Page 29 of The Beast's Broken Angel
And seeing how people looked at him, I understood something about Adrian I hadn't before. The scars weren't just physical damage. They were armour, a barrier between him and the world, a warning to others and a constant reminder to himself of whatever had happened to him.
“This way,” Adrian said close to my ear, the proximity sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. He guided me toward the back of the club, past VIP areas to a private elevator guarded by two men who stepped aside without a word when they saw him approaching.
The elevator required a retinal scan and fingerprint from Adrian before its doors opened. Inside, there were no buttons, just a panel that lit up at his touch. As we descended, my heart hammered against my ribs.
“Whatever you're about to show me,” I said quietly, “itwon't change anything. I signed your contract for Isabelle. That's my only reason for being here.”
Adrian met my eyes in the elevator's mirrored wall. “Reasons fade, Noah. Actions are what remain. You're here. The why becomes less important with each passing day.”
The elevator opened onto a stark contrast to the hedonistic club above. Clinical white tiles, harsh lighting, and an antiseptic smell that triggered my nurse's instincts even as my stomach clenched with dread.
In the centre of the room, a bloodied man hung from ceiling restraints, his face so swollen I could barely make out his features. Viktor stood nearby at a metal table, arranging items I recognised from my medical training, though they weren't being used for healing here.
“This is Jamie Parker,” Adrian said calmly as we entered. “He's been selling drugs in my club. Drugs that killed two patrons last week.”
My mouth went dry as Adrian removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves with methodical movements. His scarred forearms flexed as he selected something from Viktor's tray.
“Tonight you watch,” Adrian told me, his voice chillingly matter-of-fact. “Tomorrow you may need to treat his wounds. Consider this part of your orientation.”
I wanted to run, to scream, to protest. But the elevator doors had closed behind us, and I knew with sickening certainty that there was nowhere to go. The gap between the nurse I'd been and whatever Adrian needed me to become yawned before me like an abyss.
“I don't...” I started, then stopped, not sure what I even wanted to say.
“You don't what, Noah?” Adrian asked, turning those intense eyes on me. “You don't approve? You don't want towatch? You don't think he deserves punishment for killing innocent people with tainted drugs?”
I had no answer. The moral complexity was dizzying. The man had apparently caused deaths. But this wasn't justice; it was revenge, private and brutal.
“I'm a healer,” I finally said. “This goes against everything I believe.”
“And yet you're here,” Adrian replied. “For your sister. We all compromise for those we love.”
He turned back to Parker, who moaned through swollen lips as Adrian approached. “Watch or don't watch. But understand this is part of my world. The world you've entered willingly, eyes open, for Isabelle's sake.”
8
BEAUTY’S CORRUPTION
ADRIAN
Parker screamed again. Controlled, measured, the trained rhythm of someone who'd seen trauma before. Most civilians would've been hyperventilating or passed out by now, but Noah’s medical background gave him composure under pressure. Fucking promising.
Parker hung from the ceiling restraints, his once expensive shirt now soaked with blood and sweat. The room smelled of fear and disinfectant, a blend I'd grown accustomed to over years of similar conversations. I selected another tool from Viktor's neatly arranged tray, a small blade designed for shallow but exquisitely painful cuts.
“The supplier's name, Mr. Parker,” I repeated, keeping my voice casual like we were discussing the weather rather than his continued existence. Blood had already stained my custom shirt cuffs, but that's what I kept a personal tailor for. “Simple exchange, really. Information for mercy. Your choice entirely.”
Parker's eyes bulged, darting between the blade in my hand and Noah's rigid form against the wall. Having a new witnessclearly unsettled him, adding another layer of humiliation to his breaking.
“Alvarez,” he finally choked out, spittle and blood spraying from his split lips. “Carlos Alvarez runs distribution from a garage in Brixton. Factory converted to flats, number sixteen, Coldharbour Lane.”
I nodded to Viktor, who tapped the information into his secure tablet. My eyes never left Noah, cataloguing his reactions. The rigid posture, the deliberately neutral expression that couldn't quite hide the horror in his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands that he tried to control by clenching them at his sides.
Beautiful.
Not his discomfort, exactly, but the struggle playing out across his features. Moral outrage warring with survival instinct. Professional detachment battling visceral reaction. He was a study in controlled chaos, and I found it more fascinating than I'd anticipated.
“Anything else we should know about Alvarez?” I asked Parker, who was now babbling details about security, distribution routes, and everyone involved in the operation. Fear made him thorough.
When he'd emptied himself of everything useful, I wiped my hands meticulously on a black towel. Blood never comes out of fine cotton easily, and I preferred to minimise the damage to my clothes when possible.
