Adrian settled into his chair, studying me with unnerving intensity. “Total confidentiality. Exclusive availability. Residence here at Ravenswood.” Each requirement landed with deliberate weight. “I'll require you to take a one-year leave of absence from the hospital, effective immediately. Your sister's treatment continues uninterrupted, regardless of insurance decisions.” His mismatched eyes held mine, unblinking. “In return, you belong to me until our contract concludes.”
The possessive phrasing sent an involuntary shiver along my spine, though again, not entirely from fear. There was something dangerously appealing in the directness of his claim, in the clarity of the exchange being offered.
“Belong to you,” I repeated slowly, testing the words. “That's a rather antiquated way of phrasing an employment arrangement.”
A ghost of a smile touched his scarred lips. “Is it employment when desperation removes choice? Let's not pretend this is a standard professional negotiation, Mr. Hastings. You need what I'm offering. I need what you can provide. The power imbalance is obvious to us both.”
The brutal honesty was almost refreshing after days of evasions and half-truths with colleagues and friends. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you leave with my respect for your principles, and your sister's treatment remains subject to the whims of insurance bureaucracy.” Adrian leaned forward slightly. “I don't threaten, Mr. Hastings. I simply present reality as it exists. Your sister requires continued treatment. The system has failed to provide it. I offer a solution with clearly stated conditions.”
I weighed his words, searching for hidden dangers beyond the obvious compromises. “Why me specifically? Surely there are dozens of qualified nurses with burn treatment experience.”
“There are,” he acknowledged. “But few with your particular combination of skills, adaptability, and motivation.” He paused, studying me with clinical detachment. “You treated a gunshot wound without asking inconvenient questions. You maintained composure during an armed confrontation. You've demonstrated loyalty that transcends conventional ethics when someone you love is threatened.” His voice softened slightly. “And you have no one who would miss you sufficiently to cause problems.”
Beyond Isabelle and a handful of colleagues, my existence left few meaningful impressions on the world. No romantic partner, no close friends outside work, no family beyond my sister. The isolation had happened gradually after our parents took off, my focus narrowing to Isabelle's care and professional obligations until little room remained for genuine connection.
“Would I be permitted to visit my sister?” I asked, alreadymentally calculating what I would need to arrange if I accepted.
“Regular scheduled visits, yes. With appropriate security accompaniment.” Adrian gestured toward the medical files. “Your primary responsibility would be maintaining my treatment regimen, addressing complications as they arise, and ensuring confidentiality regarding both my medical condition and anything you observe while in residence.
“How long do I have to decide?” I asked, buying time to process the magnitude of what was being proposed.
“Until you leave this room,” Adrian replied without hesitation. “This offer isn't negotiable or extendable. You decide now, Mr. Hastings. Your sister's treatment continues without interruption, or you return to your current situation with all its limitations.”
The stark choice settled between us with crushing weight. I thought of Isabelle's face that morning, excited about her gallery showing, hopeful for a future that depended entirely on continued treatment. I remembered Dr. Whitman's grave expression as he explained the probable consequences of interrupted therapy. Twenty-eight days until authorisation expired. Fifty thousand pounds required for continuation.
Against these realities, my ethical concerns seemed increasingly abstract, principles that wouldn't keep my sister alive while I clung to moral high ground. The photograph in my wallet pressed against my chest through fabric, a constant reminder of what was truly at stake.
“If I agree,” I said slowly, “I would need certain guarantees for Isabelle beyond financial support. Her psychological wellbeing matters as much as her physical treatment.”
Adrian nodded once, acknowledging the condition. “Reasonable. We can include specific provisions.”
I took a deep breath, making the decision I'd effectivelymade the moment I called the number on his business card. “Then I accept your offer, Mr. Calloway.”
“Adrian,” he corrected, extending his hand across the desk. “Given the intimate nature of our arrangement, formality seems unnecessary.”
His grip when I shook his hand was firm, warm, the damaged skin of his right side creating an unusual texture against my palm. Something electric passed between us in that brief contact, a current of connection that transcended the transactional nature of our agreement.
“Welcome to Ravenswood, Mr. Hastings,” Adrian said softly, his mismatched eyes holding mine. “I believe this arrangement will benefit us both in ways neither of us fully anticipates.”
I had crossed a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, entered a world operating by unfamiliar rules. For Isabelle's sake, I would learn to navigate it, regardless of what that adaptation might cost me.
Outside the study windows, darkness had fallen completely, the manicured grounds illuminated by strategic lighting that created pools of visibility amid deepening shadows. A fitting metaphor, I thought, for the path I had chosen—islands of clarity surrounded by moral twilight, with dangers I could sense but not yet see.
6
THE BEAST'S DOMAIN
ADRIAN
Noah signed the final page of our contract, his hand steady as the pen glided across paper. Something stirred in my chest as his signature completed the document. Another piece on my chessboard, though this one felt different. Not just about fixing my shoulder or replacing Montgomery. Something about him pulled at me in ways I couldn't quite name.
The scratch of pen against expensive paper filled my study. When he finished, he set it down carefully, like putting down a scalpel after surgery. Most people who sign their lives away to me are shaking by now. Not him.
“Dominic will show you to your room in the east wing,” I said, sliding the contract into my desk drawer. “We'll grab your stuff from your flat tomorrow. Everything you need for tonight's already there.”
Noah's chin lifted slightly, a quiet defiance in his eyes despite what he'd just agreed to. Most people are broken or grovelling by this point. His stubborn dignity sent a jolt through me that wasn't entirely unpleasant.
