Page 36 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“Isabelle Hastings,” Adrian continued smoothly, setting the orchids on a side table and approaching her bed with his hand outstretched. “I'm Adrian Calloway. Your brother has been kind enough to take a position as my personal medical consultant.”
Isabelle shook his hand, her artist's eyes missing nothing—not the extensive scarring, not the obvious wealth, and certainly not the tension crackling between us.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Calloway,” she said cautiously. “Thanks for...” she gestured around the luxurious room, “all this. It's a bit much, though, isn't it?”
Adrian actually laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine. “Perhaps. But why not be comfortable while you heal? I understand your artwork shows remarkable promise. I've always been a collector of emerging talent.”
And just like that, he launched into a conversation about her art, displaying knowledge that could only have come from extensive research. He asked about her techniques, her influences, her plans for future projects. What disturbed me most was that his interest seemed genuine, not just the calculated manipulation I'd expected.
Isabelle warmed to him slowly, her initial wariness givingway to enthusiasm as she described her latest series. Adrian listened attentively, asking thoughtful questions that revealed actual knowledge of art. I stood by, feeling increasingly superfluous in a conversation that shouldn't have been happening at all.
“Your brother's medical skills are exceptional,” Adrian told Isabelle, his hand suddenly settling on my shoulder with casual possessiveness that made my skin burn through my shirt. “His talents were being wasted in emergency medicine. I'm fortunate he accepted my offer.”
The weight of his hand felt like a claim, a brand marking me as his property in front of the one person who mattered most to me. The fact that my body reacted to the touch with something other than revulsion only made it worse.
“Noah's always been brilliant,” Isabelle agreed, her eyes tracking the interaction between us with growing suspicion. “But he's never mentioned an interest in private practice before.”
“Sometimes life presents unexpected opportunities,” Adrian replied smoothly. “Opportunities that benefit everyone involved.”
The double meaning hung in the air, clear to me if not to Isabelle. I shifted away from his touch, needing distance.
“I should leave you two to catch up,” Adrian continued, all gracious employer. “I have meetings this afternoon. Noah, Viktor will bring you back to Ravenswood at noon. We have that treatment session scheduled.”
The reminder of my obligations, of my captivity, was expertly woven into what sounded like a normal employer-employee interaction. I nodded stiffly, not trusting myself to speak.
After Adrian left, Isabelle waited approximately three seconds before pouncing.
“Okay, what the actual fuck, Noah?” Her voice was low but intense. “That bloke isn't just some rich guy who needs a nurse. The way he looked at you... like you're his property or something.”
I sank into the chair beside her bed, suddenly exhausted. “It's complicated, Iz.”
“Uncomplicate it,” she demanded. “Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've made some kind of deal with the devil for my treatment.”
She'd always been too perceptive for her own good. I scrambled for a version of the truth that wouldn't terrify her.
“Calloway needed a specialist in burn treatment and trauma care. He's... well-connected, with resources that make this kind of care possible.” I gestured around the luxury suite. “Yes, the arrangement is demanding. I live at his estate, I'm on call 24/7, but the compensation includes your full treatment.”
“And that's it?” Isabelle pressed, clearly not buying my sanitised version. “Just a normal, if intense, employment arrangement?”
I thought of Parker hanging from the ceiling. Of Adrian selecting tools with practised ease. Of the gunshot as the elevator doors closed.
“That's it,” I lied, hating myself for it. “It's a good opportunity, Iz. And it means you get the best care available. That's all that matters.”
She studied me for a long moment, her artist's perception stripping away my defences. “You'd tell me if you were in trouble, right? If he was... hurting you or something?”
“Of course,” I lied again, forcing a smile. “I'm fine. Really. Just adjusting to a new job, new living situation. Nothing I can't handle.”
The conversation shifted after that, to her treatment, to the new doctors, to the incredible difference theprivate care made. I soaked in every detail of her improvement, storing it away as justification for what I'd done, what I was becoming.
All too soon, Viktor appeared in the doorway, a silent reminder that my time was up. My freedom was timed and measured now, doled out in carefully controlled increments.
“I'll visit again soon,” I promised, hugging Isabelle tightly. “Focus on getting stronger, yeah? And on your art. Sounds like you might have a wealthy new patron.”
“Be careful with him, Noah,” she whispered against my ear. “He looks at you like he wants to eat you alive.”
I pulled back, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Don't be dramatic. It's just a job.”
The biggest lie yet.
