Page 49 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“You're different,” she observed immediately, artist's perception cutting through my careful facade like a scalpel through skin. “Something's changed since last week.”
Her assessing gaze tracked the high collar I'd selected specifically to hide Adrian's marks, and I felt heat creep up my neck despite my best efforts to remain composed.
Isabelle had always been able to read me like an open book, a skill that had served her well as an artist but made her dangerous as a sister.
“The new treatment protocol is working exceptionally well,” I deflected, reviewing her medical chart with exaggerated attention. “Your cellular markers show seventy percent improvement. Dr. Whitman is considering you for the experimental regenerative therapy trials.”
The deflection was textbook, the kind of professional distance I'd perfected over years of dealing with difficult patients and their families. But Isabelle wasn't having any of it, her hand capturing mine and halting my medical performance with gentle but implacable force.
“I'm not talking about my treatment, Noah,” she said quietly, her voice carrying the particular quality it got when she was seeing through my bullshit. “I'm talking about you. There's something... intense... about your energy. Like you're vibrating at a different frequency.”
Her perception had always been unnervingly accurate, the flip side of the artistic sensitivity that made her work so compelling. She could read emotions in the tilt of someone's head, see stories in the way they held their shoulders. And right now, she was reading me like a fucking billboard.
“It's complicated,” I finally admitted, sinking into the visitor's chair beside her bed with a weariness that went bone-deep. “Adrian is not just my employer. It's become... physical.”
The admission emerged barely audible, professional boundaries and personal pride struggling against unexpected need for my sister's understanding.
I'd never talked to Isabelle about my sex life before—it had never seemed relevant, and the few relationships I'd managed had been brief, sterile affairs that barely qualified as meaningful.
This was different. This felt like a confession.
“Physical how?” she asked, and there was no judgement in her voice, just concern and the particular brand of protectiveness that had always existed between us despite our reversed roles as caregiver and patient.
“Physical like I've let him fuck me more than twice in the last twenty-four hours,” I said bluntly, because there was no point in sugar-coating it now. “Physical like I can't stop thinking about it. Physical like my body responds to him in ways that go against every rational thought in my head.”
Isabelle was quiet for a long moment, processing this information with the same careful consideration she brought to her art. “Do you want to?”
“Want to what?”
“Stop thinking about it,” she clarified, her eyes never leaving my face. “You say it goes against rational thought, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's wrong. Just that it's... outside your usual framework.”
Leave it to my little sister to cut straight to the heart of things. “I don't know,” I admitted. “Part of me thinks I should be horrified by what's happening. By what I'm becoming. But another part of me...”
“Another part of you likes it,” she finished when I trailed off. “Likes him. Likes the way he makes you feel.”
“He's dangerous, Izzy. Really dangerous. He's done things—” I stopped myself before I could say too much, before I could burden her with the knowledge of exactly what Adrian was capable of. “He's not a good man.”
“Good is relative,” she said with a shrug that reminded me she was still only twenty-two, still young enough to believe in moral ambiguity as romantic adventure. “And dangerous doesn't necessarily mean wrong. Sometimes dangerous is exactly what we need.”
“He could destroy me,” I said quietly, voicing the fear that had been clawing at my chest since last night. “Completely. If I let myself fall for him, if I give him that kind of power over me, he could break me in ways I might never recover from.”
“And if you don't let yourself fall?” she challenged. “If you keep holding back, keep trying to maintain professional distance from someone who's already under your skin? What kind of life is that?”
I found myself without a good answer. Because the truth was that I was already falling, had been falling since that first night when he'd touched my scars with unexpected gentleness.
The only question was whether I'd hit the ground with enough force to shatter, or if there might be something soft enough to catch me at the bottom.
“I'm scared,” I admitted, the words barely audible in the sterile hospital air.
“Of course you are,” Isabelle said, squeezing my hand with surprising strength. “But you've been scared before, and you've always found a way through. The difference is that this time, you're not alone.”
