Page 85 of The Beast's Broken Angel

“Good.” Adrian stood slowly, predatory grace evident in every movement as he circled the desk toward me. “That's very good news.”

The words were innocent enough, but the way he said them, the way his eyes tracked my movement as I approached, made it clear that Isabelle's health wasn't his primary concern at the moment.

“Harrison offered me a ride back,” I said, testing the waters, watching for Adrian's reaction.

Something dangerous flickeredin those mismatched eyes, possessive anger that made my breath catch. “Did he? How... thoughtful of him.”

“He had some interesting perspectives on our arrangement,” I continued, stepping closer until I was within arm's reach. “Suggested that I might be exploiting your psychological vulnerabilities for personal gain.”

Adrian's jaw clenched, muscle jumping beneath scarred skin. “And what did you tell him?”

“That he was mistaken,” I replied simply. “That whatever this is between us, it's not manipulation.”

“No?” Adrian's voice dropped to that tone that made my knees weak, rough with want and something darker. “Then what is it, Noah?”

“I don't know,” I admitted, which was probably the most honest thing I'd said all day. “But I know it's not what Harrison thinks it is.”

“What does Harrison think it is?” Adrian asked, moving closer still, close enough that I could smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.

“That I'm using sex to secure my position,” I said bluntly. “That I'm manipulating you through physical intimacy to protect my sister's treatment.”

“And you're not?” There was something vulnerable in his voice despite the challenging words, uncertainty that didn't fit with the confident predator he usually presented to the world.

“No,” I said firmly, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with trembling fingers. “I'm not. Whatever fucked-up reasons I have for wanting this, for wanting you, manipulation isn't one of them.”

The touch seemed to unlock something in Adrian, walls crumbling as he leaned into the contact with desperate hunger. “Then why?” he asked, voice rough with need. “Why do you want this? Want me?”

“Because you see me,” I replied, echoing his own words from days earlier. “Not just the nurse, not just the moral compass, not just the man trying to save his sister. You see all of it, even the parts I try to hide, and you want me anyway.”

“Especially the parts you try to hide,” Adrian murmured, hand coming up to cover mine against his face. “The darkness you pretend doesn't exist. The part of you that responded when I had you strapped to that chair, that got hard watching me break Hayes.”

Heat flooded my face at the reminder, shame and arousal warring in my chest.

“That doesn't make me a good person.”

“Good is relative,” Adrian said, and I was struck by how similar his words were to Isabelle's earlier assessment. “And I've never wanted a good person, Noah. I've wantedyou.”

Before I could respond, he was kissing me, desperate and hungry and claiming, hands fisting in my hair with bruising force. I kissed him back with equal desperation, weeks of tension and confusion crystallizing into pure need.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, Adrian's eyes were dark with want.

“Harrison's wrong about one thing,” I said against his lips, voice rough with arousal. “I'm not exploiting your vulnerabilities.You'reexploiting mine.”

“How so?” he asked, though his hands were already working on my shirt buttons, impatient with the barriers between us.

“Because you make me want things I shouldn't want,” I replied, arching into his touch as his fingers found bare skin. “Make me crave violence and possession and all the dark things I've spent my life trying to heal in other people.”

“And that scares you,” Adrian observed, not a question but a statement of fact.

“Terrifies me,” I admitted. “But not enough to stop.”

His smile was predatory, satisfied, the expression of a hunter who'd finally cornered his prey.

“Good. Because I'm not letting you go, Noah. Not now that I know how you taste, how you feel wrapped around me, how you sound when I make you come apart.”

The possessive declaration should have triggered my flight response, should have sent me running for the rational safety of professional distance. Instead, it sent heat pooling low in my gut, need overriding every logical objection my brain tried to form.

“Then don’t let go,” I said, surprising myself with the surrender in my voice.