Chapter 864
Jarrod stood before a massive, high-powered telescope, its lens aimed with unnerving precision. In the circular view, a small scene played out: a woman with tangled hair, her face smudged with dirt, eating a bowl of stew as if it were the most important task in the world.
He could see the exhaustion in the slump of her shoulders, the deep lines of fatigue around her eyes. He watched the steady, determined movement of her spoon to her mouth.
“Sir, the situation is resolved,” K.C. reported from behind him. “Instructor Hawke will not be taking any further action. For now.”
Jarrod didn’t turn. His voice was a low growl, thick with a barely contained violence. “For now?”
His right arm remained locked across his torso inside the heavy medical brace, and his splinted left hand hung rigid at his side. He did not grip the telescope. He could not. Only the exposed tips of his left fingers twitched once against the edge of the black splint before going still.
“I should go down there right now,” he bit out, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle jumped. “I should relieve her of duty for UCMJ violations and have her thrown off my base.”
K.C. stood his ground, his presence a calming, rational anchor in the storm of his commander’s fury. “If you do that, sir, you might as well hang a sign on Trainee Thompson’s back. You’ll confirm every suspicion. You’ll make her a target for everyone.”
He let the words sink in before continuing. “Sloane Hawke is a superior soldier, but her emotional judgment is compromised. She’s a wounded animal right now, sir. A direct attack will only make her more reckless, more dangerous.”
Jarrod’s breathing was heavy, ragged. He knew K.C. was right. This was the cruel logic of his own plan.
“You sent her here to be forged, not to be kept in a safe,” K.C. said softly, his words striking the core of Jarrod’s conflict. “Diamonds require pressure, Colonel. The process is never painless.”
Jarrod closed his eyes, a wave of self-loathing washing over him. He was the architect of her pain.
He forced himself to look through the eyepiece again. He watched as Caroline finished her meal. She stood up, and with Brenna at her side, she walked out of the mess hall. Her back was straight. Her head was held high. She was not broken.
A fierce, agonizing mix of pride and guilt tore through him. He saw her resilience, the very quality he was trying to hone, and it felt like a knife in his own chest. This was what he wanted. This was what he needed her to be.
He stepped back from the telescope, the motion carefully contained around the brace, his face once again a mask of cold control. He turned to K.C.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice clipped and formal. “We proceed as planned.”
The commander was back. But the storm still raged in the depths of his gray eyes.
“However,” he added, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet, “if Sloane ever crosses the line from psychological pressure to direct physical injury…”