For a moment, I was stunned. Simply stunned. Not only because Grayson knew about my scars, or at least this one, but also because I never showed the marks to anyone. Only Finn and the Deveraux sisters knew what they really looked like besides me, and I wasn’t crazy about staring at them myself, for obvious reasons.

Oh, sometimes someone in the restaurant would get a quick, accidental look at them while I was working. But the scars had faded over time, and it was hard to tell they were really runes without studying them up close—or that I had one on each palm. Even then, I just passed them off as burns that I’d gotten from working in the Pork Pit over the years.

Still, despite my surprise, I played it cool, as though Grayson seeing the scar didn’t matter to me at all. I shrugged. “So I have a scar. Lots of people do. Hardly worth mentioning.”

He shook his head. “Not just any scar. It’s silverstone. The metal is in your skin. When I shook your hand that night, I felt it. And now,” Grayson cocked his head to one side. “I can hear it.”

I stared at him. He must have more than a small talent for metal, if he could do all that. Once again, the thought struck me that Owen Grayson was someone worth watching, someone to be very careful around. Perhaps even someone to get rid of. But my curiosity wouldn’t quite vanish enough for me to take that final step. Not yet. Not until I knew exactly what he wanted.

“And what does the metal in my hands sound like?”

He gave me a small smile. “It sounds sad. Hurt.

Lonely.”

I kept my face blank, even as the emotions and memories raged inside me. The feel of the spider rune medallion burning into my skin, the smell of my own melting flesh filling my nose, my hoarse screams echoing in my ears, the Fire elemental’s cackling laughter drowning out everything else. Somehow, I pushed the memories back and focused on Owen Grayson’s face, on his violet eyes, which were still glowing ever so slightly.

At that moment, I seriously considered hurting Owen Grayson. Even killing him. Because somehow, Grayson had stripped away part of my defenses, part of my anonymity.

He knew too much about me, knew too many things I was so careful to conceal. He could be a threat. To me, to Finn, to the Deveraux sisters. I didn’t like threats.

So I decided to get down to business.

“My scar sounds sad, hurt, lonely? That sounds like a lame come-on to me,” I mocked. “Surely, you can do better than that, Mr. Grayson.”