I tiltmy head and let my fingers flex slightly against his trapped wrist. “My point?” I echo, letting a little more weight sink onto his chest. He makes a tiny involuntary sound as the air compresses from his lungs. It’s not quite a whimper, but it does unhelpful things to my blood.“I have several. Which one are you referring to?”
Up close, like this, I can see the darker ring around the iris of his eyes, and the flecks of gold. “I spoke out of turn,” he grinds out. “You’ve… corrected that. Satisfied?”
“Not even remotely,” I whisper. There’s a shift under me that has nothing to do with technique and everything to do with the fact that I am astride a very solid, very alive man, pinning him to the floor in front of half the base. I need to end this, but instead, I lean down further, enough that my breath ghosts against his throat and my lips are a hand’s width from his ear.
From the outside, it probably looks like I’m giving technical notes. “Vot chto byvayet, kogda ty brosayesh’ mne vyzov na glazakh u vsekh.”I whisper.This is what happens when you challenge me in front of everyone.He doesn’t understand the words, but the tone translates. His breath catches. “Say you understand,” I add in English. “And I’ll let you up with your pride mostly intact.”
Our eyes lock and for a second, I think he’s going to tell me to go to hell. Right here, flat on his back, in front of everyone.
“I understand, Sergeant,” he says, gritting his teeth.
I hold him there one more second, feeling every line of tension in his body, and then I release him. I stand in one fluid motion and offer him a hand up. He stares at it, then takes it anyway. He uses more strength than necessary to pull himself up, trying to show he doesn’t need the help. It drags me a step closer, and for a few seconds, we’re standing too close,breathing the same air. Then he drops my hand like it burns and steps back.
“That,” I say, pitching my voice light again for the room, “is what happens when you confuse training with a debate club.” A couple of the Russians laugh outright, and one of the Brits winces in sympathy. The muscle in Caiden’s jaw pops, but he keeps his mouth shut now.
Lesson taken.
Niko claps his hands hard. “Alright, show’s over,” he calls. “We’re switching to drills. Pair up. Five-minute rounds, then rotate.” Bodies move, the chatter resumes, and the tension breaks like glass. It was just a spar and a Sergeant reminding a junior soldier not to get lippy. They’ll forget it by dinner.
But I won’t.
For the rest of the session, every time I glance over, Caiden’s with someone else, working combinations with the kind of relentless focus that looks like he’s trying not to think at all. He doesn’t look at me once.
Impressive restraint.
When Niko finally calls it, dismissing them with a reminder about timings and a joke about nobody dying on his watch, the crowd spills out in clumps.
I pretend to be busy coiling a rope while I watch Caiden move with his team, listening to something one of his corporals is saying, his expression set in that careful neutral he uses when he’s not sure what face to wear. I expect him to go to the showers with them and laugh it off. Let them clap him on the shoulder and joke about how he nearly had me before I “went crazy,” because of course that’s what they’ll say.
Instead, at the first junction he mutters something to his CO, gets a nod, and breaks off alone, heading down the side corridor past the equipment room. I wait ten seconds, enough not to be obvious.
Then I follow.
The corridor outside the equipment room is dimmer, lit by a single buzzing strip light. The door is ajar, and I hear the faint clatter of metal inside. I push the door fully open and step in.
The room is long and narrow, lined with racks of pads, gloves, and training gear. Caiden is halfway down, his back half-turned, shoving a stack of focus mitts onto a shelf with more force than necessary. He hears me come in, and his shoulders go tense, but he doesn’t turn yet. “Is this where you come to sulk?” I ask mildly, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe. “Very atmospheric. Ten out of ten for brooding potential.”
He takes a breath, sets the last mitt down carefully, then he turns. Up close, without an audience, he looks more dangerous and more breakable all at once. His hair is damp with sweat, his fringe falls into his eyes, and his cheeks are still flushed from exertion. “Sergeant,” he says; the word is stiff. “Was there something you needed?”
So polite. So proper. So fucking angry.
I step further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft thunk. “I wanted to check your joints survived my brutality. We can’t have your CO accusing me of maiming his favourite toy.”
“I’m not anyone’s toy,” he says quickly.
“Oh?” I ask, smiling slowly. “Is that what that was out there? You wrestling control back with your big, serious voice?” I take another step closer, letting the space shrink. “Because it looked very much like a boy who forgot where he was and needed reminding.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides. “I was making a point about training realism. You turned it into a spectacle.”
“I turned it into a lesson,” I correct. “Don’t confuse those just because you didn’t like being on the bottom of it.”
Colour explodes high on his cheekbones. “You humiliated me in front of my men for speaking. That’s not a lesson. It’s ego.”
“It’s both. You forget something, Lance Corporal. When you open your mouth in front of my unit, you’re not just a British tourist with opinions. You’re mine, for the duration.”
“Yours,” he repeats. “That’s generous.”
“I’m very generous. Ask anyone who’s survived me.”
