Page 38 of The Beast's Broken Angel

I should have pushed him away. Should have remembered the basement, the chair, the casual way he'd discussed carving truth from my flesh. Should have maintained some shred of dignity, some remnant of self-preservation.

Instead, I kissed him back.

My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screamed warnings about Stockholm syndrome and power dynamics and the fundamental wrongness of wanting the man who'd made me bleed.

But my body had other ideas, responding to his touch like I'd been starving for contact and he was the first meal I'd seen in weeks.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, the silence was deafening.

“Fuck,” I whispered, the word barely audible but carrying the weight of everything we'd just changed between us.

Adrian's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want, and when he spoke, his voice was rougher than I'd ever heard it. “That's not regret I'm hearing, is it, Noah?”

I found myself trapped between honesty and self-preservation. Because the truth was that kissing Adrian Calloway felt like coming home and jumping off a cliff simultaneously. It felt like salvation and damnation wrapped in expensive fabric and scarred skin.

“I don't know what the fuck this is,” I admitted, because lying seemed pointless now. “You're a monster. You torture people. You kill people. You coerced me and used my sister and turned my life upside down.”

“Yes,” he agreed without flinching, thumb still tracing my lower lip like he was memorising the shape of it. “I am. I do. And yet here you are, kissing me back like you want more.”

It was true. Despite everything logical and moral and sane, I wanted him. Wanted this. Wanted to lose myself in the heat of his body and pretend that the world outside this room didn't exist.

“Why?” I asked, though I wasn't sure if I was asking him or myself. “Why do I want this? Why do you?”

“Because you see me,” he replied simply, and the vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache. “Not the scars, not the monster, not the reputation. You see what's underneath all that, and you're not afraid.”

“I should be afraid,” I said, even as my hands traced the line of his jaw, mapping scars and smooth skin with equal fascination. “Any sane person would be terrified of you.”

“But you're not sane, are you, Noah?” he murmured, pressing closer until there was no space left between us. “If you were, you'd have run the first night. You'd have found a way to escape, consequences be damned. But you didn't.”

He was right, and we both knew it. There had been opportunities—moments when the surveillance was lighter, when the guards were distracted, when I could have made a break for it.

But I'd stayed. Told myself it was for Isabelle, for the treatment she needed, but deep down I knew there was more to it.

I'd stayed because some twisted part of me wanted to be here. Wanted to be his.

The realisation should have horrified me. Instead, it felt like finally admitting a truth I'd been running from since our first meeting in the hospital trauma bay.

“This is fucked up,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, my hands were tangling in his hair, pulling him down for another kiss.

“Completely,” he agreed against my lips, but he kissed me anyway, deeper this time, hungrier, like he was trying to devour me whole.

And God help me, I let him .

Adrian kissed like he owned me. Like this was a claim, not a question. His mouth was all heat and hunger, his hands everywhere at once, gripping my hips, sliding under my shirt, dragging it up with one impatient tug before tossing it aside.

He didn’t stop to admire. He devoured.

His teeth grazed my throat, lips trailing heat down my chest. He paused at my nipple, flicking his tongue over it, then sucked hard enough to make my back arch. I gasped, clutching at his shoulders, and he smiled against my skin like he liked that sound. Then he did it again.

I shifted back on the mattress, propping myself on my elbows as he came over me. By the time he reached my waistband, I was already hard and aching.

“Off,” he growled, tugging at my pants. “Now.”

I lifted my hips and let him strip them away, underwear too. The air hit me and I shivered, not from cold, but from the way his eyes darkened as he looked at me, cock flushed and leaking, thighs already trembling with want.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re mine now, Noah. Every inch of you.”

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of leather cuffs. I blinked. I hadn’t even noticed him carrying them. They weren’t the novelty kind either. Heavy. Black. Real.

“Hands behind your back,” he said.

I obeyed without thinking, the tone of his voice leaving no room for anything else. He cuffed my wrists together in a smooth motion, firm but not cruel. The click of the buckle made my heart pound harder.

He brushed his thumb across my lower lip. “Let’s see what that mouth can do.”

I dropped to my knees in front of him. My hands were bound behind me, so I tilted my head up, brushing my cheek against the bulge in his pants before nuzzling it open with my nose.

