Page 48 of The Beast's Broken Angel

CONFLICTED LOYALTIES

NOAH

P ossessive bruises painted my collarbone in shades of purple and blue, fingerprint shadows on my hips where Adrian had gripped me while he fucked me. The sight should have horrified me—visible proof of how far I'd fallen from the ethical standards that had once defined my life.

Instead, heat pooled low in my gut as I remembered exactly how each mark had been created.

The way Adrian's mouth had worked against my throat, sucking and biting with methodical intent.

The bruising grip of his hands as he'd held me in place, taking what he wanted with a possessiveness that made my pulse stutter even in memory.

Christ, what was wrong with me?

Steam from the shower couldn’t wash away the confusion clouding rational thought.

Days ago, Adrian had me tortured in a basement interrogation room, suspecting me of betrayal.

Since then, everything had changed with dizzying speed - first tentative surrender, then our conversation where I'd finally admitted what we both knew, and now this afternoon's claiming against his study door.

Each encounter had pushed boundaries I'd never imagined I'd be willing to cross.

The whiplash progression defied logical explanation, but my body didn’t seem to care about logic. Every nerve ending still hummed with the memory of his touch, skin hypersensitive in ways that made the simple act of putting on clothes feel like foreplay.

Water beat down on my shoulders, hot and relentless, but it did nothing to distract me from the ache building in my core.

I pressed my palms flat against the slick tile wall, tilting my head forward as a low, frustrated noise escaped me.

The images wouldn’t stop—Adrian’s voice rough against my ear, his breath hot as he growled for me to stay still.

The way he’d dragged his teeth over the curve of my neck before biting down hard enough to leave proof. Proof that I was his.

And fuck, that word. His.

It shouldn’t make my cock twitch the way it did.

But it did.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hating how easily my body betrayed me. My hand drifted down almost involuntarily, fingers wrapping around the weight of my arousal with a shaky breath. I wasn’t thinking. Thinking would only drag me back into the quagmire of wrongness that coated everything between us.

So I didn’t think. I felt .

Each stroke was a memory—Adrian’s teeth scraping skin, the low growl of his approval when I moaned without meaning to. His hands pinning mine to the wall. The raw hunger in his gaze like he could devour me whole and wouldn’t regret a single bite.

I stroked my cock with a grip that bordered on punishing, chasing a phantom that lived only in the space between memory and need.

Every slide of my fist brought with it another flash—Adrian’s teeth sinking into my shoulder, his voice thick with hunger as he ordered me to stay still while he pushed inside.

My hole clenched at the memory, aching, empty, desperate to be filled. I swore under my breath, tilting my hips forward, needing friction, needing something to ease the pressure building low in my gut.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered, eyes squeezed shut.

I could feel him—his cock stretching me open, slow and relentless, the burn of it searing through me until I was gasping his name like a prayer.

The first time he took me raw against that goddamn desk, he didn’t ask.

He claimed . And I’d let him. I’d fucking begged.

The way he growled, “This hole’s mine,” like he was carving the words into my skin with every thrust.

I whimpered at the thought, my cock twitching in my hand.

I didn’t need porn, didn’t need imagination—I had the truth of it etched into every bruised nerve, every mark he’d left behind.

I remembered the way he’d fucked me like I was something he owned.

Like he was daring the world to take me from him.

My fingers slipped lower, teasing the rim of my hole with slick need. I gasped, nearly doubling over from how sensitive I was. Just one brush of touch and my body was lighting up like he’d walked into the room.

I was soaked with sweat, hand working my cock in long, messy strokes as I toyed myself with the other, slipping one finger in and groaning at the stretch.

It wasn’t enough. Not even close. But it gave me just enough to pretend he was there, holding me down, forcing my legs apart so he could see everything.

“Fuck, Adrian,” I breathed, voice breaking as I imagined his cock splitting me open again. That thick, perfect drag of him bottoming out inside me, until I was trembling and ruined and wrecked.

I shoved another finger in, teeth sinking into my lip as I rocked against my hand, fucking myself as I pumped my cock harder, faster.

