Havoc by Angie Merriam

Marine.
Do your damn job!
    I pick up a plate and pile just a few items
on, carefully selecting each item with purpose. The expensive glass
plate with golden designs swirled around the outside passes from my
grip to hers, “Here. Eat slow. Small bites. Your body will process
it better. I picked things that will be lighter on your stomach.
Not too rich in taste.”
    She smiles as thanks. My heart thumps again,
hard. What the hell is wrong with me? I just had a physical. What
could possibly be wrong with me? Cautiously, I slide an arm around
her waist, sizing up her response before taking further action.
When she doesn't cringe and doesn't try to free herself, I escort
her to an empty couch in the living room, where she sits on the
edge, and I sit beside her, allowing myself to act as a barrier to
the rest of the world, protecting her from looks, scrutiny, and
physical harm.
    I watch as her mouth welcomes the bite of
warm-baked bread roll. She releases a slight moan out loud. Holy
hell, I wasn't prepared for that. My body threatens to stiffen to
attention. If you so much as make brief cameo, I'll castrate you.
Any action it thought of taking stops. Good. Glad we're on the same
page. For Christ's sake, the girl is just eating. And even if the
simple motion of her eating is more hypnotizing than anything I've
ever seen, there's no reason my body should feel obligated to
misbehave. I'm a fucking solider. I've got self-control. Haven
notices I'm staring. Sensing she's about to panic that's she's
doing something wrong, I let a slight curve appear on the corner of
my mouth to offer her reassurance. And it does. She returns to
eating a little more carefree. It's cute.
    I'm not sure how long she's been eating or
I've been staring, but I know it’s distracting because now Sir is
clearing his throat, demanding our attention. I should have noticed
his arrival. She clouds my senses. She slaves my attention. That's
dangerous.
    “Evening,” his greeting is directed at her.
She struggles to get the bread out of her teeth so she can respond
when he holds up a hand, stilling her. “It's quite all right.
Enjoy.”
    Sir follows that by leaning his elbow on the
edge of his chair, exposing to us an accessory that he feels he
should always wear for my comings and goings, his own
hello–good-bye accessory, an expensive watch my mother bought for
him on their first wedding anniversary. My eyes wince over his
attire—black dress pants, white button down, and black sport coat—a
look very similar to my own, making our resemblance apparent.
Making my stomach cringe. I want to be nothing like him.
    “That's a lovely dress.” His compliment
causes my hand to grip the back of the couch tighter. “Looks
remarkably close to one Clint's mother had. Down to the small slit
at the bottom.”
    Watching the process on his face goes about
as well as I could have predicted. How could I have forgotten he
would know the dress better than anyone? Damn it. If my brain could
just slide out of this fog for a few minutes, I would've known
better. I mean, she still would be in the dress, but maybe I could
have done damage control before he saw her in it. Sir starts
reminiscing. All the details gunning for him like a runaway freight
train. When he realizes that it's not similar, but the exact dress,
he shoots a look to me. Alarm. Betrayal. Disgust. Each emotion only
allowed one blink. He doesn't want to have this discussion any more
than I do.
    In a barely steady voice, he begins again, “I
spoke to those that needed speaking to, and by morning, you shall
have a new identity.”
    “First name Haven,” I quickly clarify.
    “She can't keep–”
    “First name Haven, Sir.”
    His eyes flare at me. I do not recall the
last time we butted heads this much. I don't remember the last time
I cared this much about anything to fight for it. Regardless, she
wants her name. I'll give it to her even if the cost is standing
toe to toe with my commanding officer.
    A massive