Page 94 of The Beast's Broken Angel

I should’ve questioned the ethics.

Should’ve hesitated.

Instead, I was already rehearsing the lines in my head.

The study fell quiet. Adrian still hadn’t moved. He just sat there on the worn leather chair, elbows braced on his knees, gaze locked on the floor like it might offerabsolution. Or a verdict. The firelight played over his face, throwing shadows across the scarred cheek, the sharp angles of bone and tension.

I stepped closer, wordlessly, until I stood between his knees.

He looked up.

Something in his expression cracked me wide open. Not vulnerability. Not grief.Need—raw, dark, threaded through with rage and something dangerously close to reverence. Like he needed tolose himselfin something just to keep from shattering.

I cupped his jaw.

His hand caught my wrist. Not to push me away. Just tofeelme.

“You think I don’t trust you,” I said softly, fingers sliding over the sharp cut of his cheekbone, “but I do.”

His eyes searched mine, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“You just told me the worst night of your life,” I said. “And I still want you.”

His throat worked. “You have no idea how hard I’ve tried not to want this.”

“I haven’t made it easy,” I admitted.

He gave a breath of a laugh. “No. You really haven’t.”

I traced his scar with my thumb, featherlight. “I want to give you something good. Just once.”

Adrian stood in one smooth, fluid motion and cupped the back of my neck. “No. Letmegiveyousomething good.”

He kissed me.

Hard, fast, like a dam breaking. I moaned into it, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, clinging as he backed me toward the oak desk. I half-expected him to shove everything off in a rage of heat, but instead he paused, gently turning me around.

“Hands flat,” he said. “On the desk. Don’t move.”

I obeyed without hesitation, heat licking up my spine.

Adrian stood behind me in silence, gaze burning into my back like a brand. I could feel the moment he moved—slow, deliberate—the heat of his body blanketing mine before anything ever touched.

“You trust me?” he asked again.

I nodded, pulse pounding in my throat.

“Words.”

“Yes. I trust you.”

“Then don’t move. Not unless I tell you to.”

He left me standing there as he stepped away, quiet and controlled. The whisper of drawers opening. A flicker of anticipation sparked low in my belly. When he returned, something soft brushed my wrists—silk again. This time tighter. My hands were bound flat to the polished desk, unable to do anything butfeel.

I shivered.

He pressed a kiss to the back of my neck. “You always pretend you’re so in control,” he murmured. “But I see it. How much you crave being told what to do.”