Page 61 of Property of Scar

I don’t allow the thought to finish.

“Hold on,” I say instead.

Her hands tighten slightly in response, just enough to register. “I am,” she replies.

I don’t comment on the fact that she isn’t.

I don’t comment on the fact that I can tell the difference.

I simply pull out into the street.

The city tears past around us, all streetlights and cold night air, while the bike growls beneath me. I roll on the throttle and let the machine run, cutting through traffic with the same focus I bring to everything else.

Forward.

No hesitation or second-guessing, just the road opening up in front of me and the engine rumbling through my bones, but I am aware of her the entire time.

Of the way she shifts with the bike, matching the movement without needing instruction.

Of the way her hands stay at my sides instead of around me, maintaining that careful half inch of space she guards like it means something.

I notice it the way I notice everything about her.

Which is precisely the problem.

The warehouse comes into view too quickly, sitting back from the road like it doesn’t want to attract attention. I slow the bike, the engine dropping from a roar to a controlled growl as I pull into the lot, gravel crunching under the tires. The building looms ahead of us, dark except for a single light burning near the side entrance.

Silence drops in around us after the rush of the ride.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then Cali’s hands leave my sides, and she slides off the bike first, boots finding the pavement in one smooth motion—I notice her absence immediately. I keep the machine balanced beneath me until she’s clear, then cut the engine and step off after her.

She rolls her shoulders once, like she’s resetting her body after the ride, then looks at me. “You always ride like that?” she asks, brushing a loose strand of hair back from her face. “Or was that just for me?”

I glance at her. “You kept up.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“It was the answer.”

Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Right. Because ‘yes, I drive like a maniac’ would’ve been too honest.”

“I don’t drive,” I say, already turning toward the building. “I arrive.”

She hesitates, then says, “That’s the worst thing you’ve said all night,” she mutters, falling into step beside me.

“And yet, you’re still here ready to fight beside me,” I point out.

“Debatable.”

We move toward the entrance, boots crunching over gravel, the quiet of the place settling in around us the closer we get. The air changes before we even reach the door, subtle at first, then sharpening into something that doesn’t sit right under the surface.

I reach it first, pushing it open.

The warehouse feels strange the second we step inside. I feel it immediately, a stillness too deliberate for an empty building, the kind that comes from something being very recently disturbed and not yet settled again. The air carries the chemical edge of old blood, the sharp metallic thread of iron, and beneath that, something I can’t immediately name, something synthetic and ritualistic that sits on my instincts.

Cali’s shoulders drop a degree, weight redistributed to the balls of her feet, her hand closing around the stake at her thigh without drawing it.