Page 51 of The Beast's Broken Angel
SAVAGE DEVOTION
ADRIAN
V iktor extracted the final bits of information from Isaiah, the interrogation methodology leaving the young gang leader barely recognisable as human.
The warehouse's industrial lighting cast harsh shadows across streaming blood, turning the concrete floor into abstract art painted in crimson and desperation.
Turner's screams had stopped an hour ago, voice box damaged beyond repair, but his eyes still tracked movement with the desperate awareness of prey that knows death is coming.
The youngest Turner brother had proven disappointingly fragile compared to his elder siblings, breaking under pressure that would have been considered foreplay by the standards I'd learned in this same room years earlier.
“The financial transfers came through Blackwood's tertiary accounts,” Viktor confirmed, wiping blood from specialised tools with methodical care.
His scarred hands moved with practised ease, cleaning instruments that had extracted truth more thoroughly than any legal proceeding ever could.
“Turner was instructed to target specific properties while leaving others conspicuously untouched. Exactly as you suspected.”
I studied Turner's ruined face with the clinical detachment of a man who'd seen such work countless times before.
The symmetry of his broken features was almost artistic, Viktor's handiwork displaying the kind of precision that came from decades of practice.
This wasn't just interrogation, it was a masterclass in applied violence.
“Document everything before disposal,” I instructed, checking my watch with practised nonchalance.
Noah should have returned from the estate grounds by now, Harrison's unexpected intervention in what should have been a simple walk triggering both suspicion and possessive fury that made my skin crawl with the need to hurt something.
The thought of Harrison's manicured hands anywhere near Noah sent cold rage slithering through my chest like ice water in my veins.
Twenty years of trust, twenty years of letting that silver-haired snake into my family's most intimate business.
The betrayal cut deeper than any blade, and Harrison would learn exactly what happened to those who crossed the Calloway name.
Dominic entered the interrogation area, moving with careful deliberation that spoke of healing injuries rather than his usual predatory grace.
Noah had given me the medical update that morning, Dominic healing properly but still weeks away from full operational capacity.
The stubborn bastard had been pushing to return to active duty, claiming he was fine despite the medical evidence to the contrary.
“Cleanup team reports five more Turner associates eliminated,” Dominic said, expression grim with professional satisfaction. “Professional work, minimal evidence. The organisation's effectively neutered, boss.”
I nodded, already calculating the ripple effects through London's criminal ecosystem. The Turner elimination would send clear signals about what happened to crews that challenged Calloway interests. And somewhere in London, that treacherous cunt was probably working his manipulative magic on Noah.
My secure tablet chimed with incoming transfers, final confirmation of Harrison's treachery displayed in neat columns of numbers.
Significant funds moving through elaborate shell corporations, exactly as Hayes had indicated during his intelligence briefing.
The evidence was building systematically, pieces assembling for the trap I'd designed with meticulous patience.
“Sir,” Viktor's voice cut through my planning, Russian accent thicker with something approaching concern. “Turner's dead. Blood loss.”
I glanced at the corpse without interest, another piece removed from the board. Turner had lasted longer than expected but not long enough to matter. The important information had been extracted, documented, verified through multiple sources. His death was simply cleanup.
“Standard disposal. Make sure the message reaches whatever's left of their network. Anyone who thinks they can target Calloway properties ends up like this.” I gestured at the bloody mess that had once been a human being. “No exceptions. No mercy. No survivors.”
Turner's death meant one less variable to manage, but Harrison remained the primary threat. By now, he'd likely made contact with Noah, weaving whatever poison was necessary to drive a wedge between us.
The possessive rage building in my chest demanded immediate, overwhelming violence. But strategy required patience, and I'd learned long ago that the most satisfying revenge was served with careful planning and maximum psychological impact.
Harrison had played the long game for twenty years. I could afford to wait another hour to destroy him properly.
I found Noah in the medical suite, reorganising supplies with focused intensity that suggested deliberate distraction. His movements were controlled, professional, but I caught the subtle tension in his shoulders that spoke of stress and something darker lurking beneath the surface.
