Chapter 3 - THE BREADTH OF WHISPERS
Brock mistook Avery’s cool silence and methodical movements for submission. He assumed her refusal to immediately report him or scream was the natural reaction of an administrative staff officer paralyzed by his authority and his physically imposing frame.
He took another half-step forward, invading her personal space until his chest was inches from her shoulder.
"Apologize," Brock demanded, his voice laced with venom, expecting her to bow her head and beg for an exit from the aisle.
Avery slowly tilted her chin up. She looked directly into his eyes—not with anger, fear, or hesitation, but with a terrifying, icy detachment that made the hairs on the back of Brock’s neck stand up.
"For what?" Avery asked smoothly.
Her two-word response was carried faintly by the live podium microphone. Instantly, a rippling wave of whispers swept through the ranks of sailors and Marines standing in formation behind them. Heads twitched by fractions of an inch, eyes darted across the ranks, and an electric hum of anticipation filled the coastal air.
May you like
Brock’s face turned from red to deep purple. The subtle mockery in her steady gaze, combined with the audible reaction of the surrounding formations, struck his fragile ego like a match to gasoline. He felt his dominance slipping in front of thousands of subordinates, and his temper completely snapped.
"You arrogant little—" Brock roared, pulling his right arm back and coiling his body to throw a heavy, full-force punch aimed directly at her jaw.
