Page 55 of The Beast's Broken Angel

The blunt head of his cock pressed against my hole.

“I said don’t move.”

I held my breath. Didn’t dare twitch.

He pushed in slowly, unbearably slow, until he bottomed out with a low, animal sound. “So deep,” he groaned. “So fucking good.”

“Please—Adrian?—”

“Stay still.”

His cock dragged out and slammed back in, making me cry out, but I held myself as steady as I could. He gripped my hips, hard enough to bruise, fucking me with rough, measured thrusts.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Shaking, sweating, moaning—and you haven’t even touched your cock.”

“I can’t—fuck—please?— ”

“You’ll come when I say. Not a second before.”

His hand slid up my spine and wrapped gently around the back of my neck, pressing me lower onto the desk. “Let go,” he whispered. “Let me own you for a little while.”

I did.

He fucked me deep and slow, each thrust landing with purpose, his cock sliding slick and perfect inside me. I was gone—sweat slick, moaning his name, begging without shame.

“You take me so well,” he murmured. “This hole was made for me. I should keep you tied up like this all the time. Just waiting. Open.”

“Please—Adrian—I can’t?—”

“You can. You will. ”

He reached beneath me and finally wrapped a fist around my cock.

One stroke.

Two.

“Now,” he whispered. “Come for me. Make a mess.”

I did.

I came so hard I nearly collapsed, body wracked with spasms as heat spilled across the desk. Adrian groaned behind me, slamming in one last time as he came with a deep, guttural noise, cock pulsing inside me.

We stayed like that for a breathless eternity—me panting against the wood, him pressed tight to my back, buried inside me.

Slowly, he untied my wrists. Turned me around.

Kissed me like he needed it to survive.

“You still trust me?” he asked.

“I never stopped.”

Harrison's office was all dark wood and intellectual pretense. Antique medical diagrams. Books he probably never read. A very expensive desk that looked like it had never seen anything more corrupt than a ledger.

Bullshit.

“Adrian's slipping,” I said, settling into the chair across from him, just tired enough to sell it. “He's volatile. Reckless. Keeps talking like he's invincible. The Turner executions weren't about sending a message. He enjoyed it.”

Harrison offered me tea. I accepted. Might as well sip while selling my soul.

“I'm worried about Isabelle,” I added, watching his face. “He's protective, but it's more than that now. Controlling.”

“I always feared this would happen,” Harrison said, like he was trying to sound regretful. “Adrian's trauma is deep. Attachment becomes... dangerous.”

“I've been seeing things I probably shouldn't. Files, numbers, codes.” I leaned forward. “He leaves the safe open sometimes. When he's distracted.”

A flicker in Harrison's eyes. Hunger, barely contained. He leaned forward slightly.

“What kind of files?” he asked, voice carefully neutral but his body language screaming interest.

“Camden property access codes. Security protocols for the warehouse district. He's been planning something big there, talking about consolidating territory after the Turner elimination.” I let my voice shake slightly. “I think he's going to move against other families. Soon.”

Harrison's pupils dilated slightly. “When?”

“Tomorrow night,” I said, selling the lie with perfect conviction. “He's already arranged for his own people to handle security. Said he doesn't trust anyone else with something this important. ”

The bait was perfect - Harrison's own stolen Camden properties, the ones he'd been using to funnel money for years. The thought of Adrian moving on them would force his hand.

“Noah,” Harrison said, leaning forward with fake paternal concern, “you're in real danger. Adrian's planning something that could destroy everything, including you and your sister.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, letting fear creep into my voice.

“I mean he's lost all perspective. If he's moving on Camden tomorrow night, he's declaring war on families that have been allies for decades. The retaliation will be swift and brutal.” Harrison's hands moved to his desk drawer.

“I need those access codes, Noah. Tonight. Before he starts a war that gets everyone killed.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

“I... I can get them,” I stammered. “But if he finds out I've been in his safe...”

“He won't find out,” Harrison assured me, already reaching for his phone. “My people will handle this discreetly. Adrian will never know you were involved.”

I watched him text rapid instructions to someone, probably his mercenary team. Harrison had taken the bait completely, moving up his timeline because he thought Adrian was about to discover his theft of the Camden properties.

