Page 54 of A Reputation Dark & Deadly

"I'm a fucking goddamn monster," he said, his voice low.

"You aren't ashamed of it," Peyton said with a sneer, "so stop pretending you are now."

"You think I regret what I did to that piece of shit excuse for a father?" Logan asked, furrowing his brow. He didn't look angry that she would assume such a thing, more like frustrated that he had to explain this to her. "I don't. I pulled the plug and I would do it again in a heartbeat. That sack of shit didn't deserve to draw breath."

Peyton nodded once. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes watery but not because of tears. She was sad. She was intent on not only listening to what he had to say but on hearing him, on taking him in. She didn't want to ask questions, didn't want to interrupt in fear that he would clam up or realize what he was doing and then stop.

"I'm a goddamn monster, Peyton, because of the things I could - and will - do to Brandon once I know you're okay," he told her. His eyes were a gold color, intense and penetrating. Not only was he serious about what he was saying, he meant what he was saying on top of everything else. "You are mine, you see. I've never fucking had something that's been mine before. But I know that I'm not going to fucking let it stand, what he did to you. People need to realize that you're fucking off-limits. Not even my fucking brother can do what he did to you."

"Logan," Peyton murmured. He sounded as though he was talking more to himself than to her and she hoped the sound of his name, the sound of her voice, would bring him back to the present. He needed to focus on now, not what happened. She let it go. Actually, truth be told, she had yet to analyze what had happened to her. She hadn't had a moment alone, and that was something she was grateful for. She was surprised Logan was here in the first place, but he had waited for her to wake up. He was here, and though he didn't show it, he was grateful she was relatively unharmed.

Peyton was starting to learn a lot about Logan Jeffrey. One of those things was that for the amount the guy liked to talk and regardless of how charming he could be, Logan wasn't very good at expressing himself. He definitely wasn't a romantic and he didn't seem to know the right thing to say. He was honest, however, direct and to the point, which Peyton could respect, even if it wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear. At least she knew he would never bullshit her.

"I'm here," she told him, continuing the sentiment of anchoring him to this moment. "I'm okay. It's okay."

"It's not fucking okay," Logan said but he took a seat in the uncomfortable plastic chair and didn't say anything more on the subject.

After the nurse came in to check her vitals and the doctor examined her body, it was deemed that she would be discharged later that evening just as long as Logan was there to take care of her should she need assistance with anything. Logan nodded once, keeping his mouth closed as he watched every person who interacted with Peyton carefully, making sure he knew exactly what they were doing before they were allowed to put a hand on her.

Once they left, Logan stared back at Peyton, his eyes burning, causing a flush to touch Peyton's cheeks so she had to look away.

"Listen," he finally said. "If we’re going to be together, I need you to fucking listen to what I have to say. Before you twist that around and interpret that as me being allowed to fucking tell you what to do, that's not what I mean at all. And you should know that. What it does mean is that if I tell you something, if I share something personal or give you a fucking opinion, I want you to really hear what I have to say. That doesn't mean I need you to agree with everything I have to say but it does mean you have to at least consider what I have to say."

Peyton pressed her lips together and nodded her head. He was right, of course. She needed to respect what he said, especially when it came to things he knew personally. She hadn't. By going behind Logan's back, she completely disrespected him and his opinion. She didn't even give him a chance to explain why he felt the way he did. She just assumed he was going to tell her what to do, just assumed that he wouldn't hear her feelings. But the insistent way he was looking at her now, the way his eyes - as bronzed as they were - almost begged her to understand this concept.

She bit the inside of her bottom lip and nodded her head.

"I'm sorry," she told him in a low voice.

"I don't want your fucking apology," he told her.

Her eyes flashed at him. "Could you just let me apologize?" she snapped and suddenly realized that she needed to lower her voice lest anyone were to overhear. They weren't exactly in a room and any nosy nurse could overhear quite easily. "I fucked up, okay? I meddled and I thought I could help, which was incredibly arrogant and selfish of me. I know that me being here is my fault. I just..." Her eyes snapped up to his and she shrugged her shoulders almost helplessly. "I thought I could help."

