Page 62 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“No one touches what's mine, Noah,” he continued, and the possessive declaration combined with the first-name usage sent heat coursing through my veins like molten metal.
And then his lips replaced his fingers against my injured mouth, and the world exploded into sensation.
The kiss tasted of scotch and blood and dangerous possibility, a line crossed that could never be redrawn. It was soft at first, almost questioning, but when I didn't pull away—couldn'tpull away—it deepened into something hungrier, more demanding.
I should have pushed him away. Should have remembered the basement, the chair, the casual way he'd discussed carving truth from my flesh. Should have maintained some shred of dignity, some remnant of self-preservation.
Instead, I kissed him back.
My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as my mind screamed warnings about Stockholm syndrome and power dynamics and the fundamental wrongness of wanting the man who'd made me bleed. But my body had other ideas, responding to his touch like I'd been starving for contact and he was the first meal I'd seen in weeks.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, the silence was deafening.
“Fuck,” I whispered, the word barely audible but carrying the weight of everything we'd just changed between us.
Adrian's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want, and when he spoke, his voice was rougher than I'd ever heard it. “That's not regret I'm hearing, is it, Noah?”
I found myself trapped between honesty and self-preservation. Because the truth was that kissing Adrian Calloway felt like coming home and jumping off a cliff simultaneously. It felt like salvation and damnation wrapped in expensive fabric and scarred skin.
“I don't know what the fuck this is,” I admitted, because lying seemed pointless now. “You're a monster. You torture people. You kill people. You coerced me and used my sister and turned my life upside down.”
“Yes,” he agreed without flinching, thumb still tracing my lower lip like he was memorising the shape of it. “I am. I do. And yet here you are, kissing me back like you want more.”
It was true. Despite everything logical and moral and sane,I wanted him. Wanted this. Wanted to lose myself in the heat of his body and pretend that the world outside this room didn't exist.
“Why?” I asked, though I wasn't sure if I was asking him or myself. “Why do I want this? Why do you?”
“Because you see me,” he replied simply, and the vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache. “Not the scars, not the monster, not the reputation. You see what's underneath all that, and you're not afraid.”
“I should be afraid,” I said, even as my hands traced the line of his jaw, mapping scars and smooth skin with equal fascination. “Any sane person would be terrified of you.”
“But you're not sane, are you, Noah?” he murmured, pressing closer until there was no space left between us. “If you were, you'd have run the first night. You'd have found a way to escape, consequences be damned. But you didn't.”
He was right, and we both knew it. There had been opportunities—moments when the surveillance was lighter, when the guards were distracted, when I could have made a break for it. But I'd stayed. Told myself it was for Isabelle, for the treatment she needed, but deep down I knew there was more to it.
I'd stayed because some twisted part of me wanted to be here. Wanted to be his.
The realisation should have horrified me. Instead, it felt like finally admitting a truth I'd been running from since our first meeting in the hospital trauma bay.
“This is fucked up,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, my hands were tangling in his hair, pulling him down for another kiss.
“Completely,” he agreed against my lips, but he kissed me anyway, deeper this time, hungrier, like he was trying to devour me whole.
And God help me, I let him.
Adrian kissed like he owned me. Like this was a claim, not a question. His mouth was all heat and hunger, his hands everywhere at once, gripping my hips, sliding under my shirt, dragging it up with one impatient tug before tossing it aside.
He didn’t stop to admire. He devoured.
His teeth grazed my throat, lips trailing heat down my chest. He paused at my nipple, flicking his tongue over it, then sucked hard enough to make my back arch. I gasped, clutching at his shoulders, and he smiled against my skin like he liked that sound. Then he did it again.
I shifted back on the mattress, propping myself on my elbows as he came over me. By the time he reached my waistband, I was already hard and aching.
“Off,” he growled, tugging at my pants. “Now.”
I lifted my hips and let him strip them away, underwear too. The air hit me and I shivered, not from cold, but from the way his eyes darkened as he looked at me, cock flushed and leaking, thighs already trembling with want.
“Fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re mine now, Noah. Every inch of you.”
