Page 54 of The Beast's Broken Angel

SYMPHONY

NOAH

H arrison’s financial records were scattered across Adrian’s desk like a crime scene, which was fitting, really. Three weeks of shagging the man senseless had turned me into someone I barely recognized—half doctor, half accomplice, all in.

I’d stopped pretending I wasn’t complicit.

The ledgers were dense, precise. Too precise.

A lifetime of theft laid out in crisp columns and clean formulas.

I wasn’t pissed because of the money. I was pissed because of the audacity.

Two decades of bleeding the Calloways dry while smiling in their faces, playing the loyal advisor, the surrogate uncle.

“The offshore accounts link to the same properties Hayes flagged,” I said, stabbing a finger at the page like it might bleed. “He’s been funneling money through shell companies and hiding it behind fake charities. Millions, Adrian. Gone.”

Adrian didn’t answer at first. His hands slid over my shoulders from behind, steady and warm, grounding me. That touch used to send warning bells through every inch of me. Now it felt like a fuse I lit on purpose .

“Hang on,” I said, flipping back a few pages. Something clicked. “He started skimming right after the fire, yeah?”

Adrian’s grip froze. The silence around us changed. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Right after.”

I turned around to face him. “You think that’s a coincidence?”

“No.”

“What happened that night?” My voice dropped. “Really. I know there was a fire. I know they died. But I don’t know how Harrison fits into it.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. Then he sank down beside me, his mouth tight, jaw clenched so hard I thought he’d crack a tooth.

“I was eight. Mum was helping me play Mozart, some soft piece I barely remember now. Dad came home in his suit, for once looking like he belonged there instead of out running the empire. They tucked me in around nine. Jungle Book, as always. Mum did the voices. Dad sat next to the bed with his tablet, like he always did.”

He paused. I didn't say a word.

“A huge crash woke me up around two in the morning. It was too loud to be normal, too violent to be an accident. Someone was breaking into our house. I heard Mum scream, and she never screamed. She was always... composed. Controlled. I knew right then something was wrong.”

Adrian's voice grew quieter, more distant.

“I crept toward their room, avoiding the floorboards that creaked like Dad had taught me during security drills. When I looked through the crack in their door, I saw them—five men in black masks. Professionals. Military movements, expensive equipment. They had Mum on her knees with a wire around her throat, forcing Dad to watch while they tortured him for information. ”

His hand unconsciously moved to his scarred throat.

“They wanted account codes, offshore access, client lists.

Dad tried to negotiate, tried to buy time.

But their leader was cold, efficient. Said they were wiping out our entire bloodline, that leaving witnesses created complications.

I tried to run when Dad screamed at me to get out, but one of them caught me—man with cold blue eyes behind his mask.

His voice sounded familiar, like someone who'd been in our house before, someone Dad trusted.”

Adrian's jaw clenched, muscle jumping beneath the scar tissue.

“They locked me in Mum's walk-in closet and made me watch through the slats while they finished with Dad. He held out as long as he could, gave them false codes, tried to protect our accounts even while they were killing him. Then they strangled Mum with that wire and shot Dad. Quick, professional. No emotion.”

I squeezed his hand, feeling the tremor he was trying to hide.

“Then they poured accelerant everywhere and lit it. Professional job, meant to look like an electrical fire that started in the master bedroom. I was supposed to die in that closet, burn with all the evidence. The flames came through the door, caught my pajamas, my skin...” He touched his scarred face unconsciously.

“The pain was... beyond anything I could understand.

I thought I was going to die watching my parents' bedroom become a funeral pyre.”

“But Harrison found you,” I said quietly.

“Harrison found me just before I lost consciousness completely. Pulled me out of the fire, saved my life while everything I'd ever known burned to ash around us. I spent months in hospital, skin grafts, reconstructive surgery. Harrison never left my side, handled everything while I recovered. ”

He looked at me then, raw and exposed.

“But what if it wasn't luck he showed up? What if he knew exactly when to arrive? What if he waited outside until the job was done, then came in to play the hero and rescue the heir? What if he planned it?”

Adrian didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“I’ve been grateful to him my whole life,” he said quietly.

“But now I can’t stop thinking about how perfect the timing was.

How fast he stepped in. How easily he took over.

If he did plan it... then every time I thanked him, every time I leaned on him, I was loving the man who murdered my parents. ”

He didn’t cry. He didn’t have to. The grief sat in his voice like gravel.

