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Just a few moments more, and entering the cadet’s tent would seem an appropriate response rather than a deliberate intrusion. He counted off the seconds in his head, listening in vain for any noises over the nearby clamor of the camp and the dry breeze rippling across the taut canvas.
Ready. “Cadet Hawkeye, this delay is unacceptable.”
Most female soldiers, he knew, opted to wear only a brassiere and the thin white standard-issue undershirt beneath their uniforms. Even that was likely oppressive in the stifling desert heat. The most full-coverage option, rarely requested now, was a single garment of shorts and a collared shirt that buttoned up the center to cover the body from neck to thigh.
As he swept into her tent, he discovered that the cadet had opted to wear this body suit…
Or, rather, that she was in the process of donning it.
He looked away pointedly. It wouldn’t do to leer.
“Major Kimblee.” Her voice was tight with discomfort. But she hadn’t turned away from him, he noticed in his periphery, only tried to pull the open front of the garment across herself. Curious. Was she afraid to have him at her back?
“I apologize for the intrusion, but I require your immediate presence.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be dressed as soon as I can.”
Now he could approach her. Again, she didn’t turn or shrink away as he came within a few paces, merely gripped the cloth in her left hand to hide her stomach and breasts.
“What is detaining you?”
Silence.
“Let’s not flirt with insubordination.”
Her smooth, pale cheek twitched as a muscle jumped in her strong jaw. “A minor difficulty with the clothing, sir.”
There was something wrong with her hand. He pried it gently from its hold, indifferent to how quickly she swapped in her other hand to maintain her modesty, and unfurled her fingers to reveal the damage to her thumb. A cut ran from the tip of the finger over its first knuckle, splitting the nail in its path. The scabbing was the near-black of dried offal, but visible along the ragged seam was unmistakable, vital red.
Their presence, he judged, was not so immediately necessary.
“Oh, dear,” he murmured. “An injury?”
She tested his hold, tugging her arm back ever so slightly, but he didn’t let go. Her other hand tightened its grip on her body suit’s open front as she frowned—biting, it looked like, the inside of her lower lip. “It’s only trouble to do up the buttons, sir. It won’t impact anything else.”
When had she been wounded? The knuckle was the concerning thing, the possibility of the sliced ligament. But her body was already healing, destruction spurring on reconstruction: the soft pink tissue knitting itself together beneath the nail, the sinuous rush of blood through capillaries. He could almost hear the hissing. “Medical will want to ensure there’s no permanent loss of mobility. You would likely be given several hours’ rest.”
“I don’t need rest, sir.”
He recalled what he knew of the evening’s plans—ah. Flame was due to be sent out again, clearing the district of her assigned lookout rotation. No one could have failed to notice the cadet’s concern for him. He was unashamedly curious about that story…but there were other things requiring his immediate attention.
He ran the tip of his tongue back and forth along the edge of his teeth.
“Something that prevents you from dressing is certainly serious enough to report.”
She stiffened. Her voice was flat. “What do you want?”
Oh, clever, clever and quick, precise and unflinching. He chanced a stroke of his thumb across the back of her hand, and enjoyed the wet sound as she swallowed thickly. “Let me assist you.”
Her nostrils flared, just slightly, with a wonderfully sharp small intake of breath. And when she relented, letting both hands drop to her sides, he felt the surrender in a pleasant shiver down his spine. Walking in, speaking to her, all of this had been within the bounds of regulations—but now they had crossed over, and the transgression gave him a queer little thrill.
The lowest button had already been done up, but most of her lean stomach was still exposed. A good thing his hands were steady. He was careful not to touch her skin as he tugged the two halves of the garment together. The fabric appeared to be the same opaque cream cloth that made up the cloak he usually eschewed, slightly rough under his fingers.
“Why this?” he said. “Isn’t it rather warm under the rest of the uniform?”
She was silent, so he stilled his hands. He estimated he could get one response per button. She could understand an exchange that simple.
“It’s more comfortable,” she finally said. “And light enough.”
He closed the button and moved upwards as she glanced over his shoulder. Watching the tent flap?
“If you’re going to continue wearing it while recovering from your non-debilitating injury, I suppose I’ll have to find the time to continue assisting you.”
“I won’t require your help again, sir.”
Biting, but not insubordinate. She’d hit the mark perfectly. He could admire the skill even as he begrudged her for it.
The next button fell between her breasts. Even in her near-malnourished state, they would likely fill his hands, and there was a small mole nearer the left all too tempting for the teeth. It would be better not to dwell on such thoughts…but the whole encounter, it seemed, was an exercise in controlled indulgence. When he looked back at her face, she was watching him warily, as if ready to admonish him for doing anything less than savory.
He held her gaze. She had wonderful eyes, round and framed by thick, dark eyelashes. The irises had a lovely depth of color to them, not a single flat shade but a whole spectrum of amber on their own, with the warmth of a glowing copper wire. Her pupils widened slightly as she focused on him, and the creases between her eyebrows deepened. Brave girl. Perhaps there was something she found interesting about his eyes, too…or perhaps she merely wanted to manifest a hole in his skull.
The silence lengthened—and as Hawkeye refused to look away, Kimblee felt an odd tremor in his midsection, like a flash of uncertainty—
But the wind whipped at the tent, and the cadet’s gaze darted over his shoulder again. He smiled to himself and fastened the button. “Do I frighten you?”
No response. He dared to let his nail graze her skin as he slid his fingers upward but that, too, only earned him a stubborn blink. Brave, brave girl. He rewarded her by doing up the penultimate button. “Is it because of what I say or what I do?”
“It would be rather hypocritical of me to hate you for your actions.”
He didn’t miss the change in topic, but his attention was captured by the warm, begrudging approval that spread slowly through his belly. She had spoken slowly, as if her wisdom was something concluded for the first time, something that she had been turning over in her mind and was only now ready to release into the world…
Would she resist if he kissed her? He imagined the heat of her mouth, and then, almost involuntarily, the hot stinging slap of her raised hand. That could be entertaining. No, not merely entertaining—delicious—invigorating—but by the time he managed to pull himself back from tasting the specifics of the idea, the impulse had passed.
He closed the button. The one on the collar he would leave open; it seemed a shame to hide the hollow of her throat. With a twinge of disappointment—over too soon—he let go of her.
She didn’t quite shudder in relief, but there was a movement all the same as she settled back into her mask: the fearless sniper, the hardened killer. The soldier reconstructed. But the costume was still incomplete. He reached for her jacket, folded neatly on her cot.
“I can handle the rest, Major.”
“Nonsense,” he said, and drew it around her shoulders.
Her naivete had been violently stripped from her. But beneath her clothing, he knew, there was still tenderness. Delicacy. He knew. No matter how she tried to armor herself with the stubbornness of her stare, the lift of her chin, the petulant press of her lips. Her will had yet to be tempered. Perhaps, if he was lucky, it would be at his hand.
And yet…
It was a curious thing. She had never truly struggled, but in that instant when she had appeared fearless, it was as though she had slipped effortlessly from his grasp, silent and sudden as a thread running out between his fingers.