Page 65 of The Beast's Broken Angel

THE BEAST’S REDEMPTION

NOAH

I found Adrian in the medical suite, cleaning the gun he'd used to execute Harrison with the same meticulous care I'd use for surgical instruments. The ritual felt heavy with meaning, like washing blood from hands that would never truly be clean.

“The programming doesn't just vanish because he's dead,” I said from the doorway, not quite ready to enter his space yet. The tentative peace between us felt like walking on broken glass, beautiful but treacherous.

He looked up, those mismatched eyes finding mine with an openness that still caught me off guard. “I know. Years of conditioning doesn't disappear with a single bullet.”

It was the first real invitation to conversation since I'd drugged him, since I'd stolen his revenge and saved his life in one desperate moment. I took it, stepping into the room that smelled of antiseptic and gun oil, an oddly fitting combination for what we'd become.

“You should rest,” I offered, defaulting to medical necessity when the personal felt too raw. “It's been a long night, and your body's still processing the stress.”

His nod was all the permission I needed. He set the gun aside with careful reverence, then began removing his tactical vest and shirt with movements that were mechanical yet somehow vulnerable. Like he was stripping away armour in more ways than one.

I moved closer, our distance gradually shrinking until I could see the exhaustion etched into every line of his body.

The weight of twenty years of programming, of systematic betrayal, of finally facing the architect of his trauma.

It showed in the slump of his shoulders, the careful way he held himself.

“How do you feel?” I asked, though I knew the question was inadequate for everything he'd just been through.

“Empty,” Adrian replied after a moment. “I thought killing him would feel different. More... satisfying.”

“Death rarely fixes what we expect it to,” I said softly. “Sometimes it just creates space for healing to start.”

“You're lecturing me about medical compliance?” he asked, voice carrying that familiar edge. “After everything that just happened?”

“Especially after everything that just happened,” I replied firmly. “Harrison's dead. The immediate threat is over. Now we deal with the aftermath, starting with making sure you don't die from a preventable infection.”

My hands lingered longer than medically necessary, tracing the geography of scars I'd memorised but never tired of mapping. Each ridge and valley told a story of survival, of a boy who'd walked through fire and emerged as something harder but not unbreakable.

“Noah.” Just my name, but weighted with everything we couldn't quite say yet.

I met his eyes, saw my own tangled emotions reflected back. Want and wariness, need and the knowledge that need could destroy us both. We'd danced around this thing between us for weeks, through violence and betrayal, through blood and desperate choices.

“I know,” I said, because I did. Some things didn't need words.

The next morning brought threats I hadn't anticipated. My phone buzzed with an unknown number, the voice on the other end cold and professional.

“Mr. Hastings. Your sister's at Westminster Memorial. Alone. Vulnerable. Harrison had friends who are quite upset about recent events.”

The line went dead before I could respond. Ice flooded my veins as I processed the implicit threat. Isabelle, exposed at the hospital while I'd been focused on Adrian.

“What is it?” Adrian appeared in the doorway, already reading the danger in my expression.

“Isabelle. Someone just threatened her. She's at the hospital.”

His face went deadly calm. “Viktor,” he called without raising his voice, knowing his security chief would be within earshot. “Full team to Westminster Memorial. Now. Secure Noah's sister.”

I was already moving, grabbing my jacket, medical instincts screaming at me to get to her immediately. Adrian caught my arm.

“Together,” he said firmly. “You don't go anywhere alone right now.”

The ride to Westminster felt like hours though it took minutes. Viktor drove while Adrian coordinated security through rapid-fire phone calls. I sat frozen, imagining every possible harm that could come to Isabelle while we raced through London traffic.

“She'll be fine,” Adrian said quietly, his hand finding mine. “I've got people en route already.”

We found her in the art therapy room, blissfully unaware of danger, working on a new piece with several other patients. Relief hit me so hard my knees nearly buckled.

“Noah?” She looked up, surprised. “What are you doing here? You're not scheduled to visit until—” She stopped, taking in our expressions, Viktor's imposing presence, the subtle positioning of security personnel. “What's happened?”

“Harrison's associates made threats,” Adrian said simply, no sugar-coating. “You're not safe here anymore.”

I expected Isabelle to panic. Instead, she set down her brushes with steady hands and looked Adrian directly in the eye. “Because of Noah's involvement with you?”

