Page 41 of The Beast's Broken Angel
His muscles tensed beneath my touch, but he remainedsilent, eyes fixed straight ahead. The control he maintained only increased my desire to break it, to find the point where his composed exterior finally shattered.
I turned to my desk, opening the drawer where I kept certain specialised implements. The thin leather strap felt familiar in my hand, its flexibility ideal for delivering pain without permanent damage. I tested it against my palm, watching Noah's reflection in the window flinch slightly at the sound.
“In my experience, pain creates clarity,” I said, positioning myself behind him. “After this, you'll remember what you agreed to quite precisely.”
I stepped closer, near enough that my breath disturbed the fine hairs at his nape. His scent reached me, hospital antiseptic from Isabelle's room, gallery champagne, and beneath it all, the distinctive notes of adrenaline and fear he couldn't quite suppress. The proximity sent unexpected heat through my body, desire mixing with the anticipated satisfaction of punishment.
The first strike never fell. Instead, my hand found Noah's throat from behind, tilting his head back against my shoulder. “Unless,” I murmured directly into his ear, “you'd prefer alternative correction.”
My free hand slid deliberately down his bare torso, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, the hammering of his heart beneath warm skin. The contact sparked something electric between us, a dangerous current of attraction neither of us had acknowledged directly until this moment.
Noah's body went rigid against mine, caught between instinctive retreat and involuntary response. I could feel the war within him, revulsion at his captor's touch battling with the undeniable physical reaction his body couldn't hide.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice rough with confusion and something darker.
“Offering choice,” I replied, fingers tracing the waistband of his jeans with deliberate intent. “Pain or pleasure. Both leave lasting impressions. Both remind you who holds power.”
His breathing accelerated, pupils dilating as my meaning registered. “That wasn't part of the deal.”
“Our arrangement gives me complete authority over your time and presence,” I reminded him, lips close enough to brush the sensitive skin below his ear. “How I choose to exercise that authority remains my prerogative.”
The shudder that ran through him wasn't entirely fear, a fact that seemed to startle him as much as it pleased me. The healer attracted to the monster, despite everything he'd witnessed. The moral boundary he hadn't expected to find himself crossing.
Before he could respond, the study door crashed open, the heavy lock splintering as Viktor burst through without ceremony. His usual composed expression had shattered, replaced by a tension I'd seen only during the worst crises.
“Sir,” he managed, taking in the scene before him with professional blankness. “There's been an attack. The Raven's Nest is burning.”
11
BEAUTIFUL WEAPONS
NOAH
My heart was still hammering from whatever the fuck had just happened in Adrian's study when Viktor burst through the door. One minute I was about to be punished, Adrian's hand sliding down my bare chest with terrifying intent, and the next we were racing toward disaster.
Medical instincts kicked in as Adrian's convoy sped through London toward the still-burning nightclub. I inventoried the emergency kit Viktor had thrust into my hands, checking supplies against the mental list of likely injuries. Burns, smoke inhalation, shrapnel wounds, blunt trauma. The familiar checklist steadied my racing thoughts, gave me something concrete to focus on besides the lingering ghost of Adrian's touch on my skin.
“What's the casualty count?” I asked Viktor, who was driving like a man possessed, weaving the massive Range Rover through traffic with terrifying skill.
“Five confirmed dead. At least a dozen injured,” he replied,eyes never leaving the road. “Dominic took shrapnel trying to evacuate staff.”
Adrian sat beside me in the back seat, his phone pressed to his ear, issuing commands in a voice I barely recognised. Gone was the man who'd pinned me against his body moments earlier, whose breath had been hot against my neck, whose hands had promised things I didn't want to acknowledge. This Adrian was something colder, more alien. A predator calculating the most devastating response to an attack on his territory.
“Police and fire services have been managed,” Sophia informed us via speakerphone, her voice icily composed despite the hour and circumstances. “Our people established a perimeter. Harrison is handling official inquiries. Media blackout in progress.”
The casual way they discussed controlling police and media should have shocked me more than it did. But after witnessing Parker's execution, my threshold for surprise at the Calloway family's reach had significantly recalibrated.
“Footage?” Adrian demanded, the single word laden with controlled fury.
Viktor handed back a tablet, keeping one hand on the wheel as we took a corner fast enough to throw me against Adrian's side. The momentary contact sent an unwelcome jolt through me, my body apparently not getting the memo that nearly being molested by your captor shouldn't leave you sexually confused.
“Three attackers, professionally trained,” Viktor reported as Adrian studied the security footage. “They executed the bartender first, then initiated the fire using military-grade accelerants. Not Vega's usual methodology.”
I glanced at the tablet over Adrian's shoulder, medicaltraining already cataloguing the efficient violence displayed. The attackers moved with coordinated precision, their methods suggesting professional training rather than street thugs. One moved differently than the others—more contained, more disciplined in his movements.
“Former military,” I said without thinking. “The one in the grey jacket. That's CQB movement pattern. Close-quarters battle training.”
Adrian's head turned toward me, mismatched eyes sharp with sudden interest. “You recognise military combat techniques?”
