Page 83 of The Beast's Broken Angel
I knew he’d do it again.
And I wasn’t sure I’d stop him.
The bedroom beyond the bathroom door held evidence of our encounter—scattered clothing forming a trail from the door to the bed, rumpled sheets that still smelled like sex and Adrian's expensive cologne. But Adrian himself was conspicuously absent, having disappeared after our shared shower with nothing more than a possessive kiss and a promise.
The pattern was emerging with painful clarity. Possession without commitment, physical claiming followed by emotional distance. I was good enough to fuck, but not good enough to stay with afterward. The realisation stung more than it should have, considering I'd known exactly what I was getting into when I'd let him back me against that door.
My medical training provided unwelcome psychological analysis—classic trauma bonding, Stockholm response, power imbalance creating artificial attachment. The clinical explanation should have been reassuring, providing rational framework for what felt like madness. Instead, it failed to address the undeniable heat that ignited my body at Adrian's touch, the way professional ethics evaporated when pinned beneath those demanding hands.
I'd always prided myself on being rational, on making decisions based on logic rather than emotion. But logic had fuck all to do with the way my body responded to Adrian Calloway, the way my pulse quickened when he entered a room, the way I found myself craving his attention like a drug I couldn't get enough of.
The worst part was that I couldn't even blame the Stockholm syndrome entirely. The attraction had been there from the beginning, from that first night in the hospital. Even when I'd hated him, even when I'd been terrified of him, there had been something magnetic about his presence that I couldn't deny.
Now that I'd had a taste of what it felt like to be claimed by him completely, the thought of going back to professional distance felt impossible.
Isabelle's hospitalroom had transformed into something resembling an art studio, medical equipment sharing space with canvases depicting increasingly complex themes. Her improving health manifested in vibrant colours replacing the monochromatic despair of her earlier work, hope bleeding through brushstrokes in ways that made my chest tight with emotion.
“You're different,” she observed immediately, artist's perception cutting through my careful facade like a scalpel through skin. “Something's changed since last week.”
Her assessing gaze tracked the high collar I'd selected specifically to hide Adrian's marks, and I felt heat creep up my neck despite my best efforts to remain composed. Isabelle had always been able to read me like an open book, a skill that had served her well as an artist but made her dangerous as a sister.
“The new treatment protocol is working exceptionally well,” I deflected, reviewing her medical chart with exaggerated attention. “Your cellular markers show seventy percent improvement. Dr. Whitman is considering you for the experimental regenerative therapy trials.”
The deflection was textbook, the kind of professional distance I'd perfected over years of dealing with difficult patients and their families. But Isabelle wasn't having any of it, her hand capturing mine and halting my medical performance with gentle but implacable force.
“I'm not talking about my treatment, Noah,” she said quietly, her voice carrying the particular quality it got when she was seeing through my bullshit. “I'm talking about you. There's something... intense... about your energy. Like you're vibrating at a different frequency.”
Her perception had always been unnervingly accurate, the flip side of the artistic sensitivity that made her work so compelling. She could read emotions in the tilt of someone'shead, see stories in the way they held their shoulders. And right now, she was reading me like a fucking billboard.
“It's complicated,” I finally admitted, sinking into the visitor's chair beside her bed with a weariness that went bone-deep. “Adrian is not just my employer. It's become... physical.”
The admission emerged barely audible, professional boundaries and personal pride struggling against unexpected need for my sister's understanding. I'd never talked to Isabelle about my sex life before—it had never seemed relevant, and the few relationships I'd managed had been brief, sterile affairs that barely qualified as meaningful.
This was different. This felt like a confession.
“Physical how?” she asked, and there was no judgement in her voice, just concern and the particular brand of protectiveness that had always existed between us despite our reversed roles as caregiver and patient.
“Physical like I've let him fuck me more than twice in the last twenty-four hours,” I said bluntly, because there was no point in sugar-coating it now. “Physical like I can't stop thinking about it. Physical like my body responds to him in ways that go against every rational thought in my head.”
Isabelle was quiet for a long moment, processing this information with the same careful consideration she brought to her art. “Do you want to?”
“Want to what?”
“Stop thinking about it,” she clarified, her eyes never leaving my face. “You say it goes against rational thought, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's wrong. Just that it's... outside your usual framework.”
Leave it to my little sister to cut straight to the heart of things. “I don't know,” I admitted. “Part of me thinks I should be horrified by what's happening. By what I'm becoming. But another partof me...”
“Another part of you likes it,” she finished when I trailed off. “Likes him. Likes the way he makes you feel.”
“He's dangerous, Izzy. Really dangerous. He's done things—” I stopped myself before I could say too much, before I could burden her with the knowledge of exactly what Adrian was capable of. “He's not a good man.”
“Good is relative,” she said with a shrug that reminded me she was still only twenty-two, still young enough to believe in moral ambiguity as romantic adventure. “And dangerous doesn't necessarily mean wrong. Sometimes dangerous is exactly what we need.”
“He could destroy me,” I said quietly, voicing the fear that had been clawing at my chest since last night. “Completely. If I let myself fall for him, if I give him that kind of power over me, he could break me in ways I might never recover from.”
“And if you don't let yourself fall?” she challenged. “If you keep holding back, keep trying to maintain professional distance from someone who's already under your skin? What kind of life is that?”
I found myself without a good answer. Because the truth was that I was already falling, had been falling since that first night when he'd touched my scars with unexpected gentleness. The only question was whether I'd hit the ground with enough force to shatter, or if there might be something soft enough to catch me at the bottom.