Page 84 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“I'm scared,” I admitted, the words barely audible in the sterile hospital air.
“Of course you are,” Isabelle said, squeezing my hand with surprising strength. “But you've been scared before, and you've always found a way through. The difference is that this time, you're not alone.”
“Adrian isn't exactly reliable emotional support,” I pointed out wryly.
“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But he’s something. And something is better than the nothing you’ve been living with for the past five years.”
A quiet settled over the hospital room, broken only by the steady beep of monitors and the distant shuffle of nurses’ shoes in the hallway. Isabelle traced the hem of her blanket, searching my face for a moment—her eyes soft, uncertain.
“Just... be careful,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I need you intact, whatever happens. You’re the only family I have left.”
“You're not going to lose me,” I promised, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them. Because the truth was that I wasn't sure who I was becoming, or how much of the old Noah would survive this transformation.
I exitedthe hospital elevator into the parking garage, mentally preparing for Viktor's stoic presence and the ride back to Ravenswood. Instead, Harrison awaited beside a different luxury vehicle, his silver hair gleaming under fluorescent lights, a driver standing at courteous attention nearby.
“Mr. Hastings,” Harrison greeted with practiced warmth, though his eyes remained calculating. “I thought we might have a private conversation during the drive back. Adrian is occupied with the Turner situation this afternoon.”
The invitation carried unmistakable command despite its cordial delivery, and I found myself nodding agreement before I'd fully processed the implications. Something about Harrison's presence triggered my instincts in ways I couldn't quite name—not immediate danger, but something subtler and potentially more threatening.
The car's interior provided luxurious isolation, privacyglass separating us from the driver as London traffic crawled around us with typical mid-afternoon sluggishness. I maintained careful silence, medical training transforming anxiety into observational focus. Harrison's movements were perfectly controlled, each gesture calculated for maximum impact.
“Adrian has always had certain... vulnerabilities,” Harrison began, studying me with the same clinical assessment I'd learned to recognize in fellow medical professionals. “His childhood trauma created particular psychological patterns. Attachment issues. Abandonment sensitivity. Trust pathologies that clever individuals might exploit.”
The words hung in the air like smoke, implications clear even without direct accusation. Harrison was suggesting that I was exploiting Adrian's psychological damage for personal gain, using sex and emotional manipulation to secure my position.
“Your recent elevation to his bed represents unprecedented access,” Harrison continued smoothly. “Some might consider it remarkable progress for someone with your background and limited time in his organisation.”
The statement wrapped accusation in polite observation, the threat beneath sophisticated veneer unmistakable. I felt my hackles rise, professional pride stinging under the implication that I was some kind of opportunistic whore trading sex for security.
“I'm a nurse who made a deal to save my sister,” I responded carefully, maintaining direct eye contact despite Harrison's intimidation attempt. “Adrian needed medical expertise. The rest evolved organically. There's no agenda.”
Harrison's laugh held genuine amusement, the sound grating against my nerves like fingernails on blackboard. “Everyone has an agenda, Mr. Hastings. Adrian's obligation to protect your sister creates exploitable vulnerability. Your newfound... intimacy... provides unique leverage.”
His manicured fingers adjusted perfect cuffs, signet ring catching light in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of the bruise pattern I'd observed on the murdered bartender. The detail that had first made me suspicious of Harrison's involvement in the Turner attacks.
“You're suggesting I would manipulate Adrian through sex,” I stated bluntly, professional facade cracking under insulting implication. “That's rather simplistic psychology for someone of your obvious sophistication.”
“I'm suggesting mutual benefit,” Harrison corrected smoothly, and there was something predatory in his smile that made my skin crawl. “Adrian's fixation on Hayes' intelligence operation has created blind spots. His emotional involvement with you compounds the vulnerability.”
The words sent chill racing down my spine as Harrison's true purpose became clear. This wasn't just character assassination—it was recruitment. He was testing my loyalty to Adrian, probing for weaknesses he could exploit.
“I could ensure your sister's permanent care,” Harrison continued, voice dropping to barely above whisper. “Independent of Adrian's volatile whims. Full treatment funding through established medical foundations. No questions asked, no contracts requiring... intimate services.”
The proposition crystallised with sudden clarity—Harrison was offering alliance against Adrian, using Isabelle as both carrot and stick. Freedom from Adrian's control in exchange for information and cooperation. It should have been tempting, the rational choice for someone in my position.
Instead, it made me want to put my fist through his perfectly maintained face.
“I'll consider your perspective,” I responded noncommittally as the car approached Ravenswood's gates, calculated deflection that seemed to satisfy Harrison's expectations.His slight smile suggested complete confidence in his manipulative strategy, as if my betrayal of Adrian was inevitable given sufficient incentive.
“Excellent,” Harrison murmured, settling back into leather seats with predatory satisfaction. “I look forward to our continued cooperation.”
Ravenswood felt different when I walked through its main entrance, the familiar grandeur now tainted by Harrison's poisonous suggestions. Every shadow seemed to hide potential threats, every camera a reminder that nothing in this house was private, that someone was always watching and calculating advantage.
I found Adrian in his study, bent over tactical maps spread across his massive desk, the afternoon light casting dramatic shadows across his scarred features. He looked up when I entered, and the heat in his gaze sent familiar electricity racing through my nervous system despite everything that had happened in the last few hours.
“How's your sister?” he asked, voice carefully neutral, but I caught the possessive undertone that made my pulse quicken.
“Improving,” I replied, closing the door behind me with deliberate care. “Dr. Whitman thinks she might be ready for the regenerative therapy trials within the month.”