Page 47 of The Beast's Broken Angel
“I said look.”
His hazel eyes locked onto mine in the mirror—sharp, angry, but… heated. His lips parted like he was about to argue, but nothing came. His body was tense, motionless.
“You flinch from your own reflection,” I said softly, my voice lowering to a murmur meant just for him. “But I see power in every mark. Every wound you try to hide is a reminder you survived.”
“I don’t need your validation,” he muttered, but his voice lacked bite.
“No,” I said, taking another step. “But maybe you want it.”
I moved behind him again, chest brushing the barest edge of his back. The heat of him soaked into me.
“You want someone to see the worst parts and still fucking want you.”
He froze. The mirror didn’t lie—his pupils blew wide. His breath hitched.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snapped, but it came too fast. Too defensive.
“Not flattery,” I said. “Just fact.”
I reached around him, slowly unbuttoning the last few buttons of his bloodied shirt—not touching his skin, just the fabric—then peeled it open without permission.
His breathing grew shallow.
My voice dropped. “Let me show you something.”
I angled the mirror again. He saw them. The scars. Faint and pale but not gone—lining his ribs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers. Beautiful in their violence.
His lips parted.
“You see ruin,” I whispered near his neck. “I see territory.”
He exhaled sharply, like the words struck something between fear and arousal.
I watched him through the glass. “You’re hard.”
His nostrils flared. “Fuck you.”
But his cock pressed against his jeans, undeniable.
“You want me to stop?” I asked. “Say it.”
No sound.
My hand hovered over his wrist—still not touching—but close enough he could feel the heat.
“Do you want me to stop, Noah?”
“…No,” he whispered.
There it was.
I leaned closer, mouth near his ear but not touching. “You don’t even know what you’re craving, do you? Control? Or to lose it?”
He turned his head slightly, lips a breath away from mine. His whole body vibrated with tension, torn between pulling away and falling forward.
“You think you’re dangerous,” I whispered, “but you’ve never had someone make you feel that way.”
I brushed a finger down the center of his chest—slow, deliberate, stopping just above the waistband of his jeans.
