Chapter 842

She pressed forward, a frantic, last-ditch attempt to use physical contact to break through the wall he had built. But the brace stopped her from reaching him the way she wanted. Metal, fabric, and medical restraint stood between her body and his.

His body remained as rigid and unyielding as stone.

His hand did not shoot out. He did not clamp her wrists, pry her fingers loose, or shove her back. He could not. His right arm stayed locked across his torso inside the heavy medical brace, and his splinted left hand hung useless at his side.

“Bell,” Jarrod said, his voice low and lethal. “In my office. Now.”

The door opened instantly. K.C. Bell stepped inside, his face impassive, taking in the scene without a flicker of surprise. He saw Sloane’s tear-streaked face, her disheveled uniform, her fingers clenched in Jarrod’s jacket, and Jarrod’s rigid, furious posture.

K.C. crossed the room with silent efficiency. “Instructor Hawke,” he said. “Step back.”

Sloane didn’t move.

K.C. took her by the forearm with quiet, professional firmness and disengaged her fingers from the edge of Jarrod’s jacket and brace. The motion was controlled, not cruel, but it left no room for refusal.

She let out a small, broken sound as the last physical link between them was severed.

Jarrod did not point at her. He didn’t need to. His eyes remained on K.C., cold and final.

“Escort Instructor Hawke to her quarters,” he commanded. “Ensure she understands the necessity of maintaining proper military bearing at all times.”

It was the ultimate humiliation. He was having her removed. By his man. Like a trespasser. Like a prisoner.

Sloane stared at him, her face a mask of shattered disbelief. The tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked. She didn’t resist as K.C. Bell stepped to her side and, with a quiet but firm gesture, indicated the door.

She allowed herself to be led away, her last look at Jarrod one of utter, soul-crushing defeat.

After the door closed behind Sloane and K.C. Bell, Jarrod remained standing in the center of the room, his body rigid. The silence was absolute, heavy with the ghosts of what had just transpired.

A minute later, the door opened again. K.C. stepped back inside, closing it softly behind him. He stood at attention before Jarrod’s desk, his face as unreadable as ever.

It was K.C. who broke the silence.

“Sir,” he said, his voice low and even. “Allowing Instructor Hawke to remain here, in a position of authority over Trainee Thompson, constitutes a significant conflict of interest.”

It was a rare thing for K.C. to offer an unsolicited opinion. It underscored the gravity of the situation.

Jarrod walked to the window, turning his back on the room. The sun had set, and the base was bathed in the cold, artificial glow of security lights.

“I’m aware,” he said, his voice rough.

“She is emotionally compromised,” K.C. continued, pressing the point. “She will project her resentment toward you onto the recruits. Specifically, onto Trainee Thompson.”