(Robert's POV)
I stood before the cracked mirror in my room, examining the fresh scar on my side where the shotgun pellets had torn through my flesh. It was an ugly thing, pink and puckered, a permanent reminder of my moment of weakness. Father would be disappointed if he knew I'd kept it, refusing Lyra's offer to heal it completely. But pain was a teacher, and I needed the reminder.
Weakness gets you killed. Emotions are liability. Love is for fools.
These were the lessons Father had drilled into me since I was a pup, each one reinforced with fists and cruel words. I traced the scar with my fingertips, remembering the sting of the whip, the ache of bruised ribs, the bitter taste of my own blood.
A knock at the door interrupted my brooding. "Enter," I called, not bothering to put on a shirt.