"Well, you can't," he told her bluntly. "Not with this. Not everyone has your family, Peyton. Some things, you just have to fucking let be." He leaned on her bed and took her hand in his. They were bigger, much bigger than her own, and they folded over hers easily. They were callused due to the baseball and even through his splint, she could feel the warmth of them. They made her feel safe.

"My father..." He let his voice trail off, his eyes staring at the crisp white linen that encapsulated the hospital bed Peyton currently occupied. It was odd, seeing him distracted when he was known for being aware and focused and completely present. "Was not a nice man. I learned at an early age that you couldn't depend on your father to teach me what it means to be a man. I had to learn myself. And I did. I had no fucking role models except the men I saw on television. Athletes. The only thing my father ever did for me was put me in youth baseball and I learned to fucking hit the ball so hard, I was playing for teams older than I was. When I was playing, I could forget that my father liked to smack me around for amusement, that he kept my mother hidden in the shadows of his own fucking problems because he was chicken shit. I could get over the anger I felt at my mother for being so goddamn dependent on him. I fucking hated her for it, for this life, for choosing him to be the man she had children with.

"And then I went to school and learned my father created me. I came from him. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't fucking exist." He shook his head, more to himself than to Peyton. "That fucking monster created me. It's no wonder I'm one, too."

"You're not a monster," Peyton said, feeling compelled to offer her two cents. It might not make a difference to him but at least she said it, at least he heard it from her. And if he didn't believe her, then fine. But at least he knew how she felt.

"Are you fucking kidding me, sweetheart?" Logan asked, looking at her with amused eyes. "You don't think I don't hear what people say about me? My colleagues fucking hate that I have tenure. I swear at my students, sleep with my TA's and I don't prepare power points for my lectures but I rarely get a complaint. Don't you think people are looking for any fucking reason to fire me?"

"Being with me is reason enough, Logan," Peyton told him, her voice low. She didn't want to admit it out loud, didn't want to give him any ideas, but it was true.

"Being with you is the best fucking thing that's happened to me," Logan told her and she could hear the truth of the statement in his tone. "I have no idea what the fuck happened in my life for you to fucking fall for an asshole like me. I've been trying not to think about it because I'm aware that you could wake up and realize that I'm not worth your fucking time."

Peyton rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Logan," she told him. "This self-deprecating crap doesn't look good on you."

"I know the fucking law," he told her. "I know the sociology and psychology and anthropology and history of crime. I know how to fuck and please and bring women to their knees. But I don't know how to be there for someone. I have no clue what the fuck I'm doing and that scares the shit out of me. You, what I feel for you, scare the shit out of me."

Peyton pressed her lips together and looked away. No one had ever spoken to her this way. As much as Logan wasn't a romantic, this was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her, and that meant more than she knew how to handle, more than she knew how to react to. Something warm squeezed her heart together and that warmth dropped down so it could spread out through her entire body.

"So what happened...?" she forced herself to ask, forced herself to say. She needed to say something, she needed to change the subject lest she get swept up in feelings she didn't know how to handle.

"Karla called me," he told her, his eyes sharper and more focused now that the subject changed from his feelings to something more logical. "I wasn't going to answer it except for the fact that it was late at night and you sure as hell weren't picking up." Peyton winced at the look Logan gave her. "I realized why the fuck Karla was so insistent on me being into you. She wanted to use your ignorance and inexperience against you. She wanted to indirectly compare the two of you together. That was why she fucking sent me to get you at the party. She wanted me to see how fucking childish your behavior could be. It was why she got Brandon involved, because I'm certain, without a fucking doubt, that Brandon didn't reach out to her. Not after what I did to his fucking jaw. But she used her looks and her persuasion to get what she wanted. Probably used the fact that he could get back at me by getting to you." He looked at her again, like he was looking at her for the first time and really seeing her, really seeing what she was to him. "He knew you were my weakness. That if you hurt, I hurt." He clenched his jaw together, his fingers tightening in her blankets. "Peyton, you have no idea..."

He let his voice trail off and looked away. Peyton reached for him as best as she could, until her hand found his.