Chapter 819
The silence that followed her words was heavy and absolute. The distant shouts of trainees on the obstacle course seemed to come from another world, a world that wasn’t contained in this small, emotionally charged room.
Caroline leaned her hip back against the edge of the desk, the cool pressure of the wood a small comfort. A wave of dizziness washed over her. The sleepless night, the brutal run, the violent emotional rollercoaster, it had all taken its toll. She felt hollowed out, every ounce of strength leached from her body.
Jarrod watched her, his face a mask of anguish. He saw the pale, translucent quality of her skin, the dark, bruised-looking circles under her eyes. He saw the slight tremor in her hands as she clutched the folder to her chest.
He went completely still for a moment, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. His gaze dropped to her hands, to the fingers that were slightly swollen from the punishing physical work, and then back to her face, to the dullness in her usually bright, alive eyes. His breath seemed to catch in his throat, and he swallowed hard, a flicker of something that looked like physical pain crossing his features.
“Maybe I was wrong,” he said, the words a low, tortured whisper, more to himself than to her. The regret in his voice was so raw, so genuine, it seemed to scrape against the air itself. He shook his head, just barely, a fraction of an inch, as if arguing with himself. “Maybe I should have just locked you away somewhere safe instead of putting you through this.”
The raw regret in his voice, the genuine pain and uncertainty, cut through her own emotional turmoil. It was a sound she had never heard from him before. The sound of a man questioning his own infallibility.
Her head snapped up. She saw him standing there, this man who commanded armies, who moved through the world with such absolute certainty, and for the first time, he looked lost. He looked broken. And it was all because of her.
A powerful surge of empathy, so strong it was almost painful, washed away the last remnants of her anger.
She saw his left hand, not clenched into a fist, because it couldn’t be. The black splint held it rigid at his side, thick medical wrapping disappearing beneath the hard frame. Only the smallest tremor moved through the exposed tips of his fingers, a useless flicker of strain trapped inside plastic and bandage.
She took a deep breath, pushing herself off the desk. She walked toward him.
He watched her approach, his body tensing, his gray eyes wary. He didn’t know what to expect. Another attack? Another retreat?
She did neither.
She stopped directly in front of him. She did not try to take his hand or lace her fingers through his. Instead, she reached out with both hands and gently, carefully, enclosed the rigid curve of his splinted left hand between her palms.
Her palms were warm and soft against the cold edge of the splint, not against his skin. Even that small barrier felt like another kind of wound.