Page 67 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“Don't take too long.” His voice dipped low, dangerous again, but it wasn't a threat. It was a plea dressed in teeth. “Patience isn't one of my virtues.”
He moved to where his clothes lay scattered across the floor, each piece a reminder of how quickly everything had unraveled between us. The expensive shirt, wrinkled beyond salvation. Trousers that would need pressing. The suit jacket that had somehow ended up draped over a chair.
I watched him dress with the same methodical precision he applied to everything else—buttons aligned perfectly despite the fabric's condition, cufflinks retrieved from the nightstand and fastened with practiced ease. Even disheveled, even marked with evidence of what we'd done, he managed to look dangerous and controlled.
He paused at the mirror, fingers working to restore some semblance of order to his dark hair. The reflection caught my eye in the glass, and for a moment our gazes held—his expression unreadable but intense.
Then he was gone, the echo of his presence lingering in the silence like the press of lips on skin.
I sat there for a long time, the sheets tangled around me, heartbeat too loud in the quiet room. My body still ached from him. My soul, ached for something else entirely.
I touched my mouth, still able to taste him. Still able to feel the ghost of what we’d just shared. And I wondered, not for the first time, if I was already too far gone.
If I was already in love with the monster in the dark.
16
BLOOD AND SILK
NOAH
The ceiling of my room had thirty-seven hairline cracks in the plaster. I'd counted them twice while lying awake, watching dawn creep through bulletproof windows like a thief. Hours since Adrian had walked out, getting dressed with that methodical calm that somehow made his departure feel both inevitable and devastating.
Sleep was impossible. My mind wouldn't shut off, cycling through everything that had happened, everything that had changed between us in the space of a few devastating hours. My body still hummed with the memory of his touch, nerve endings firing in patterns he'd mapped with methodical care.
My body remembered every second. The ghost of his hands lingered on my skin like phantom burns, nerve endings still firing in patterns he'd mapped with methodical care. I'd showered twice, but I could still smell him on me—expensive cologne mixed with something darker, more primal. Something that made my pulse quicken despite the voice in my head screaming warnings.
The rational part of my brain, the part trained in traumaresponse and victim psychology, catalogued what had happened with clinical detachment. Stockholm syndrome. Trauma bonding. Biological responses to prolonged stress and isolation. All textbook explanations for why I'd not only allowed Adrian Calloway to fuck me senseless but had begged him for more.
Except none of those explanations accounted for the way my chest had tightened when he'd looked at me like I was something precious. Or how his vulnerability, glimpsed in unguarded moments, had made me want to protect him despite everything he'd done.
Christ, what was wrong with me?
I dragged myself out of bed, muscles protesting the movement. Evidence of our encounter marked my body in bruises and scratches, a roadmap of surrender I couldn't quite regret. Each mark told a story I didn't know how to process—pain transformed into pleasure, control exchanged through trust I shouldn't have been able to give.
The mirror reflected someone I barely recognized. Same face, same body, but something fundamental had changed behind my eyes. The careful distance I'd maintained since arriving at Ravenswood had evaporated, replaced by something raw and unguarded that made my stomach clench with equal parts anticipation and terror.
The silence in my room felt oppressive, thick with the lingering scent of Adrian's cologne and the weight of choices I couldn't take back. I'd crossed a line tonight, not just physically but emotionally. Given him something I'd never given anyone else—complete surrender, unguarded trust, the kind of vulnerability that could destroy me if he chose to weaponize it.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it sent heat pooling low in my gut, the memory of his hands on my skin, theway he'd whispered my name like a prayer and a claim all at once.
A soft knock at my door interrupted the spiral of anxiety. “Come in,” I called, expecting Viktor or one of the other staff.
Instead, Sophia entered with a tea service, silver hair perfect despite the early hour. Her eyes missed nothing as they catalogued my appearance—the careful way I moved, the marks visible above my collar, the general air of someone who'd been thoroughly claimed.
“Good morning, Noah,” she said with a smile that somehow managed to be both maternal and predatory. “I thought you might appreciate some proper breakfast after your... strenuous evening.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I forced myself to meet her gaze directly. “Thank you. That's thoughtful.”
She set the tray on my small table with practiced grace, then settled into the chair across from me like she belonged there. “Adrian's gone to handle some business matters. Financial irregularities that require his personal attention.”
The way she said it made my medical training kick in, analyzing her tone and body language for hidden meanings. Sophia Calloway didn't do anything without purpose, and her presence here felt calculated.
“Is there something specific you wanted to discuss?” I asked, accepting the delicate china cup she offered.
“Several things, actually.” She poured her own tea with the ritual care of someone who'd turned hospitality into an art form. “First, your sister's gallery showing. The arrangements are proceeding beautifully, but I wanted your input on the guest list. It's important we invite the right people.”
The casual mention of Isabelle sent a familiar spike of protective anxiety through my chest. “What kind of people?”
