She’d learned to read him the way she read bad paperwork. The grin was the signature. The shove was the stamp. The witnesses were the filing system Mercer expected to control.

They’d chosen the shower room because it made the accusation easier. A woman in a towel could be painted as emotional. A woman standing alone among men could be made to look reckless.

A defensive motion could be turned into misconduct before anyone thought to ask what came first.

Harlow wanted her cornered. Mercer wanted her removed. The base wanted a story simple enough to file.

Aria gave them a different one.

After the kick, Harlow coughed and tried to push himself upright. His face had gone red — not from injury, from disbelief. Men like him weren’t used to consequences arriving barefoot.