My thighs were shaking now, the tile slick beneath my feet, the steam around me suffocating—but all I could think about was the way he’d grabbed my hips and pounded into me like I was nothing but a hole to fill.

And I’d loved it.

I didn’t just want his cock—I wanted the way he looked at me when he was inside me, like he was home. Like I was the one place he didn’t have to pretend.

I moaned, the sound echoing in the shower, obscene and broken, as I pushed myself harder, chasing that edge with everything I had. My cock was throbbing, flushed and leaking, my hole aching around the stretch of my fingers.

I came with a choked cry, back arching, muscles locking as I spilled over my hand and onto the tile. It felt endless—wave after wave crashing through me until I collapsed forward, panting against the wall, both hands braced to keep from falling apart completely.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

Because no matter how deep I fucked my fingers in, no matter how hard I stroked my cock, nothing came close to the way he took me. The way he used me. The way he kissed me afterward, like I was something precious, even when he’d just fucked me raw.

I stayed like that, breathing hard, cum cooling on my stomach, water washing everything down the drain.

But the ache in my hole lingered. The need. The memory of his cock, his voice, his claim.

I hated myself for wanting it again .

And I knew— knew —the moment he touched me next, I’d let him do it all over again.

Shame prickled along the edges of my spine, but it only added to the burn. I wanted to hate it. To hate him. To be disgusted with myself for craving more.

But I wasn’t. Not really.

The slick slide of my hand quickened, jaw clenched as my knees buckled slightly under the weight of it all.

I angled my hips forward, pressing against the cool tile as if I could anchor myself to something real.

But there was no anchor. Just sensation.

Just the echo of Adrian’s touch—claiming, unapologetic, dominant.

I came with a strangled gasp, forehead knocking against the wall as the tension snapped loose. My release painted the tile in uneven streaks, already sliding down toward the drain, as if it could wash away the evidence.

But the guilt stayed. The hunger stayed.

Even as I leaned there, trembling and spent beneath the stream of hot water, I couldn’t shake the truth of it: Adrian had carved himself into me. With teeth and hands and a dangerous kind of tenderness that made it impossible to pretend it was just lust.

I hated that I wanted more.

I hated that I didn’t hate him nearly enough.

And worst of all?

I knew he’d do it again.

And I wasn’t sure I’d stop him.

The bedroom beyond the bathroom door held evidence of our encounter—scattered clothing forming a trail from the door to the bed, rumpled sheets that still smelled like sex and Adrian's expensive cologne.

But Adrian himself was conspicuously absent, having disappeared after our shared shower with nothing more than a possessive kiss and a promise .

The pattern was emerging with painful clarity.

Possession without commitment, physical claiming followed by emotional distance.

I was good enough to fuck, but not good enough to stay with afterward.

The realisation stung more than it should have, considering I'd known exactly what I was getting into when I'd let him back me against that door.

My medical training provided unwelcome psychological analysis—classic trauma bonding, Stockholm response, power imbalance creating artificial attachment.

The clinical explanation should have been reassuring, providing rational framework for what felt like madness.

Instead, it failed to address the undeniable heat that ignited my body at Adrian's touch, the way professional ethics evaporated when pinned beneath those demanding hands.

I'd always prided myself on being rational, on making decisions based on logic rather than emotion.

But logic had fuck all to do with the way my body responded to Adrian Calloway, the way my pulse quickened when he entered a room, the way I found myself craving his attention like a drug I couldn't get enough of.

The worst part was that I couldn't even blame the Stockholm syndrome entirely.

The attraction had been there from the beginning, from that first night in the hospital.

Even when I'd hated him, even when I'd been terrified of him, there had been something magnetic about his presence that I couldn't deny.

Now that I'd had a taste of what it felt like to be claimed by him completely, the thought of going back to professional distance felt impossible.

Isabelle's hospital room had transformed into something resembling an art studio, medical equipment sharing space with canvases depicting increasingly complex themes.

Her improving health manifested in vibrant colours replacing the monochromatic despair of her earlier work, hope bleeding through brushstrokes in ways that made my chest tight with emotion.