Page 52 of Property of Scar

Not fear.

Not even close.

Respect.

It hits sharp and clean, gone almost as quickly as it comes, buried under everything else I know about him, everything that says I shouldn’t be impressed by anything he does.

But it’s there, and he knows it.

I can tell by the way his attention shifts back to me, like he felt the change the second it happened.

Damn him for that too.

When he continues, his voice is quieter. “I walked it back into the containment crate.” A slight shake of his head, almost imperceptible. “It’s contained.”

The information arranges itself quickly—a hollow, possession, containment.

The mechanics of it I already understand, but the toll of it is a different thing.

“Memory hangover?” I ask because there’s no way he doesn’t have one right now.

Hollows suck at the very core of your worst memories. They feed on them, and that sticks with you.

Asshole supernatural beings.

He turns to look at me properly for the first time since he came in. The scar along his face catches the overhead light, and his red eyes carry something carefully constructed around the edges, a composure that has been assembled.

“That’s one way to name it,” he says.

“Hollows dig for the soft spots,” I say, moving to the mat to stretch, letting the weight of the observation sit without pressure. “When they surface, they don’t always go back down clean. I’ve heard they can bring up old memories and leave them sitting on the surface. Ones that linger after can be… brutal.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and I look up.

His jaw is set, the muscle working once. His eyes have gone somewhere far behind the conversation.

“Is there anything it brought up?” I keep my voice even. “Anything in particular?”

The wince is small, and most people wouldn’t catch it.

But I do.

Something moved behind his eyes in the half second before control reasserted itself, something old, deep, and still raw enough to hurt, and he pulled it back so fast I almost doubt I saw it at all.

Almost.

“Let’s just train,” he says.

There’s something deliberate in the way he says it, like he’s closing a door we’re both still standing in.

I let my gaze stay on him a second longer than I should, just long enough to make it clear I’m not pretending that didn’t happen. He doesn’t look away or soften it.

Fine.

I push to my feet, rolling the tension out of my shoulders as I step onto the mat, grounding myself in movement instead of whatever the hell that was. I settle into a stance and flash him a grin. “Try to keep up,” I say. “I’d hate for this to get boring.”

His gaze travels over me, slow enough to feel deliberate, taking in every inch before it settles back on my face. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Confident,” I murmur. “I like that.”