Chapter 792
But the warmth couldn’t erase the other sensations. The coppery tang of Heather’s blood that still seemed to coat the back of her throat. The sound of the military clock in the infirmary. The memory of Jarrod standing beside her, unable to touch her with his ruined hands, his voice the only thing solid enough to pull her back from the red.
She hadn’t slept. Not for a single minute.
The shrill blast of the reveille whistle at 0500 was a physical assault.
It sliced through the quiet barracks, signaling the start of another day in hell.
Caroline swung her legs over the side of the bunk, her muscles screaming in protest. Every part of her ached with a bone-deep exhaustion that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
She moved through the morning rituals on autopilot — dressing, tying her boots, pulling her hair into a tight, severe bun. Her reflection in the grimy latrine mirror was a stranger’s. A ghost with dark circles under her eyes and a pallor that spoke of trauma and sleeplessness.
On the training field, the air was cold and sharp, scraping the inside of her lungs with every breath. Alpha squad stood in formation, their breath pluming in the pre-dawn light.
Instructor Sharpe paced before them, her presence a knot of coiled energy. Her eyes, sharp and predatory as a hawk’s, swept across the ranks, missing nothing.
They landed on Caroline.
And they stopped.
Sharpe’s brow furrowed into a deep, angry line. She saw the exhaustion, the hollowed-out look, the subtle tremor in Caroline’s hands. She didn’t see a soldier grieving. She saw a weak link.
“Thompson!” Sharpe’s voice cracked like a whip.
Caroline’s spine snapped straight. “Instructor!”
“Did you have a fun night out, Thompson?” Sharpe’s tone was laced with corrosive sarcasm. “A little party, perhaps? You look like you’ve been dragged backward through a hedge.”
“No, Instructor,” Caroline replied, her voice steady and loud, betraying none of the chaos churning inside her.
“I don’t care about your excuses,” Sharpe sneered, taking a step closer, invading her personal space. “I care about results. And right now, the result I see is a trainee who is unfit for duty. The result I see is ‘unqualified.’”
The word hung in the cold air, a public brand of failure.
Across the formation, a flicker of movement caught Sharpe’s eye.
Melanie Thorne.
Her right hand was splinted and wrapped in thick white gauze, held awkwardly against her chest in a field sling. The official story, delivered to the duty medic before dawn through clenched teeth, was that she had slipped in the shower. She had not accused Caroline. She couldn’t. Naming Caroline would mean explaining why she had been alone with her in the locker room, why she had not reported the injury immediately, and why the MPs had already sealed her locker in connection with a poisoning investigation. Vince’s warning still lived under her skin: no more noise. No more evidence.
A slow, malicious, triumphant smile was spreading across her face despite the pain. It was a look of pure, unadulterated schadenfreude. She was savoring Caroline’s public humiliation.
Sharpe’s gaze narrowed. If there was one thing she hated more than a weak soldier, it was a soldier who reveled in the weakness of a teammate. It was poison to unit cohesion.