He hissed as I dragged the zipper down with my teeth.

When I finally freed him, his cock was thick and hard, the head already wet.

“Go on,” he said. “Make it good.”

I opened my mouth and took him in slowly, sucking him down as far as I could. He groaned low and deep, hand curling in my hair, guiding me into a rhythm that matched the roll of his hips. I hollowed my cheeks, letting him fuck my mouth at his pace.

“Just like that,” he muttered. “God, you look good with your lips around my cock.”

I moaned around him, the vibration making his grip tighten. He fucked into my mouth, slow and controlled, eyes burning into mine. I let spit drip down my chin, let myself be used like he needed to see it. He pulled out with a wet pop, panting.

He tossed off his shirt and he moved to a bag I hadn't noticed by the nightstand and pulled out a leather crop. A leather crop. Black handle. Thin, flexible tip. He dragged it down my spine, not striking, just letting me feel it.

“You want this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered, breath catching.

He tested it on my ass first. A light flick, enough to sting, not enough to hurt. Then another. Harder. The sound was sharp and clean. My cock throbbed against the sheets and I moaned again.

“You're already so responsive,” he said, sliding slick fingers between my cheeks. “So ready for me.”

I nodded, helpless. Needy. Lost in it.

He tossed the crop aside and slicked his fingers with lube. Slid two inside me with no hesitation. Scissored them wide. Three. I cried out, hole clenching, cock twitching untouched beneath me.

“Stay open for me,” he growled.

He positioned me on my knees, wrists still bound behind my back. I heard the snap of a lube cap, felt the cool liquid against my entrance as he prepared himself.

When he finally pushed inside, it was with one brutal, perfect thrust. I shouted, back arching as he buried himself deep. He didn’t stop. He fucked into me like it was owed, like my body was his to take apart and put back together.

“Mine,” he said against my neck. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasped. “Fuck, Adrian, I’m yours.”

He reached around and stroked my cock in time with his thrusts, rough and unrelenting. The cuffs made it impossible to grab anything. I just had to take it. Had to feel everything he gave me.

He didn’t stop.

His hand moved in tandem with the relentless rhythm of his hips, stroking me with a brutal kind of tenderness that made my thighs shake.

The friction—his cock driving deep, his palm slick around mine—was too much and not enough all at once.

My mouth hung open, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.

I could hear everything. The wet slap of skin against skin. The choked curses falling from his mouth. The creak of the mattress under us. It was raw, visceral, all-consuming.

“Fucking perfect,” Adrian rasped, his voice fraying at the edges. “The way you take me—like you were made for this.”

Every filthy word sank beneath my skin, made my hole clench tighter around him, made my cock jerk helplessly in his grip. I couldn’t speak, not yet. All I could do was feel—each thrust stealing air from my lungs, each stroke of his hand pushing me closer to the edge .

But then… he slowed.

His hand stilled. His hips rolled instead of slammed, grinding in deeper, like he needed to feel every inch of where we connected. He leaned over me, weight pressing me into the sheets, and dragged his mouth along the back of my neck.

“You want to come, don’t you?” he whispered, voice like silk over broken glass. “You’re right there.”

I whimpered, nodding. My wrists strained against the cuffs, desperate for something—his hair, his skin, anything to anchor me.

He pulled out slowly, so fucking slowly, until only the tip remained, then drove back in with a groan that sounded more like a confession. “You don’t get to finish until I say so.”

The control in his tone made my spine arch. But there was something else beneath it now—a tremor, barely noticeable. Like he was holding himself back, like he was afraid that if he really let go, he’d ruin me.

“Adrian,” I breathed, throat raw. “Please.”

He stilled, buried deep inside me, and kissed the nape of my neck. Not rough. Not claiming. Just… soft.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, quieter now. “You ask like I wouldn’t already give you anything.”

I twisted slightly to look over my shoulder. His face was close—eyes blown wide, lips parted, flushed like he was barely holding himself together. His hand moved from my cock to my chest, palm flat over my heart.

“This,” he said, voice rough, “isn’t just about fucking. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

I swallowed hard. I should have said something. Should have stopped this before it became more than heat and desperation and dark, twisted need.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I said, “Then show me. ”