Page 57 of Property of Scar

My breath catches.

His grip tightens for a fraction longer than necessary before he uses it to lift and turn me, my back hitting the mat hard enough to knock the air from my lungs in a sharp exhale.

“Careful,” he says, stepping over me, his voice quieter now, edged with something that wasn’t there before. “You’re getting distracted.”

I push up onto my elbows, breath still uneven, my gaze locked on him. “You’re one to talk,” I shoot back, even as I surge to my feet again, refusing to stay down. “You’re the one who stopped first.”

“I didn’t stop,” he replies, advancing again, slower this time. “I adjusted.”

“Right,” I say, circling him, heat still buzzing under my skin, my chest rising and falling faster than it should. “That’s what we’re calling it.”

His eyes track me, unblinking. “You’re breathing harder,” he points out.

I huff a short breath, something like a laugh slipping through it. “That tends to happen when you’re alive.”

“And yet…” he says, closing the distance again, “… you’re still coming at me like you can win.”

“Of course, I am.” I step in close enough to feel that absence of heat, that stillness that shouldn’t feel this charged. “You think I’m going to let you win after throwing me into a damn wall?”

His mouth shifts slightly, almost a smile, but not soft. “I think…” he says, his voice dropping just enough that it pulls my attention in tighter, “… you’re not fighting just to win anymore.”

My pulse stutters. “Neither are you.”

For a second, neither of us moves.

The room around us is wrecked, debris scattered, dust still drifting lazily through the air, but all of it fades into the background under the weight of the moment.

Then I move first.

Because I have to.

Because if I don’t…

I don’t want to know what happens if I don’t.

I lunge at him again, faster, harder, and this time when we collide, it feels like something tipping over the edge. Then I shift again, everything I have behind the movement now, no restraint left to temper it.

He meets me head-on.

The collision drives us backward, feet sliding over the ruined floor as momentum carries us through the debris, past broken benches and twisted metal, until my back hits the wall with enough force to send a dull crack through the air. Dust shakes loose above us, drifting down in a slow, lazy fall that feels out of place against the speed of everything else.

His hand comes up, bracing against the wall beside my head, trapping me there without quite touching me, his body close enough that there’s nowhere left to go.

I don’t try to move. My breath comes fast, my chest rising and falling in sharp contrast to the absolute stillness of him.

No breath.

No pulse.

Just presence.

Controlled and contained.

Except it doesn’t feel contained anymore.

Not here.

Not now.