"You, too, Jenna," I tell her firmly.
"I can't."
Clasping my hands behind my back, I approach her bed.
"Why can't - oh, Jesus." Her bed reeks of urine.
The tears start.
I sit down on the bed opposite her, frowning. "You're six. You're too old to be wetting the bed." At least according to my research she is.
"I d…didn't mean t…to." She sniffles pitifully.
"We may need to call your mother. I'm not sure this is going to work out," I say.
"My mother is … dead."
Fuck. I read the list of kids and their issues last night five times. I don't remember her mother being mentioned as the one killed in battle. In fact, I know it wasn't on the sheet. Her father died last year in Afghanistan.
Jenna's wail makes me jerk. I sit, frozen, debating how to handle her. I know how to deal with Marines who get scared in battle or those who have medical issues. But they're not six.
"Holy hell, Sawyer. What did you do?" Katya hurries into the bay. Blinking but awake, she's in a t-shirt and underwear, eyes on the screaming kid. Without waiting for a response, she crouches down in the space between me and the kid, her long, wild hair brushing my forearms. There's something insanely sexy about her mussed state.
Jenna points to the bed and keeps sobbing.
I grimace.
"C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up." Katya's voice is cheerful, and she stands, picking up Jenna. Immediately, the little girl starts to calm.
"Ten minutes," I call after her. "Workout attire."
Katya shoots me a dirty look over her shoulder but doesn't respond. She walks back towards our room, completely unaware of how fucking sexy she is in her underwear. My eyes travel down her body, lingering on the rounds of her ass, visible beneath the boy short-style underwear, and down her shapely thighs. She's toned in a way that says she does yoga or Pilates, definitely not in the way of a hardcore athlete.
She has a small limp, one I hadn't noticed before, either. I don't see anything wrong with her shapely legs but don't wonder about it too long, because I'm not the only one staring at her.
The sixteen-year-old boy, the oldest on our team, is frozen in the doorway of the barracks. His jaw is slack, his eyes wide as he stares at her ass.
"I forgot my … my …" He stops.
"Turn around, and go to the showers," I order.
He's still staring.
"Now," I bark.
The kid stumbles away from the door. I watch, understanding exactly what he's thinking at the moment.