Page 34 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“What kind of other work?”
His eyes met mine over the rim of his mug. “The kind that makes me valuable to Mr. Calloway.”
Right. Probably better not to know.
“Does it bother you?” I couldn't help asking. “The things he does. The things he makes you do.”
Viktor considered this, his face thoughtful rather than offended. “In my country, I see worse things before I was twenty. At least Mr. Calloway has... code. Rules.” He sipped his tea. “Not random cruelty. Always purpose.”
“Purpose doesn't make it right,” I argued.
“Right, wrong.” Viktor shrugged massive shoulders. “These are luxury concepts. Survival is what matters. Mr. Calloway understands this.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “Your sister. She survives because of him now. You understand survival, I think. Better than most soft English.”
There was something close to respect in his tone that caught me off guard. I'd assumed all of Calloway's people saw me as just another acquisition, a possession to be managed.
“What happened to him?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. “The burns. His medical file has the treatment records but not the cause.”
Viktor's expression shuttered immediately. “Not my story to tell. But know this—Mr. Calloway was not born monster you think he is. He was made.”
We drank our tea in silence for a while after that. It was strong and sweet, nothing like the English breakfast I usually drank.
“Russian tea,” Viktor explained, seeing me examine it. “Good for shock.”
“I'm not in shock,” I protested.
His look was knowing. “Witnessed first killing. Not sleeping. Wandering strange house atnight. This is shock.”
Put that way, maybe he had a point.
“Mr. Calloway has interest in you,” Viktor said abruptly. “Different than others.”
“What do you mean?”
“Watches you. Studies you.” Viktor's eyes were penetrating, assessing. “Be careful with this interest. Can be dangerous.”
“Is that a threat?” I bristled.
“No. Warning.” He stood, taking our empty mugs to the sink. “Sun comes soon. You should try to sleep more before breakfast. Mr. Calloway notices weakness.”
I rose as well, strangely reluctant to end this unexpected conversation. “And you? Do you notice weakness too?”
Viktor's smile was small but genuine. “I notice everything, Mr. Hastings. Is my job.” He gestured toward a door different from the one we'd entered through. “This way leads back to east wing. Second right, then left at painting of hunting dogs.”
As I turned to go, he added, “Mr. Calloway is complicated man. Not good, not evil. Something between. Remember this.”
I made my way back to my room following Viktor's directions, his words turning over in my mind. Not born a monster, but made. The implication that there was more to Adrian than the cold-blooded killer I'd witnessed last night was disturbing. I'd been trying to convince myself he was simply evil, a straightforward villain I'd made a deal with for Isabelle's sake. It would have been easier if that were true - easier than acknowledging the confusing pull I'd felt toward him even during our clinical interactions, the way my body had responded to his proximity despite knowing what he was capable of. It was easier to think of him as simply evil, a straightforward villain I'd made a deal with for Isabelle's sake.
The idea that he might be complex, might have reasons behind his brutality, made everything messier, more confusing.
When I finally crawled back into bed as the first lightof dawn crept through the windows, my mind was still racing. But at least Parker's screams had receded slightly, replaced by Viktor's accented voice.
Mr. Calloway has interest in you. Different than others.
What the hell did that mean? And why did the thought send that strange shiver down my spine again?
Adrian appearedat breakfast looking like he'd stepped out of a bloody fashion magazine. Perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect composure. As if last night's brutality had happened in another dimension, to different people. He barely glanced up from his tablet as I dropped into the chair across from him.
