Page 62 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

“I'm a fast learner.” He guided me to a chair, hands already moving to unbutton my shirt with clinical focus that didn't quite hide the heat in his eyes. “Besides, someone needs to keep you alive long enough to win this war.”

“And after?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Noah's hands stilled on my chest. “After, we figure out what life looks like when you're not consumed by revenge.” He met my gaze. “If you want there to be an after for us.”

“I want.” The admission felt like stepping off a cliff. “God help me, I want.”

“Good.” He resumed his examination, fingers gentle on damaged flesh. “Because I'm not going anywhere. Contract or no contract.”

I caught his hand again, needing him to understand. “I can't promise to be different. To be better. The violence, the darkness—it's who I am.”

“I know who you are, Adrian.” Noah's voice held no illusions, no false hope. “I've seen you at your worst. I'm still here.”

“Why?” The question I'd been afraid to ask. “What could possibly be worth?—”

“You,” he interrupted. “You're worth it. Even the broken parts. Especially the broken parts.”

I pulled him down for another kiss, slower this time, less desperate but no less necessary. When we parted, I could taste promise on his lips, could feel future possibilities I'd never allowed myself to imagine.

“Now,” Noah said, voice not quite steady, “let's deal with this shoulder before you develop sepsis and ruin all our plans.”

I submitted to his ministrations, watching him work with those skilled hands that could heal or harm with equal competence.

Time would tell which.

But as Noah cleaned and rebandaged my wound, humming softly under his breath, I allowed myself a moment of dangerous hope. Harrison would still die. The war would still rage. Blood would still flow in rivers through London's streets.

But maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't face it alone.

“There,” Noah announced, securing the final bandage. “Try not to get shot again for at least a week.”

“I make no promises.” But I caught his hand before he could pull away, pressing it against my chest where my heart beat steady and sure. “Except one.”

“What's that?”

“When this is over, when Harrison's dead and his backers are ashes, when my family's honour is restored...” I paused, searching for words I'd never thought to speak. “I want to try. This. Us. Whatever it might become. ”

Noah’s smile lingered like sunlight through smoke.

But I couldn’t hold it.

Not when his hand was still pressed to my chest. Not when the war was still coming. Not when I could already picture his body cooling in some dark alley because I couldn’t keep him safe. Because I’d let myself hope. Because I was selfish enough to want him.

“Adrian?”

His voice was soft. Concerned. Too gentle.

I stood too fast, chair scraping the tile as I backed toward the far wall of the medical bay. My breath hitched. My hands shook.

“Adrian,” he repeated, rising slowly. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t speak around the weight in my throat. I wanted to tear my skin off just to stop feeling.

He crossed the space like he always did—fearless, stupid, mine. “Talk to me.”

I grabbed his wrists, spun him, shoved him up against the wall hard enough to make the shelves rattle. His eyes widened, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

“You need to leave,” I ground out. “I can’t— I won’t lose you.”

“You’re not going to.”

“You don’t know that.”

His voice dropped. “Then show me. Make me understand.”

Something snapped.

My mouth crashed into his—bruising, brutal. He gasped against me, and I swallowed it, tongue forcing its way past his lips as I ground my body into his. His hands came up to my shoulders, then dropped, letting me take whatever I needed. No resistance. No hesitation.

I broke the kiss only long enough to whisper, “Say you want this. ”

“I want you,” he breathed. “Even like this.”

That was all I needed.

I tore his shirt open, buttons clattering across the tile. He hissed as I bit down on his collarbone, hard enough to mark, not enough to break skin. He groaned, arching into me.

My hands were shaking as I shoved down his trousers and briefs in one motion, baring his cock—already hard, already leaking. Fuck, he was beautiful. My chest felt too tight for my ribs.

“Turn around,” I growled.

He obeyed, bracing himself against the wall.

“Wider.”

He spread his legs.

I kicked them wider still, forcing his stance open. I gripped both wrists and pinned them above his head with one hand.

“You don’t move until I say,” I rasped against his ear. “You understand me?”

“Yes.”

“You want to be fucked like you matter?”

“Yes. Please, Adrian?—”

I spit in my free hand and slicked my cock. It wasn’t enough, not nearly, so I reached for the drawer by the sink and grabbed the bottle of surgical lube we kept for wound irrigation. Practical. Unromantic.

Perfect.

I coated my fingers, parted his cheeks, and pressed two into his hole without warning.

“Fuck—!” he gasped, but didn’t pull away.

“Take it,” I growled. “Take what you asked for.”

He moaned as I stretched him fast, too fast, because I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop needing . His hole clenched around my fingers, greedy and tight and perfect.

“Please,” he panted. “I want your cock—I want to feel you. ”

“You don’t beg nearly enough for someone who’s this fucking wrecked for it.”

I pulled my fingers out, slicked my cock with shaking hands, and shoved in.

One thrust. Deep. Brutal.

He cried out, forehead hitting the wall.

“Quiet,” I snapped. “You take it, or I stop.”

“I’m yours,” he gasped. “Fucking take me.”

And I did.

I fucked him like it was war. Like it was punishment. Like if I pushed deep enough, hard enough, maybe I could fuck the fear out of my own bones. His body jolted with every thrust, hole sucking me in like it didn’t want to let go. His cock was pinned between him and the wall, dripping, untouched.

My teeth found the side of his throat. I bit down, marking him just above his pulse. He shuddered, legs buckling. I gripped his hips and slammed deeper.

“You feel that?” I hissed. “That’s my cock wrecking your pretty hole. That’s me, owning every fucking part of you.”

“Yes,” he moaned. “Don’t stop. Please—fuck—Adrian?—”

I was losing it. Every thrust came with a noise, a grunt, a sob I couldn’t contain. I buried my cock to the hilt and stilled, chest pressed to his back, heart pounding through both of us.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“For what?” he whispered.

“For being like this. For needing you like this.”

He turned his head slightly, eyes glazed, voice wrecked. “Then show me. Show me everything.”

I pulled out almost completely, then slammed back in. He sobbed my name. And I came—deep inside him, cock jerking as I bit down on his shoulder, unable to stop.

We stayed like that for a moment, bodies locked together in sweat and shame and something too raw to name .

Then I pulled out, arms shaking, and caught him before he could slide to the floor.

He curled into me. Still panting. Still open.

“I didn’t mean to?—”

“I know,” he whispered, pressing his face to my chest. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

He tilted his head up. His lips were red, bitten. “Then make it okay.”

I carried him to the cot in the corner. Cleaned him with gentle hands, silent the whole time. He didn’t stop me. Just watched with those eyes that saw too much.

When he was dressed again, I slid in beside him. Held him.

“Fuck,” I said finally. “I don’t know how to be anything but this.”

“You don’t have to be anything else,” he said. “You just have to let me stay. ”

I buried my face in his hair. And for the first time in years, I let the silence mean something. Let myself be held while the world outside the east wing crumbled.