What  took  him  aback was not the almost ticklish
sensation  of her fingertip following the white line,
and  it  was  not  the  way  he was neither ashamed
nor proud of the mark. It was the fact that this scar
was  a  far cry from the ones on his back and lower
abdomen.    Beneath   those,   his   skin  was  but a
canvas,    displaying  the  lines  for all  to see. They
were not shameful,  either,  but   they   were   much
more remarkable — and she had seen them before,
despite how much he tried to repress that memory.

So  he  was  surprised that she had taken a shine to
a smaller, fainted scar,   which  barely  reached from
his elbow and halfway to his wrist.    It  felt  like  this
one is a part of his soul by now, however.    For  the
life of him, he could remember how he had received
it, just that it was eons ago.    His best theory was a
training  session  gone  wrong   —  back  in  Russia,
when he was just a novice himself.

Barely  daring  to  breathe,  he  explained  his  theory
briefly,  ”My first stake lesson, as far as I remember.”
His eyes flickered up at her concentrated ones,  and
he wondered if she would roll them now. After all, it
was a poorly hidden warning as well.