“You can’t kill him fast,” I said. “He needs to feel it.”

Adrian nodded. “I want him to know who’s tearing everything down. I want him to see my face while it all burns.”

“What’s the plan?”

“You accept his offer. Pretend you’re scared of me. Play up the possessiveness. Tell him I leave files out after sex. That you think I’m losing control.”

“You want me to act like I’m selling you out?”

“No,” he said, smiling without warmth. “I want you to sell me out. Full commitment.”

“Won’t that make him suspicious if I just... agree?”

“No. Harrison’s ego will eat it up. He thinks everyone’s disposable. That includes you.”

I nodded.

I should’ve questioned the ethics.

Should’ve hesitated.

Instead, I was already rehearsing the lines in my head.

The study fell quiet. Adrian still hadn’t moved.

He just sat there on the worn leather chair, elbows braced on his knees, gaze locked on the floor like it might offer absolution.

Or a verdict. The firelight played over his face, throwing shadows across the scarred cheek, the sharp angles of bone and tension.

I stepped closer, wordlessly, until I stood between his knees.

He looked up.

Something in his expression cracked me wide open. Not vulnerability. Not grief. Need —raw, dark, threaded through with rage and something dangerously close to reverence. Like he needed to lose himself in something just to keep from shattering.

I cupped his jaw.

His hand caught my wrist. Not to push me away. Just to feel me.

“You think I don’t trust you,” I said softly, fingers sliding over the sharp cut of his cheekbone, “but I do.”

His eyes searched mine, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“You just told me the worst night of your life,” I said. “And I still want you.”

His throat worked. “You have no idea how hard I’ve tried not to want this.”

“I haven’t made it easy,” I admitted.

He gave a breath of a laugh. “No. You really haven’t.”

I traced his scar with my thumb, featherlight. “I want to give you something good. Just once.”

Adrian stood in one smooth, fluid motion and cupped the back of my neck. “No. Let me give you something good.”

He kissed me.

Hard, fast, like a dam breaking. I moaned into it, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, clinging as he backed me toward the oak desk. I half-expected him to shove everything off in a rage of heat, but instead he paused, gently turning me around.

“Hands flat,” he said. “On the desk. Don’t move.”

I obeyed without hesitation, heat licking up my spine .

Adrian stood behind me in silence, gaze burning into my back like a brand. I could feel the moment he moved—slow, deliberate—the heat of his body blanketing mine before anything ever touched.

“You trust me?” he asked again.

I nodded, pulse pounding in my throat.

“Words.”

“Yes. I trust you.”

“Then don’t move. Not unless I tell you to.”

He left me standing there as he stepped away, quiet and controlled.

The whisper of drawers opening. A flicker of anticipation sparked low in my belly.

When he returned, something soft brushed my wrists—silk again.

This time tighter. My hands were bound flat to the polished desk, unable to do anything but feel .

I shivered.

He pressed a kiss to the back of my neck. “You always pretend you’re so in control,” he murmured. “But I see it. How much you crave being told what to do.”

His hands skimmed down my sides, slow and possessive, until they gripped the waistband of my jeans and tugged them down with my briefs in one smooth motion.

He paused behind me, and I heard the unmistakable sound of lube being opened.

“I’m going to ruin you for anyone else,” he said, slick fingers sliding between my cheeks to toy with my hole. “You understand that?”

“Yes—please?—”

“Stay still,” he ordered. “Don’t fucking move.”

One finger pushed in, slow and tight. I bit my lip, knuckles white against the desk, held open and trembling. He curled the finger, then added another. Stretching me wide, twisting just enough to make my thighs shake .

“So fucking tight,” he muttered, fingers driving deeper. “And so wet for me already. You want this. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I’m not—fuck, Adrian?—”

“Stay. Still.”

He slapped my inner thigh—not hard, just enough to make me freeze. “You move again, and I stop.”

I whimpered, breath shuddering out of me.

“You’ll come on my terms,” he whispered near my ear. “Not yours.”

He kept working me open with slick precision—three fingers now, thrusting slow and firm, the lube dripping down my thighs.

My cock pressed against the desk, aching, untouched.

“I want you to feel this,” he said. “Every second of it. You’ll remember how I made you beg.”

He pulled his fingers out, leaving me empty and gasping, then lined up behind me.