“Adrian isn't exactly reliable emotional support,” I pointed out wryly .
“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But he’s something. And something is better than the nothing you’ve been living with for the past five years.”
A quiet settled over the hospital room, broken only by the steady beep of monitors and the distant shuffle of nurses’ shoes in the hallway. Isabelle traced the hem of her blanket, searching my face for a moment—her eyes soft, uncertain.
“Just... be careful,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I need you intact, whatever happens. You’re the only family I have left.”
“You're not going to lose me,” I promised, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them. Because the truth was that I wasn't sure who I was becoming, or how much of the old Noah would survive this transformation.
I exited the hospital elevator into the parking garage, mentally preparing for Viktor's stoic presence and the ride back to Ravenswood. Instead, Harrison awaited beside a different luxury vehicle, his silver hair gleaming under fluorescent lights, a driver standing at courteous attention nearby.
“Mr. Hastings,” Harrison greeted with practiced warmth, though his eyes remained calculating. “I thought we might have a private conversation during the drive back. Adrian is occupied with the Turner situation this afternoon.”
The invitation carried unmistakable command despite its cordial delivery, and I found myself nodding agreement before I'd fully processed the implications.
Something about Harrison's presence triggered my instincts in ways I couldn't quite name—not immediate danger, but something subtler and potentially more threatening.
The car's interior provided luxurious isolation, privacy glass separating us from the driver as London traffic crawled around us with typical mid-afternoon sluggishness.
I maintained careful silence, medical training transforming anxiety into observational focus.
Harrison's movements were perfectly controlled, each gesture calculated for maximum impact.
“Adrian has always had certain... vulnerabilities,” Harrison began, studying me with the same clinical assessment I'd learned to recognize in fellow medical professionals.
“His childhood trauma created particular psychological patterns. Attachment issues. Abandonment sensitivity. Trust pathologies that clever individuals might exploit.”
The words hung in the air like smoke, implications clear even without direct accusation. Harrison was suggesting that I was exploiting Adrian's psychological damage for personal gain, using sex and emotional manipulation to secure my position.
“Your recent elevation to his bed represents unprecedented access,” Harrison continued smoothly. “Some might consider it remarkable progress for someone with your background and limited time in his organisation.”
The statement wrapped accusation in polite observation, the threat beneath sophisticated veneer unmistakable. I felt my hackles rise, professional pride stinging under the implication that I was some kind of opportunistic whore trading sex for security.
“I'm a nurse who made a deal to save my sister,” I responded carefully, maintaining direct eye contact despite Harrison's intimidation attempt. “Adrian needed medical expertise. The rest evolved organically. There's no agenda.”
Harrison's laugh held genuine amusement, the sound grating against my nerves like fingernails on blackboard. “Everyone has an agenda, Mr. Hastings. Adrian's obligation to protect your sister creates exploitable vulnerability. Your newfound... intimacy... provides unique leverage. ”
His manicured fingers adjusted perfect cuffs, signet ring catching light in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of the bruise pattern I'd observed on the murdered bartender. The detail that had first made me suspicious of Harrison's involvement in the Turner attacks.
“You're suggesting I would manipulate Adrian through sex,” I stated bluntly, professional facade cracking under insulting implication. “That's rather simplistic psychology for someone of your obvious sophistication.”
“I'm suggesting mutual benefit,” Harrison corrected smoothly, and there was something predatory in his smile that made my skin crawl. “Adrian's fixation on Hayes' intelligence operation has created blind spots. His emotional involvement with you compounds the vulnerability.”
The words sent chill racing down my spine as Harrison's true purpose became clear. This wasn't just character assassination—it was recruitment. He was testing my loyalty to Adrian, probing for weaknesses he could exploit.
“I could ensure your sister's permanent care,” Harrison continued, voice dropping to barely above whisper. “Independent of Adrian's volatile whims. Full treatment funding through established medical foundations. No questions asked, no contracts requiring... intimate services.”