Page 63 of The Beast’s Broken Angel

BEAUTIFUL MONSTERS

ADRIAN

T he anatomical illustrations spread across the operations table like a map of human suffering.

Dr. Edmund Thorne’s work, preserved in Harrison's private collection, detailed the systematic destruction of the human body with an artist's eye for beauty in brutality.

Each diagram showed nerve clusters, pressure points, the exact angles needed to create maximum pain with minimum damage.

“Fucking hell,” Dominic muttered, favoring his right leg where shrapnel had torn through muscle. “This is proper sick stuff, boss.”

I traced a finger over one particular illustration, recognising techniques I'd seen Harrison use during interrogations. Techniques he'd taught me, claiming they were family tradition.

“These aren't just collected,” Noah said from across the room, his first real contribution to a tactical meeting since our reconciliation.

The tentative peace between us still felt fragile, like spun glass that might shatter if either of us breathed wrong.

“Look at the margins. Fresh annotations, cross-references to modern pharmaceutical compounds.

Someone's been updating Blackthorne's work.”

Viktor leaned closer, his face grim as he examined the pages. “Handwriting changes,” he observed with the attention to detail that made him invaluable. “Older notes in Latin—original work, yes? But these English annotations...” He pointed to neat script in the margins. “Recent. Very recent.”

“Harrison,” I confirmed, recognising his precise script. “He's been refining the techniques.”

The room fell silent as the implications sank in. My most trusted advisor hadn't just betrayed me; he'd been using me as a test subject for decades, applying systematic psychological manipulation disguised as mentorship.

“There's more,” Noah said quietly, pulling out a leather journal that had been tucked inside the main volume. His face had gone pale as he flipped through the pages. “It's... it's about children.”

My blood turned to ice. I took the journal with hands that wanted to shake, forcing them steady through sheer will. The pages detailed experiments on juvenile subjects, documenting how specific traumas at particular developmental stages could create predictable behavioural patterns in adulthood.

“Optimal age range: seven to ten years,” I read aloud, voice flat despite the rage building in my chest. “Subjects at this stage possess sufficient cognitive development to process trauma while remaining psychologically malleable. Fire exposure creates particularly useful response patterns...”

The journal slipped from my fingers as understanding crashed over me like a tidal wave. Eight years old. I'd been eight when my parents died in that fire. When Harrison had 'saved' me.

“Boss,” Viktor said carefully, “perhaps we should?—”

“He didn't just kill them,” I interrupted, the words coming out deadly quiet. “He designed it. Every detail. The fire, where it started, how it spread. Which room I was locked in. How long before 'rescue.' All of it calculated to create specific psychological damage.”

Noah moved then, crossing the space between us despite the unspoken boundaries we'd maintained since the warehouse. His hand settled on my shoulder, warm and grounding. “Adrian?—”

“Don't.” I shrugged him off, needing distance to process this revelation. “I need to think.”

But thinking was the problem. Every memory of my childhood after the fire suddenly needed re-examination.

Grandfather's harsh training methods. The isolation during recovery.

The specific ways I'd been taught to channel grief into violence.

All of it following Müller's blueprints for creating a weaponised human.

“Your grandfather knew,” Sophia's voice came from the doorway. My grandmother stood there looking every one of her seventy-nine years, the weight of long-held secrets finally showing. “I suspected, but... Adrian, I'm so sorry.”

“You knew?” The question came out as a growl.

“Not everything. Not at first.” She entered slowly, as if approaching a wounded predator.

Which, I supposed, I was. “After your parents died, your grandfather changed. Became colder, more focused on building your strength through... particular methods. I thought it was grief. Now I see it was programming.”

“Programming.” I laughed, the sound sharp and bitter. “Like I'm some kind of fucking computer. Input trauma, output violence. Is that all I am? Harrison's experiment?”

“No.” Noah's voice cut through my spiral, firm and certain. “You're more than what they tried to make you. You always have been. ”

I turned on him, ready to snarl, but stopped at the look in his eyes. Not pity, which would have sent me over the edge. Understanding. Recognition of one damaged soul to another.

