Page 121 of Operation: Defiance

The silence afterward is sharp enough to cut.

I turn back around with a hiss, the blanket following. Everything hurts. But the tremor in my hands has changed. Less panic. More purpose.

“We’re not done,” I say. “I want…my ribs.”

His jaw flexes. “All right. How do you want to handle the sweatshirt?”

“Back on first,” I say. “Then photos. I need layers.”

“Okay.” He sets the phone where I can see it, then picks up the sweatshirt, hands low, fabric bunched in his fingers. “Talk me through it. Hurting you isn’t an option,” he insists. “If this is too much, we wait.”

“It’s already too much. But we still have to do it.”

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. Respect, not amusement. “Injured arm first?”

“In front.” I nod. “No lifting. Just thread it.”

He brings the sleeve to my hand. “Fingers in. Push what you can.”

I manage it. He supports the fabric as it slides up my arm, easing it over my elbow so the shoulder doesn’t drag. I grit my teeth as the seam passes the worst of the bruising.

“Pause,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”

I do. The pain backs down from blinding to sharp.

“Other arm.”

This one’s easier. When both sleeves are on, he lifts the hem and slowly draws the sweatshirt over my head.

“Coming over your face,” he warns.

The fabric skims my forehead, my nose, then settles over my chest. I shiver once as the weight of it sinks in. Cotton over skin. Familiar. Mine.

“Ribs?”

“Ribs.”

“Notes first,” I say, fixing my gaze on a crack in the ceiling. “Day nine. Ribs. Multiple fractures. Kicked. Elbowed. Pressure-point strikes to maintain compliance. Breathing used as control.”

After I push the blanket away, I lift the hem just enough to expose my torso, keeping my grip tight so it can’t ride higher.

Asher lifts the phone.

“Ready?”

I nod. “Be quick.”

He is. A handful of clicks. Different angles. Never crowding. Each breath outlines the damage.

“Emotional impact?”

I swallow. “Breath stopped feeling automatic. Inhales were allowed. Exhales felt conditional. Like if I used too much air on anything but answering, they’d take it away.”

A tear slips free.

“Logged,” Asher says. His voice is rougher now, but steady. “We’re done, Raine. You can cover up.”

I let the hem fall. The sweatshirt settles back over my ribs, and my whole body loosens. Like someone just handed my nerves a shield.