Chapter 879
“Tomorrow,” she said, “if I choose to step onto that course, it will be my choice.”
Jarrod’s voice was quiet behind her.
“That’s why I gave you the map.”
She opened the door and slipped into the corridor, a ghost in the shadows, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Behind her, Jarrod remained in the office, motionless beneath the green lamp, caged by metal, command, and the one thing he still did not know how to give her.
Trust.
She walked into the barracks, the sound of the heavy door closing behind her echoing in the suddenly quiet room. She leaned against her metal locker, sucking in deep, ragged breaths, trying to force oxygen into her starved lungs. Her face was pale beneath the grime, her eyes too bright.
Brenna looked up from her bunk, her expression instantly shifting from exhaustion to concern. “Caroline? Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Fine,” Caroline gasped, the lie tasting like ash in her mouth. “Just… needed air.”
She forced herself to stand upright, to move. Action was the only antidote to the chaos in her mind. Jarrod’s final words echoed in her head: That’s why I gave you the map. Not a promise. Not possession. Information.
She fumbled with the lock on her locker, the metal cool against her trembling fingers. The folded copy of tomorrow’s voluntary stress event was still tucked into the waistband of her fatigues, an ugly little gift made of paper and warning. She pulled out her gear, laying it on her bunk with mechanical, jerky movements. Prepare for the next training. Focus on the mission. It was a mantra she’d learned long ago, a way to build walls against overwhelming emotion.
Her frantic energy drew attention. Across the room, near the entrance with her posture too still to be casual, was Sloane Hawke. Her eyes, cold and assessing, were locked on Caroline. They weren’t the eyes of a rival anymore; they were the eyes of a predator that had been momentarily thwarted and was now recalculating its attack.
A shiver traced its way down Caroline’s spine, a cold dread that had nothing to do with the night air. The real battle was just beginning.
As if summoned by the thought, a figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the harsh lights of the base.
Jarrod.
He stood there as the very picture of command forced through injury, his right arm still locked across his torso inside the heavy medical brace, the bulk of it distorting the front of his dark utility jacket. His splinted left hand hung rigid at his side, useless and still. His face was a mask of cold, indifferent authority. The man who had stood in a private office and handed her a battlefield map was gone. Erased.