“The codes will be in his study safe tonight,” I said. “Combination changes weekly, but he keeps the current one written on a slip of paper in his desk drawer. Old habit from his grandfather.”

Harrison smiled, genuine warmth breaking through his mask for the first time. “You're doing the right thing, Noah. Saving lives. Including your own.”

I left the office with his fake gratitude echoing behind me.

Harrison had taken the bait. Tomorrow night, he'd walk straight into Adrian's trap, thinking he was the hunter instead of the prey.

And only one of them was going to walk away.

The gallery showing of Isabelle’s work transformed Halcyon’s exclusive space into something that looked like the inside of a fever dream. Her paintings documented her journey through illness and recovery, each canvas more abstract and fearless than the last. My chest tightened with pride.

Posh collectors and critics circled, analyzing her talent with the kind of enthusiasm that usually added zeros to checks.

I caught snippets of conversation—“visionary,” “breakthrough,” “the new face of contemporary British art.” My little sister, who used to sketch on napkins because we couldn’t afford real supplies, was now the name on everyone’s lips.

“She's remarkable,” Adrian said, appearing beside me with that predatory stillness I’d come to recognize in crowded rooms. Weeks of proximity had tuned my body to his presence; I felt him before I saw him.

“She’s always been brilliant,” I replied, watching Isabelle move through the crowd with a confidence I hadn’t seen in her since before her diagnosis.

The wheelchair stood by if she needed it, but tonight, she was on her feet, her identity as an artist shining brighter than her medical history. My throat closed with emotion.

Adrian pressed a glass of champagne into my hand, his touch casual, almost affectionate—a level of intimacy that would have stunned anyone who remembered how we started.

“Harrison took the bait,” I murmured, not taking my eyes off Isabelle. “He’s planning to use the Camden access codes tomorrow night. He’s bringing his own people—won’t risk using Calloway muscle.”

Adrian’s lips curled with satisfaction. “Good. Twenty years of patience, and the bastard’s finally making his move. Time to remind him why betraying the Calloway family is a terminal mistake.”

For a moment, the chaos of the gallery faded. Isabelle’s laughter rang out across the room, and Adrian’s hand brushed against mine—two reminders of how much had changed, and how much there was still to lose.

Our strategic discussion paused as Isabelle approached. She looked back and forth between Adrian and me, taking in the way I leaned into his space, how his hand rested possessively on the small of my back.

“You're together,” she stated rather than asked, surprise evident but judgment notably absent. “That explains... everything, actually. The way you've both been looking at each other all evening.”

The casual acceptance of circumstances I still struggled to understand created uncomfortable cognitive dissonance. My baby sister was taking my relationship with a crime lord more in stride than I was, which probably said something deeply unflattering about my psychological state.

“It's complicated,” I said, because what else could I say? That I'd fallen for the man who'd kidnapped me? That I found violence arousing when it came from his hands? That I'd crossed so many moral lines I couldn't see the way back to who I used to be?

“Most worthwhile things are,” Isabelle replied with a knowing smile that made her look older than her years. “Besides, anyone who can make you stop brooding for five minutes deserves a medal. You've been insufferably self- sacrificing for years.”

“I have not,” I protested, though Adrian's quiet laughter suggested he agreed with her assessment.

“Please,” Isabelle scoffed. “You've been playing martyred older brother since I got sick. It's nice to see you actually living for something besides keeping me alive.”

The words hit harder than they should have, mainly because they were true. I'd spent so long defining myself by other people's needs that I'd forgotten what it felt like to want something for myself. Even if what I wanted was dangerous, morally questionable, and likely to get me killed.

“Just... be careful,” Isabelle said quietly, her hand finding mine with surprising strength. “I need you intact, whatever happens. You're still the only family I have left.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I promised.

Tonight would change everything, one way or another. Either Harrison would be dealt with permanently, or Adrian and I would both end up dead in a warehouse somewhere.

“Good,” she said with forced brightness. “Because I've got three more shows lined up, and I need my charming big brother there to schmooze with potential buyers.”

Back at Ravenswood, I helped Adrian prepare for war. The tactical vest went on beneath his tailored suit, body armour disguised as evening wear for a very different kind of social event.