Page 78 of The Beast's Broken Angel
I studied the evidence while analysing Harrison's body language through the lens of newfound suspicion. The controlled breathing when discussing certain financial transfers. The microscopic pupil dilation when mentioning specific properties. The way his left hand worried the edge of his portfolio whenever the conversation touched on security protocols.
Twenty years of trust dissolved under clinical observation, replaced by the cold calculation that had kept me alive in a world built on betrayal.
“Curious timing,” I observed, selecting documents apparently at random while actually following a carefully planned strategy. “These particular properties maintain separatesecurity protocols overseen exclusively by the financial division. Your division.”
Harrison's response came with perfect composure, concern, slight indignation, reasonable counterarguments that would have convinced me yesterday. But today I noted the nearly imperceptible tension at his jawline, the microsecond hesitation before presenting alternative explanations.
“Adrian, you can't seriously suspect...” he began, but I cut him off with a raised hand.
“I suspect everyone, Harrison. It's kept me alive this long.” I leaned back in my chair, studying him with the same cold assessment I'd give any potential threat. “The question is whether my suspicions are justified.”
The meeting continued with surface pleasantries masking deadly undercurrents, both of us playing roles we'd perfected over decades. But the game had changed rules now, and only one of us fully understood that yet.
My phone buzzed with a text from Viktor:
Viktor
Package secured. Awaiting instructions.
Time to see exactly how far Harrison's betrayal extended.
I foundNoah and Sophia in deep conversation when I returned to Ravenswood, their unexpected rapport evident in relaxed body language and shared tea service. The domestic scene triggered a bolt of possessive displeasure that caught me off guard with its intensity. Noah's attention should be exclusively mine, not divided with family members who had their own agendas.
“Your grandmother has been explaining your collection ofmedical antiquities,” Noah offered by way of greeting, professional demeanour restored as if last night had never occurred. The deliberate distance triggered my predatory instincts rather than the desired relief.
I wanted to remind him exactly whose bed he'd been writhing in just this morning, whose name he'd gasped when I'd made him come so hard he'd seen stars. The memory of his legs wrapped around my waist sent heat pooling low in my gut.
“I've arranged a gallery showing for Isabelle next month,” Sophia announced, studying my reaction with those too-perceptive eyes that missed nothing. “Noah's been helping identify which pieces best showcase her development. The art community is quite excited about her unique perspective.”
I circled behind Noah's chair, placing proprietary hands on his shoulders that appeared casual but applied deliberate pressure. His muscles tensed beneath my touch, body remembering what my hands were capable of, both pain and pleasure in equal measure.
“Noah has multiple responsibilities requiring attention,” I stated, maintaining eye contact with Sophia while my thumbs pressed into the knots of tension at Noah's neck. “His sister's career advancement, while admirable, remains secondary to his primary obligations.”
The massage was deliberately intimate, fingers working muscle with the same knowledge I'd used to map every sensitive spot on his body the night before. I felt him suppress a shiver, professional composure cracking under the weight of cellular memory.
“Of course,” Sophia acknowledged with a knowing smile that irritated me further. “Though I imagine his obligations have... evolved... since yesterday.”
The implication hung in the air like expensive perfume, confirmation enough of what her surveillancenetwork had undoubtedly revealed about our nocturnal activities. Sophia made it her business to know everything that happened under Ravenswood's roof, and last night had been anything but subtle.
“Grandmother,” I said, voice carrying warning that made her smile widen.
“What? I'm simply observing that young Noah seems more... relaxed... today. The stress lines around his eyes have eased considerably.” Her tone was innocence incarnate, but we both knew she was taking the piss.
Noah's face flushed scarlet, the colour spreading down his neck to disappear beneath his collar. I had intimate knowledge of exactly how far that blush extended, and the memory made my fingers tighten possessively on his shoulders.
“Perhaps you should focus on your own affairs, Grandmother, rather than speculating about mine.”
“My affairs are considerably less entertaining,” she replied with a laugh that held decades of accumulated mischief. “But don't let me keep you from attending to... pressing matters.”
Noah cleared his throat, standing abruptly and stepping away from my touch. “I should check on Isabelle's latest test results,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “The specialists want daily monitoring of her white cell count.”
The excuse was transparent, but I let him go, watching the rigid line of his shoulders as he practically fled the sitting room. Sophia followed his retreat with knowing eyes before turning that same perceptive gaze on me.
“He's running from you,” she observed with amusement. “How deliciously unexpected. Most people run toward power, not away from it.”
“Noah isn't most people.”
“No,” she agreed, settling back in her chair with obvious satisfaction. “He isn't. Which makes him considerably more dangerous than your usual acquisitions.”