explain them.”
The command came softer than usual, almost conversational, but there was steel underneath the silk. I accepted the offered drink despite every instinct screaming that accepting anything from this man was dangerous territory.
“It's medical training,” I explained cautiously, the scotch burning down my throat like liquid courage. “We're taught to recognise inconsistencies between stated symptoms and physical indicators. Harrison's reactions when you mentioned financial investigations showed classic deception markers.”
Adrian studied me with that unnerving intensity that made me feel like a specimen under a microscope. The dim lighting in my room created shadows that carved his scarred features into something even more predatory, all sharp angles and dangerous curves.
“Harrison has been manipulating family financial structures for years. The Turner situation was orchestrated to eliminate rivals while appearing to defend Calloway interests.” He said, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
Adrian was sharing intelligence with me, treating me like a confidant instead of property. The shift was subtle but seismic, changing the entire dynamic of our fucked-up relationship.
“Why tell me this?” I questioned, pulse quickening as he moved closer. The space between us charged with the same electricity that had been building since our first meeting in the hospital. “I'm just property according to our contract. Medical equipment with inconvenient ethical standards.”
The bitter reminder of my status came out sharper than I'd intended, revealing wounds that were still bleeding despite his vindication of my innocence. The basement interrogation had left marks that went deeper than skin, and we both knew it.
But instead of the cold dismissal I expected, something shifted in Adrian's expression. The mask of calculated indifference cracked, revealing glimpses of something more human underneath.
“You've proven unexpectedly valuable beyond medical expertise,” he acknowledged, closing the distance between us with predatory grace.
The usual coldness had receded, replaced by something more dangerous and infinitely more magnetic.
“Your perspective identified Harrison's deception when my judgement was compromised.”
I backed away instinctively, spine hitting the bedroom wall with nowhere else to retreat. Adrian followed like he was drawn by gravity, effectively trapping me with proximity rather than physical restraint.
“Bed,” he commanded, voice rough with want. “Now.”
I moved to the mattress on unsteady legs, heart hammering as he followed. When I turned to face him, he was already removing his jacket with deliberate precision.
The heat radiating from his body was overwhelming, making it hard to think past the primal awareness of his presence.
“That doesn't explain why you're here,” I challenged, though my voice came out rougher than intended. “In my room. At this hour. Sharing classified intelligence with the bloke you tortured less than twelve hours ago.”
The reminder made him flinch, almost imperceptible but there nonetheless. The first genuine regret I'd witnessed from Adrian, and it did something dangerous to my resolve.
“Harrison's betrayal requires careful handling,” he explained, voice lowering to barely above a whisper.
His breath was warm against my skin, scotch and mint and something darker underneath.
“His financial control extends through multiple operations. Removing him immediately would destabilise our entire structure.”
I could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that I could count his eyelashes, map the topology of scars that carved stories across his skin. Close enough that when he breathed, I breathed, our rhythms synchronising despite every rational thought screaming warnings.
“I need someone I can trust absolutely during the transition,” he continued, and there was something vulnerable in his voice that I'd never heard before. Something that made my chest tight with emotions I wasn't ready to examine.
“And you trust me?” I asked incredulously, though the question came out breathier than I'd intended. “After accusing me of being a spy? After the basement? After everything you put me through?”
His hand came up slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away, but I found myself frozen as his scarred fingers traced the still-healing cut on my lip from Marcus's strike. The touch was feather-light, almost reverent, completely at odds with the violence those same hands had inflicted.
“I'm offering elevated position,” he stated, thumb brushing across my lower lip with devastating precision. “Not just medical provider. Strategic advisor with protected status.”
The words should have meant something, should have registered as the significant promotion they represented.
But all I could focus on was the way his touch made my skin burn, the way my pulse hammered against my throat, the way my body responded to his proximity despite every logical reason to hate him.
“No one touches what's mine, Noah,” he continued, and the possessive declaration combined with the first-name usage sent heat coursing through my veins like molten metal.
And then his lips replaced his fingers against my injured mouth, and the world exploded into sensation.
The kiss tasted of scotch and blood and dangerous possibility, a line crossed that could never be redrawn. It was soft at first, almost questioning, but when I didn't pull away—couldn't pull away—it deepened into something hungrier, more demanding.