Chapter Thirteen
CALYPSO
The Next Day
The clubhouse gym feels stripped raw in a way the rest of the building never does. Rubber mats scarred from years of boots grinding into them. Heavy bags swaying faintly in the breeze. The constant hum of the exhaust fan, fighting a losing battle against the heat hanging in the air.
I like it down here.
No politics or posturing. No careful conversations where every word needs careful consideration before you let it out.
Just iron, pain, and brute effort.
The bar digs across my shoulders while I drive out of the squat, my legs burning hard enough to shake by the time I lock it out. I rack the weight with a heavy metallic sound and step back from it, dragging air through my lungs while sweat slides down my spine.
I’ve been down here for forty minutes.
My hair is tied back in the usual tight braids, vest dumped across the bench near the door nearly an hour ago. Just a sports bra, training shorts, sweat slick across my skin, and the solid burn of muscles doing exactly what they were built to do.
Everything feels simpler down here. It’s the kind of focus that strips the noise out of my head and leaves nothing behind except movement and control. I roll my shoulders once, working the tension out of the lift, then step over to the pull-up bar.
The door opens behind me, and I don’t look.
I know who it is before he crosses the threshold.
I’ve learned the silence that follows him, the way it moves with him, like sound itself gives him clearance.
Scar doesn’t ask if the space is available.
He comes in, sets his cut on the hook beside my vest, and moves to the free weights in the corner, as if this had already been arranged, and I simply wasn’t notified.
Typical.
I’m three reps into the set before I actually look at him.
Scar moves through the workout with the same cold precision he brings to everything else. Every rep is controlled, every movement is exact, like his body was built to efficiently handle punishment and learned a long time ago how to do it.
But something about it feels off.
He’s putting the work in, but his head is nowhere near this room. I can see it in the way he moves through each repetition like he’s running on instinct alone, conditioned response carrying the load while his thoughts stay trapped somewhere else entirely.
The gap between the two feels bigger than it should.
And whatever is sitting in that distance looks heavy.
I finish my set, then drop the bar. “You look like you got three hours of sleep and none of them were good ones,” I say, reaching for my water.
He sets the weight down, without argument. “That obvious?”
“To me.” I roll my neck, feeling the pop. “The prospects didn’t notice?”
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite amusement but something flatter than that.
“The prospects picked up on it quick enough in the van,” he says it flat, like it’s nothing more than another piece of information and not something worth wasting energy on.
Then he grabs the weight again and keeps going, giving the conversation about as much attention as a man swatting flies. “After that… not so much.”
I let it sit for a second.
That’s something I’ve learned with him. You don’t push, not unless you’re looking to hit a wall. He moves when he decides to, not before, and forcing it just makes it clear you’re not getting in.
The weight drops back down with a solid thud.
“We encountered a hollow last night.” The words come out controlled, but there’s a fracture under them, something that doesn’t quite settle.
“In the Voss shipment. The hollow got loose.” He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing what to say next instead of it coming easily.
“I let it in.” Silence stretches, heavier than it should be, and for a second too long, his gaze isn’t here. It’s somewhere else.
My body goes still before I can stop it.
A tiny shift, but inside me, something snaps tight and sharp.
I know exactly what that means.
Not from stories, and not from whispered warnings designed to keep rookies obedient.
I know what hollows do when they get inside somebody.
I know how they hollow people out from the inside, piece by piece, while they’re still breathing.
I know the look in a victim’s eyes afterward.
The empty spaces they leave behind—the parts of a person that never come back, even if the body survives.
And suddenly every instinct I have is awake and reaching for violence.
You don’t walk away from that.
You don’t stand there after and talk about it like it’s just another problem that needs solving.
My eyes move over him before I can stop them, quick, assessing, looking for cracks he’s not showing.
There should be something.
There should be evidence.
There isn’t.
And that is worse.
Something tightens low in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
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.”
The distance between us disappears as he comes at me with vampire speed, and I catch his forearm before the strike can land. The impact rattles everything inside me, but I ride the force instead of fighting it, pivoting inside his reach and driving my shoulder into his chest.
He gives ground half a step.
That’s all I get.
His hand catches my wrist before I can capitalize, twisting my momentum into his. Suddenly, I’m the one being turned, my back brushing his chest as he steps in close enough that I feel his breath against my temple as he holds me against him tight.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
His grip tightens around my wrist.
I turn my head.
He’s already looking at me.
Too close.
Close enough that my eyes drop to his mouth before I can stop them.
Something shifts between us. His gaze follows mine, and for one dangerous second, it feels like neither of us remembers why we’re standing on the mat in the first place.
My heart hammers in my chest, my breathing quickens, goose bumps pebble along my arms, and it’s like my skin is on fire where he’s touching me, even though his hands are ice cold.
His mouth parts just a fraction, and it’s all I need to bring me back to reality.
I wrench free. The moment snaps as I spin out of his reach and fire a strike toward his ribs.
His forearm knocks it aside. “Predictable,” he says, his voice as calm as ever, even as he drops low and sweeps for my legs.
I hop over it, landing lightly and already circling. “And yet… you still haven’t put me on my ass.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t need to.” He steps back in, one hand cutting toward my throat with that same relentless precision. “I just have to wait.”
I catch his wrist before it lands, shove it off line, and drive my elbow up into his ribs.
This time, it connects solidly.
I feel it, but he doesn’t react.
“Right,” I breathe out, a sharp grin pulling at my mouth as I pull back. “Super strength. No flinching. That’s inconvenient.”
His fingers close around my wrist on the follow-through. “You’ll adjust.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
He turns my momentum against me, pulling me forward, but I go with it, dropping low, twisting under his arm, and coming back up inside his space. My hand braces against his chest for leverage.
I shove off him harder than necessary and come back in faster.