Chapter 878:

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He was showing her the knife before someone put it in her path.

Caroline looked back down at the sheet. “Why would you let her run it?”

“Because the course exists. Because the syllabus allows it. Because every Tier One candidate in that formation will know exactly what refusing means.” His voice went rougher. “And because the first time you face a beautiful trap cannot be when there is no referee, no camera, and no one in the tower watching.”

She hated him for that.

She hated that he was right.

A bitter smile touched her mouth. “You make cruelty sound like curriculum.”

His face went still.

“For some people,” he said, “it is.”

Her anger faltered.

Only for a second.

Then she set the paper back down.

𝗦av𝖾 y𝗼𝗎𝗿 𝘧аvo𝗿𝗂𝗍𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝗏𝖾𝗹𝘀 𝗈𝗇 𝗀𝖺𝗅ո𝗈𝗏𝘦lѕ.со𝗺

“I don’t want you to pull me out.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to interfere.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you making calls behind my back every time I bleed.”

His eyes flickered, and for once the answer did not come quickly.

“That,” he said at last, “I cannot promise.”

The brutal honesty hit harder than any seduction.

Caroline stared at him, chest tight with fury and something dangerously close to grief. “Then we have a problem.”

“Yes.”

No denial. No excuse. No polished commander’s answer.

Just yes.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Outside the office, two sets of footsteps approached down the corridor, accompanied by the low murmur of male voices.

Caroline’s body reacted before her mind did, but Jarrod did not grab her, pull her, lift her, or press her to the wall.

He simply turned his body slightly, the brace catching the green lamplight, and placed himself between the desk and the door like a shield made of rank and injury.

The footsteps passed.

“Sir,” one voice said through the door.

“Carry on,” Jarrod replied, perfectly calm.

The officers moved away, oblivious.

Caroline looked at him, at the rigid brace across his chest, at the splinted left hand he could not even use to smooth the tension from his own uniform.

The absurd ache in her chest returned.

Not softness.

Not forgiveness.

Recognition.

He was dangerous. Controlling. Infuriating. More capable of hurting her by trying to protect her than any enemy on the field.

And he was also standing there with both hands ruined, offering her the one thing he could still give without touching her.

A warning.

She picked up the sheet, folded it once, and tucked it into the waistband of her fatigues.

His eyes followed the motion.

“That copy stays with you,” he said. “Memorize the language. If Hawke changes the parameters, make her say it on record.”

Caroline gave him a thin look. “You sound very sure I’m walking into this.”

“You are.”

“Arrogant.”

“Accurate.”

She almost smiled.

Almost.

Then the memory of Sloane’s scent, her scars, Reynolds’s story, and the old name beneath the photograph rose between them again.

The almost-smile died.

Caroline walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, not looking back.

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.

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