Attia had been pacing his office for the better part of an hour.
His desk was buried in paperwork—reports he had signed, forms he had approved, letters he had answered. He had thrown himself into tasks all afternoon, hoping that work would quiet the storm inside him. Then he had gone to the training grounds and run drills until his muscles burned and his cursed knee screamed in protest.
Nothing helped.
He was still on edge. Still restless. Still furious.
And in a foul mood that made Brentley and those around him avoid eye contact and speak in whispers.
Since this morning—since he had walked into that classroom and seen that flea of a student circling Lori like she was prey—he had barely contained himself. The memory made his hands clench into fists even now, pacing alone in his office
