Page 24 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“With modern techniques, you wouldn't have half these mobility issues or sensitivity problems,” he continued, apparently oblivious to the effect his nearness was having. “The nerve regeneration pattern shows classic signs of delayed treatment.”
His analysis without any emotional coating created an unexpected connection between us. Just facts, expertise, shared understanding without the weight of pity or disgust that usually came with discussions of my scars.
“You think different treatment would have given better results?” I asked, genuinely interested rather than just maintaining control.
“No question,” Noah said confidently, his professional certainty compelling. “The last ten years have completely changed how we handle burns like yours. Combination therapies with targeted pressure, specialised massage, nerve desensitisation—the outcomes are night and day different.”
“Could that still work now?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, revealing more vulnerability than I'd intended. Montgomery had insisted for years that my condition was as good as it would ever get.
Noah considered this seriously, his eyes tracing the map of my scars with genuine professional interest. “Some of it, yeah. Nerve pathways can be rehabilitated even years later. Some contracture treatments would still help.” His eyes met mine directly. “I'd need to do a full assessment to work out exactly what would help most.”
The possibility of improvement after years of resignation created an unexpected surge of hope. Noah's matter-of-fact approach cut through the protective shell of acceptance I'd built around my condition.
“You'd do that as part of our deal?” I asked, watching him carefully.
“That's what you're paying for, isn't it?” he replied with a shrug. “Proper medical care using my training. Using outdated methods would be shit practice, no matter how weird our... situation is.”
His brief hesitation acknowledging our unusual arrangement showed awareness of the boundaries still settling between us, but his medical standards clearly weren't negotiable. Another contradiction in a man who kept defying expectations.
“Tomorrow we'll start with a full assessment then,” I decided, finally reaching for my shirt. The movement sent fresh pain through my shoulder, and I couldn't quite hide the wince.
Noah noticed immediately. “The pain's getting worse. I can give you something for it now.”
“I'm fine,” I dismissed automatically, used to handling pain on my own.
“That's bollocks,” Noah countered, already reaching for the medical supplies on the counter. “Pain increases inflammation, which makes healing harder. Not taking proper pain meds isn't being tough—it's just bad medicine.”
The blunt assessment without any deference created an interesting tension. Most staff would've backed down immediately after the slightest pushback.
“You think your medical opinion trumps what I want?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral despite the challenge.
“For medical stuff? Yeah,” Noah replied without hesitation, though his stance showed he knew he was on dangerousground. “You hired me for my medical expertise. That's what I'm giving you. Outside of that, obviously you call the shots.”
The clear line he drew impressed me. Most acquisitions either surrender completely or fight everything. Noah's balanced approach suggested possibilities I hadn't considered.
“Interesting take,” I acknowledged, buttoning my shirt without taking the offered medication. “We'll see how these professional boundaries work out as we go.”
Noah put the medication away without arguing, recognising when to push and when to back off. Strategic thinking. Unusual.
“Seven tomorrow morning, then,” he confirmed, professional mask back in place though exhaustion shadowed his eyes. The strain of the day showed in the slight tightness around his mouth, the barely perceptible droop of his shoulders.
“Get some sleep, Noah,” I said, moving toward the door. “Tomorrow's when this really starts.”
As I left his room, I found myself oddly aware of the sound of the door closing, separating us after this unplanned midnight meeting. The brief treatment session had revealed more than expected, layers beneath the simple transaction we'd agreed to.
I headed back to my wing through the silent halls, my shoulder throbbing under Noah's fresh bandaging. Sleep would probably still elude me despite the late hour, my mind racing with the unexpected complication Noah Hastings represented.
He was different—professional skill without simpering submission. Ethical lines he wouldn't cross despite desperate circumstances. Adaptable without surrendering who he was.
And his touch... his hands had awakened sensations I'd thought long dead, nerve endings responding in ways that had nothing to do with pain or medical treatment. The clinicalcontact had somehow been more intimate than any deliberate touch I'd experienced in years.
7
MARKED TERRITORY
NOAH
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 6:15. I had forty-five minutes before breakfast with the beast. After Adrian had left my room last night, I'd tossed and turned for hours, my mind replaying the way his skin had felt under my fingers, the heat of him, the intensity in those mismatched eyes when I'd challenged him.
