Page 42 of Break Me Beautifully

He stares at me without any hint of emotion. I wish I hadn't asked, but I've come this far. I need to understand the whole picture. What Marshall did, what shaped him to become the man who could kiss with such passion while sending violent men fleeing in pale fear. "The dogs," he says quietly. "I let the dogs he tortured have their way with him. After that, everyone began to call me the Devil. And they always will."

There's a hummingbird inside my chest in place of my heart. I push my hands to my ribs, willing myself to calm down, but it doesn't work. "And the dogs?"

"What?" he asks, caught sideways by my question.

"After all that, what happened to them? You tried to free them the first time, but you couldn't. Nothing should have stopped you the second time, right?"

He considers me with his head canting to one side. A faint smile crosses his lips. "I just told you I had a man ripped to shreds out of revenge, and you want to know about the dogs. Who the hell are you, Leona Hark?"

"Someone who wants to believe you're not as evil as you're trying to convince the world you are."

That sours his expression fast. "That's a mistake. Stop trying to justify my actions."

"What happened to the dogs?" I ask again.

"I rounded them up and had them sent to rescues that were familiar with abused animals."

I'm breathing easier as he finishes talking. Gently, I put my hand on his forearm, sliding down until I'm resting on his bare skin. "You saved them."

"They deserved better than being euthanized."

"They did," I agree seriously. "But why did you try and free them in the first place? When you were a kid, I mean. Did you not know it was a risk if you got caught?"

He touches his mouth again, then places his gloved hand over mine. "I knew."

"Then?"

"I saw it," he says, his voice shifting to a hoarse whisper. "My father used to sell his paintings on the street. I would help him. Carrying things, collecting money, watching the merch. One day, I was chasing after someone who had forgotten his change. He went down a set of stairs into this dark cellar in an apartment complex. That was when I saw the dogs. They were lying in cages, eyes wet, tongues pale. They were good dogs, Leona. And I'd always wanted a dog, but my father ..." He smiles tragically. "He was allergic. I never got to keep any pets." His smile washes away. "I hid when Joshua came into the room. The dogs started raging, barking, going mad. They were terrified. They didn't want to go. How could I see all that suffering and not try to help?"

The coldness he was so comfortable wearing as a mask has gone away. Marshall can't keep the raw emotion hidden as he recounts this part of his story. I watch, mesmerized by this honest reflection of who he was, who he still is.

He can call himself the Devil all he wants.

I know the truth.

Cradling his head, I kiss him softly, my eyes closing so I can experience the moment for all it is. The noise of the city life echoes in the distance; a car honking, someone shouting swears, a cat yowling. I kiss him in the place where I was attacked moments ago. And I kiss him knowing his scar is a mark of the pain he endured far too young.

"Wait," he pants, breaking our lip-lock, gripping my shoulders like he has to keep us apart. "What are you doing?"

"Kissing you."

"Why?I just confirmed to you that I'm involved with the mafia! I told you I had a man torn to shreds by dogs! How can you want to touch me after learning that?"

"I wanted to know everything," I say, tugging at his grip, but he holds firm. "You gave me it, Marshall. I finally understand a piece of you I couldn't before."

"Exactly. You should be running out of this alley."

"Am I the first person you told all of this?"

He hesitates before nodding.

"Well, I don't know how anyone else would react, but I'm not going to run." Leaning forward, I try to kiss him again, but he forces me against the wall. "Stop it," I say.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Leona?"

"Nothing. This was always going to go one of two ways. I'd either hate you after learning your past, or I'd ..."

"You'd what?" he hisses.

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