Chapter 872:

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She stepped inside the infirmary. It was quiet, sterile, and smelled of antiseptic. Dr. Reed was at her desk, scratching a small, scruffy terrier behind the ears. It was Doodles, Beatrix’s dog.

“Ah, Thompson, there you are,” Dr. Reed said with a warm, practiced smile. “Don’t worry, this is just routine.”

Caroline didn’t return the smile. She walked to the desk and cut straight to the point. “This was Colonel Romero’s order, wasn’t it?”

Dr. Reed’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “The Colonel is concerned for the health and welfare of all his soldiers. It’s part of his duty of care.”

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The non-denial was a confirmation.

“I don’t need an evaluation,” Caroline said, her voice flat. “I’m fine.”

She turned to leave. She would not be a pawn in his game. She would not participate in this charade.

Her hand was on the doorknob when the door was pushed open from the outside, swinging inward with a quiet authority.

Jarrod stood there, filling the doorway, a mountain of a man in his dark utility uniform, his right arm immobilized against his chest in a rigid brace, his left hand encased in a splint. He blocked her exit completely. His face was an unreadable mask of stone, but his grey eyes were a swirling vortex of a barely contained storm.

Dr. Reed immediately stood up. “Oh, dear, I just remembered I need to check on Doodles’ latest X-rays. So sorry.”

She scooped up the dog and bustled out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft, definitive click.

They were alone.

The silence was a palpable force, thick with unspoken accusations and simmering anger.

Caroline glared at him, her eyes cold with defiance and hurt.

He didn’t speak. He just started walking toward her, one slow, deliberate step at a time. The sheer force of his presence, of his contained fury, was overwhelming. Caroline found herself backing away instinctively, a primal response to a predator.

One step. Two.

Her back hit the cold, unyielding wall of the examination room. There was nowhere else to go.

He was in front of her now, caging her in. He stepped forward, using his body to press her firmly against the wall, his solid chest and the hard edge of his brace pinning her in place. It was a cage of muscle and unforgiving medical-grade plastic, an act of capture that required no hands at all.

He held her pinned against the wall, the rigid brace on his right arm a hard, unyielding barrier between them. She could feel the furious, hammering beat of his heart against her own chest, smell the familiar, intoxicating scent of him: gun oil, sweat, and the clean, sharp fragrance of his soap.

She struggled, pushing against his chest with all her might, but it was like trying to move a mountain. It was useless.

Giving up the physical fight, she tilted her head back, her neck aching, and met his gaze. Her eyes were a battlefield of emotions: fury, betrayal, and a deep, soul-crushing hurt.

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