“How would you know?” I asked, genuinely curious despite the rage simmering under my skin.

“Because I've seen you choose.” He held my gaze steadily.

“Every time you could have been the monster they programmed, you chose something different. Chosen to spare people when killing would have been easier. Found ways to solve problems without violence when you could have just burned everything down. Trusted me enough to be vulnerable.” His voice dropped on the last part.

“That's not programming, Adrian. That's who you are underneath it all.”

Every deviation from Harrison's careful psychological architecture, every moment of unexpected humanity, had been a small rebellion against my conditioning. And the biggest rebellion of all stood right in front of me, hazel eyes full of fierce conviction.

“We have Harrison's location,” Viktor announced, breaking the moment. “Government facility outside London. Security details, rotation schedules, everything we need.”

I turned back to the tactical displays, shoving emotion aside for cold planning. “How?”

“Our friend in Parliament finally came through,” Dominic explained, grinning despite his injuries. “Amazing what people will share when you've got photos of them in compromising positions with someone definitely not their wife.”

“Security?”

“Significant but not impossible,” Viktor pulled up satellite imagery. “Military-trained, but small contingent. Government's assessment is that Harrison's intelligence value has diminished since the warehouse incident. They're maintaining protection more from obligation than conviction. ”

I studied the compound layout, mind already calculating angles of approach. This would be different from the warehouse. No massive assault, no army of contractors. Just surgical elimination of the man who'd shaped my entire existence through calculated trauma.

“I'm going in personally,” I announced, surprising no one. “Small team. Viktor, Dominic if he's mobile enough?—”

“Try and stop me,” Dominic interrupted.

“And me,” Noah added quietly.

That did surprise me. “This isn't medical support. This is assassination.”

“I know.” He met my gaze without flinching. “But you're not facing him alone. Not after what we just learned.”

“I don't need protection,” I bristled.

“Not protection. Witness.” Noah's jaw set stubbornly. “Someone who sees you, not his creation. In case... in case you need reminding who you really are.”

Having him there for Harrison's death felt both necessary and dangerous, another crossing of boundaries we kept pretending still existed.

“Fine,” I conceded. “But you follow orders. No heroics, no moral objections, no fucking sedatives.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Understood, Mr. Calloway.”

“Adrian,” I corrected automatically, then caught myself. That easy intimacy we'd found in the conservatory felt simultaneously too close and not close enough. “Get equipped. We move at midnight.”

The compound perimeter looked different through night vision, green-tinted and surreal like something from a video game. Except the guards carried real weapons, and the man inside had engineered real trauma that had shaped my entire life.

“Overwatch in position,” came through my earpiece. Marcus and two others with sniper rifles, ready to clear our path if negotiations went sideways.

Not that I planned to negotiate.

“Security patrol approaching from the east,” Viktor reported. “Two guards, standard pattern. Thirty seconds.”

We pressed deeper into shadows, Noah close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck. The proximity was distracting in ways I couldn't afford right now, but I'd be damned if I'd tell him to move back.

The guards passed, oblivious to death waiting in the darkness. We could have taken them, but bodies would raise alarms too soon. This needed to be quiet until it couldn't be.

“Interior team, go,” I commanded.

Viktor and three others peeled off toward the compound's service entrance, their part of the plan simple: neutralise internal security, secure our exit route, ensure no one interrupted my conversation with Harrison.

“North entrance clear,” Dominic confirmed. “Keycard scanner, but I've got the frequency modulator. Fifteen seconds.”

Those fifteen seconds stretched like hours. Noah shifted beside me, and I caught myself hyperaware of every movement, every breath. Fucked up that I could be thinking about him while preparing to kill the architect of my childhood trauma, but apparently my ability to compartmentalise had limits.

“Got it,” Dominic announced as the lock disengaged with a soft click.

We moved inside, weapons ready but encounters unnecessary.

Viktor's team had done their job; unconscious guards littered the hallways like discarded dolls.

Non-lethal takedowns at my specific instruction.

These men were just doing a job, following orders.

They didn't deserve death for Harrison's sins.

“He's in the main office,” Viktor reported. “Alone. Almost like he's expecting you.”