Page 33 of The Beast's Broken Angel
Mika
Where the hell are you? Hayes said you quit with no notice. Call me back, you wanker.
The guilt hit like a sucker punch. I'd disappeared from my life without warning, without explanation to the people who actually gave a damn about me. And for what? To save my sister by becoming the pet nurse of a monster?
The walls of the fancy prison suddenly felt too close, the air too thick. I needed to move, to breathe, to do something besides replay Parker's screams in my head. Throwing on jeans and a t-shirt, I headed for the door, not caring if it was against the rules to wander at night. Let them stop me if they cared so much.
To my surprise, the door wasn't locked. The corridor beyond was dimly lit, silent except for the faint ticking of an antique clock somewhere. I picked a direction at random and started walking.
Ravenswood at night was a different creature from the daytime version I'd glimpsed. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, painting silver patterns across marble floors and wooden paneling. The place was massive, a maze of corridors and staircases that seemed designed to confuse. I passed rooms filled with furniture shrouded in white covers, galleries of paintings watching from walls with judging eyes, libraries where leather-bound books lined shelves from floor to ceiling.
It felt like walking through a museum after hours, each room preserved in perfect, unlived-in stillness. Not a home so much as a monument to power and wealth accumulated over generations.
After about twenty minutes of wandering, I found myself in what looked like the main part of the house. A grand staircase curved down to a massive entrance hall, moonlight streaming through stained glass windows to create pools of coloured light on the marble floor.
“You are far from the east wing, Mr. Hastings.”
The voice nearly gave me a heart attack. I spun around to find Viktor standing in the shadows by a suit of armour, his massive frame somehow blending into the darkness despite his size. He wasn't in his usual suit but wore track bottoms and a fitted t-shirt that showed muscles you'd expect on a professional fighter, not a chauffeur.
“Fucking hell,” I gasped, heart racing. “Do you always creep around in the dark?”
“I am head of security,” he replied, his Eastern European accent more pronounced in the quiet. “Night patrol is part of job.”
I'd only interacted with Viktor briefly during the drive to The Raven's Nest and back. Up close, in the moonlight, I could see now that what I'd taken for stoicism was actually something else—a kind of contained intensity, like a tightly coiled spring.
“Couldn't sleep,” I explained unnecessarily. “Needed to walk.”
Viktor nodded as if this made perfect sense. “Nightmares. Normal after first time.”
“First time?” I echoed, then realised what he meant. “First time watching someone being tortured and killed, you mean?”
“Da.” He didn't seem bothered by my bluntness. “First is hardest. Gets easier.”
The casualness with which he said it, like we were discussing a workout routine or learning to drive, made my stomach turn again.
“I don't want it to get easier,” I said. “That's not why I'm here.”
Viktor studied me, his face impossible to read in the moonlight. “Why are you here then?”
“My sister needs medical treatment. Expensive treatment.” I leaned against the banister, suddenly tired. “Calloway's paying for it in exchange for my... services.”
“Medical services,” Viktor clarified, though something in his tone suggested he knew it wasn't that simple.
“That's what the paperwork says.”
Viktor was quiet for a moment, then gestured for me to follow him. “Come. Kitchen is this way. Tea helps with bad dreams.”
I hesitated, but followed. What else was I going to do? Go back to my room and stare at the ceiling until morning?
The kitchen was unexpectedly cozy compared to the rest of the mansion, with warm copper pots hanging from a rack and a large wooden table in the centre. Viktor moved with surprising grace for such a big man, filling a kettle and setting it on the Aga without turning on the main lights.
“Sit,” he instructed, pulling out a chair at the table.
I sat, watching as he prepared tea with methodical movements. There was something almost meditative about the way he did it, each motion exact and deliberate.
“You've worked for Calloway a long time?” I asked, just to break the silence.
“Eight years.” He set a steaming mug in front of me, then sat with his own. “Before that, other work.”