The sight of him safe, unmarked, sent relief flooding through my system so profound it was almost weakness. Harrison hadn't touched him, hadn't used him as a weapon against me. Yet.
“You missed dinner,” I observed, settling into the chair beside his workstation rather than looming over him. The comment was casual, but I'd noticed his absence from the dining room with uncomfortable clarity. “Mrs. Patterson made that lamb dish you mentioned liking.”
Noah's hands stilled on the medication inventory, surprise flickering across his features. “You noticed what I like to eat?”
“I notice everything about you,” I replied, and the honesty in my voice seemed to catch us both off guard. “The way you take your coffee. How you fidget with your sleeves when you're nervous. That you always check the locks twice before settling down anywhere.”
“Occupational hazard,” Noah said quietly, but there was something vulnerable in his admission. “Growing up with addicts teaches you to always have an exit strategy ready.”
I studied his profile in the clinical lighting, noting details I'd catalogued but never questioned. The wariness that never fully left his eyes, the way he positioned himself near doorways, the careful control that spoke of survival skills learned too young.
“Your parents?” I asked, though I suspected the answer would make me want to hunt down and torture people who were probably already dead.
“Mum,” he confirmed, still not meeting my eyes. “Dad buggered off when I was eleven. Mum turned to pills to cope, then stronger stuff when the pills stopped working. By thirteen, I was basically raising Isabelle and our younger brother Dean on my own.”
The casual revelation of such profound abandonment made something violent stir in my chest. Not at Noah, but at the circumstances that had forced a child to become a caretaker, to grow up too fast in ways that paralleled my own experience.
The system that should have protected him had failed so completely that a child had been reduced to criminal survival.
“Dean?” I asked gently, noting this was the first time he'd mentioned another sibling.
“Overdosed at sixteen,” Noah said flatly, professional mask sliding into place to handle the pain. “Found him in our bathroom. I tried CPR for twenty minutes before the paramedics arrived, but...”
The silence that followed was thick with survivor’s guilt and the raw ache of failing to save someone you loved. I knew that pain all too well—my own losses carved by violence, not neglect, but the wound was just as deep.
The image of teenage Noah finding his brother's body, frantically performing CPR on someone already beyond saving, sent cold fury racing through my veins. Another failure of the system, another child destroyed by adult negligence.
“That's why you became a nurse,” I realized, pieces clicking into place with crystalline clarity. “To save people you couldn't save before.”
“Partly,” Noah admitted, finally looking at me with eyes that held old grief like scar tissue. “Also because it was the only way to afford university. NHS bursary covered tuition if I committed to five years of service.”
“And you chose trauma care specifically?”
A bitter smile ghosted across his lips. “Because that's where people need saving most. Where seconds matter and skill can mean the difference between someone going home or going to the morgue.”
I reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away, and covered his hand with mine. The contact was simple but profound, scarred skin against unmarked, violence offering comfort to healing. Two survivors recognising the damage in each other.
“Tell me something else about yourself,” I said, thumb brushing across his pulse point where it fluttered beneath pale skin like a trapped bird. “Something no one else knows.”
Noah was quiet for a long moment, internal struggle visible in the tightness around his eyes, the careful calculation of how much truth he could afford to reveal.
“I used to steal,” he finally admitted, voice steady despite the weight of confession. “Food, mostly. Sometimes clothes or books. Got caught lifting groceries when I was fourteen and spent three days in juvenile detention before they released me back to Mum.”
The image of teenage Noah desperate enough to risk arrest for basic necessities made something lethal unfurl in my chest. The system that should have protected him had failed so completely that a child had been forced to crime just to survive, just to keep his siblings alive.
“What happened after that? ”
“Social services got involved,” Noah continued, voice matter-of-fact despite the obvious trauma underlying the memory. “Threatened to split us up, put Isabelle and Dean in care if I couldn't prove stable home environment. So I got better at stealing. Never got caught again.”