Chapter 880
His gaze swept across the room, a brief, impersonal inventory of his trainees. It passed over Caroline, not lingering for more than a second, but in that single, fleeting moment, their eyes met. An entire conversation passed between them in that silent exchange, a warning, a challenge, a secret shared in a room full of strangers.
He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent.
“Tomorrow morning,” he announced, his voice crisp and devoid of any warmth, “you will be conducting a voluntary advanced stress event. Night Terrain Confidence Course.”
A collective ripple, sharp and uneasy, went through the trainees. Caroline felt the folded paper against her waist like a hidden blade.
Jarrod continued, every word clipped and formal. “Wet obstacle transition. Blind navigation. Elevated rope traverse. Simulated casualty extraction. Full instructor evaluation.”
Fear moved through the room in a visible wave. It wasn’t the spectacular terror of a jump from the sky. It was worse in another way: close, muddy, dark, and intimate. A course designed to make the ground itself betray you.
Jarrod’s eyes found Sloane. “Instructor Hawke,” he said, his tone purely professional. “You will supervise the evolution within the written parameters.”
The words hit Caroline with a cold, heavy clarity. He was not handing her life to Sloane on a silver platter. He was forcing the trap to stay inside the shape of the map he had already shown her.
A slow, cruel smile touched the corners of Sloane’s lips, a barely perceptible flicker of triumph.
“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice smooth as silk.
Jarrod’s gaze shifted by the smallest fraction toward K.C. Bell, who had appeared behind him like a second shadow.
“Sergeant Major Bell will audit equipment, timing, and parameter compliance,” Jarrod added. “No change to the course will be made off record.”
The smile at the corner of Sloane’s mouth did not vanish, but it hardened.
Jarrod gave a curt nod and was gone, leaving a wake of stunned silence and palpable fear behind him.
Caroline moved to a quiet corner of the barracks, away from the prying eyes, and leaned against the cold concrete wall. Her fingers brushed the folded paper hidden at her waist, not her shoulder. There was no bite mark there, no secret wound from him. The ache she carried was not on her skin. It was deeper, under the ribs, where knowledge had settled like shrapnel.
A horrifying realization washed over her, cold and sharp.
Her feelings for Jarrod had made her afraid to die.
Before, in another life, she could have faced death with a professional detachment. It was a calculated risk, part of the job. But now, it was different. Now, she had someone she wanted to live for.
That thought didn’t make her feel strong. It made her feel terrifyingly vulnerable.
And that vulnerability curdled into a cold, hard rage. Not because Jarrod had forced her to stay. He hadn’t. He had given her an exit. She had refused it. She had chosen this fight with her eyes open.
The rage came from something sharper and more honest: that he knew the shape of the danger before she did; that his past with Sloane kept becoming terrain beneath Caroline’s feet; that he still believed information could substitute for trust if he handed it over in time.