A Deal With the Devil by Louisa George Page B

silvered line across his mouth.
    “Rey …”
    His eyes opened, but he didn’t look at her, he focused on something ahead. Something from the past. Or nothing at all. “It was my father. A long time ago. He had a gold signet ring, with an old penny in it. Turns out it could pack a punch. Split my lip in two.”
    “Oh, my God. Really?” The full horror of his life bloomed before her. She couldn’t imagine having someone you loved do such a thing, to destroy all trust, to break your spirit. In an attempt to keep him close she slid her fingers into his. “Why? Why would he do that?”
    “Because he didn’t know another way. Because it was an outlet, a pressure valve. He was always totally calm afterwards. But mainly, each time, it was simply because I was there.”
    “Didn’t someone stop him? How could he do such a thing …?” Her admiration for him was growing; deeper, more profound emotions were working in her chest. His eyes had a haunted quality to them and she ached to rewind to moments ago when she’d seen such playfulness and desire there. But this too was Rey Doyle. This man was complex. A fighter. A survivor. “How did you stop it?”
    “I left. I walked away. Living on the streets was a far better option. At least if I died there it would have been from some kind of choice. To a greater or lesser extent I was in control.”
    Which explained his pressing ambition to conquer, to be in charge. “I can’t imagine having to make such a choice.”
    “He always said he was sorry, that he wouldn’t do it again. That each punch was the last one, promised … begged for forgiveness, wept like a child … But there was always, always a next time. We lived from breath to breath, watching the minutest changes in his manner, the clenched jaw, a certain look in his eye.” Making space between them he stepped further away, guarded once more, shoulders up to his ears. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want your pity.”
    Feeling raw she straightened up, let his fingers slide from her grasp. Her heart was just about smashed but she didn’t pity him, not at all. “Oh my God, no. I’m in awe that you got out at all. That you got out whole.”
    He took a moment to answer her, thought about his response. “Thing is, Kate, I don’t know if I did. I have nothing to give anyone—I’m empty. A shell. Cold.”
    She took that to be more about the shield he wore, than a warning, even if he thought it was the latter. “No you’re not. Look at what you’ve achieved with your life. Look at you. Look at how you helped that street kid. Look at your amazing business success. Is that not enough?”
    “I don’t know, Kate. Is anything enough?”
    You are. She reached her hand to him and he took it, gripping it like some kind of lifeline. He looked at her then, eyes filled with the agony of his past and she held his gaze as long as she dared.
    And oh, he was beautiful. So beautiful it caught her breath. She inched backwards to take in the raw fierce energy, the scars of his life. A fighter. There was a script tattooed on his wrist. She pushed his jacket sleeve up, but she couldn’t read the words. “May I?”
    He shrugged.
    Wordlessly she shrugged the jacket from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. His eyes never left hers but he let her do it. Then she pushed back his sleeve and read the italic lettering: fall down seven times, stand up eight . A boxing mantra? She ran her fingertips down it, taking the meaning to heart—whatever demons he faced, he would overcome, and would never ever submit.
    “I love it. Any more?”
    His eyebrows rose, but without answering he unbuttoned his shirt, slid it off then turned slowly away from her.
    “Oh. Wow. I mean … oh, my God, wow.” In black and white ink huge feathered wings opened across his shoulder blades, an angel down the centre of his spine, floating over the smooth curves of his back. Serene and beatific, the angel was looking down—a mysterious