It's one of two he's given her, both bullet wounds. Both of them have healed well, the scars shiny and raised. Visible, but they don't give her trouble. Not anymore. She hisses softly, struck with a sudden envy. He's marked her, but she hasn't been able to do the same.

She trembles with the urge to drag him back up, sink her teeth into his shoulder, drag her claws down his back. It wars with other needs, the sight of his face, the feel of his lips traveling down her body, keeping her still a moment longer, winning him a moment more of freedom.