“Yes,” Adrian admitted.

“Then I suppose you'll have to protect me,” she said matter-of-factly. “Unless you're planning to abandon your responsibilities now that things are complicated?”

The challenge in her voice surprised everyone, I think. My little sister, facing down one of London's most dangerous men like she was scolding a misbehaving child.

Adrian's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “I protect what's mine. And you're Noah's, which makes you mine by extension.”

“Charming,” Isabelle said dryly. “Do I get a say in this arrangement?”

“Izzy,” I started, but she waved me off.

“I'm not a child, Noah. Or a damsel. I'm a grown woman who's been dying for two years. Death threats don't scare me much anymore.” She looked back at Adrian. “What are you proposing?”

“Ravenswood has a fully equipped medical wing,” Adrian said. “Private care, better security than any hospital, and space for your art. You'd be my guest until the threat is neutralised.”

“Your prisoner, you mean,” Isabelle countered.

“My protected guest,” Adrian corrected. “Free to leave once it's safe. Free to refuse now, though I'd strongly advise against it.”

Isabelle studied him for a long moment, artist's eyes dissecting him with uncomfortable intensity. “You love my brother.”

It wasn't a question. Adrian stiffened slightly but didn't deny it.

“And he loves you, though God knows why.” She started gathering her art supplies. “Fine. But I want a proper studio space. Natural light. And no hovering security in my room.”

“Done,” Adrian agreed immediately.

“That easy?” She seemed suspicious.

“Your brother saved my life. Protecting yours is the least I can do.” He paused. “Plus, your work is extraordinary. I've been meaning to commission some pieces.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Isabelle said, but I caught her pleased smile. “When do we leave?”

The move happened with Adrian's typical swift organisation. By evening, Isabelle was installed in a sun-filled conservatory that had been rapidly converted to studio space, her medical equipment discretely integrated into what looked like luxury accommodations.

“This is insane,” she said, wheeling around the space in obvious delight. “The light is perfect. And the space... I could work on large scale pieces here. ”

“Then do,” Adrian said simply. “Whatever supplies you need, just ask.”

Later, I found him in his study, the day's threats adding new tension to his frame.

“Thank you,” I said. “For Isabelle. For protecting her.”

“She's your family,” he replied, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

“Adrian.” I moved closer, needing to address what had been building between us. “About my contract.”

Something shuttered in his expression. “You still have a long time remaining. Though given the circumstances, if you want to void it early, I'd understand. Take Isabelle somewhere safe. Start fresh.”

“You're giving me an out?”

“Harrison's dead, but his associates remain. The danger's escalating. You didn't sign up for this level of threat.” He wasn't looking at me, focusing instead on whiskey he wasn't drinking. “I can arrange new identities, money, security. You and Isabelle could disappear. Be safe.”

“You want me to leave?” The words came out rougher than intended.

“I want you safe,” he corrected, finally meeting my eyes. “Both of you. Even if that means...”

“Even if that means losing me.”

“Yes.” Simple. Honest. Devastating.

I crossed to him, took the untouched whiskey from his hand and set it aside. “You beautiful, self-sacrificing idiot.”

“Noah—”

“Shut up.” I straddled his lap in the chair, framing his face with my hands. “I'm not leaving. Not in three months, not in a year, not ever. You're stuck with me.”

“The contract?—”

“Fuck the contract,” I said vehemently. “This stopped being about the contract weeks ago and you know it.”

His hands settled on my hips, holding me like I might vanish. “I can't guarantee your safety. Isabelle's safety. Harrison's people will keep coming.”

“Then we'll face them together,” I said simply. “All of us. Because that's what you do when you love someone. You stay and fight.”

“Love,” he repeated, wonder in his voice like he'd never expected to hear it applied to him.

“Yes, you impossible man. Love.” I kissed him, pouring everything I couldn't articulate into the contact. When we broke apart, both breathless, I added, “The contract can expire. I'm not going anywhere.”

His arms tightened around me. “Promise?”

“Promise.” I sealed it with another kiss, deeper this time. “Though I do want to discuss modified terms. Part-time hospital work. Keeping my medical skills sharp.”

“Whatever you want,” he agreed immediately. “Anything.”

“Careful. I might ask for a lot.”

“Ask for everything,” he said seriously. “It's yours.”