Page 291 of Operation: Defiance

Chapter Ninety-Three

Raine

The elevator is too small for all of us. Doc and Natasha have Asher between them, his weight sagging against their shoulders, and I’m…in the way. Every time they shift, an elbow or a shoulder brushes me, each accidental contact sending a spike of panic straight through my chest.

I try to flatten myself to the wall, like distance will help, but my heart races without my permission, and the air thins.

Doc notices.

He keeps glancing back at me, quick assessments—like he’s doing with Asher. I shake my head once, try to tell him I’m fine. It’s a lie, but I’m not the priority, and this lie is efficient and necessary.

I’d give anything to hear Asher’s voice right now. Just one word. Anything to prove what they did to him isn’t permanent. I should have asked Voss. Pressed that knife into his wound and⁠—

No. That’s not me. But the thought is there, and I file it away with everything else I can’t afford to feel right now.

The elevator is too slow.

Asher barely moved the whole way here. Once or twice, he squeezed my hand—hard enough I knew the movements weren’t merely reflexive. The contact was enough to keep the panic from pulling me under.

But his eyes didn’t open until we reached the garage.

Doc and I tried to get him out of the SUV. The second I stepped forward, my body simply…stopped cooperating. My legs folded under me. I hit the seat hard and stayed there while the world tilted sideways.

Natasha rushed over, hands steady, voice calm, and I forced my brain to reroute before the panic could carry me away.

I gave directions. I did that much.

Eleventh floor. The code for the elevator. The one for the door.

My shoulder throbs steadily, a deep, dull pulse that radiates down my arm whenever I breathe too deeply. My ribs are an incessant low noise under the exhaustion, warning me of a spiral that’s waiting for a quiet moment to take hold.

It’s easier to breathe in the hall. Easier still once I unlock the door. The music is still on. It’s the one constant here. More constant than even Asher now, and the thought almost undoes me right in the middle of the living room.

“Where are we going?” Doc asks.

“Bedroom. First door on the left.”

I tell them to wait so I can pull a spare blanket from the closet. Laundry isn’t something I have the capacity for right now, and Asher shouldn’t have to lie on bloody sheets once Doc fixes him up.

If Doc can fix him up.

I find a spot against the wall where I can see Asher—where he can see me—and I’m out of the way. Doc sets his kit on the dresser, moving efficiently. Gauze, several small vials of liquid, and a canvas pack he opens to reveal an assortment of scalpels, forceps, and instruments I wish I didn’t recognize.

“All right. Asher, once I see what we’re dealing with, I’ll give you something for the pain. You still with me?”

He nods. The relief hits me so hard, I press my back against the wall to stay upright.

Doc cuts through what’s left of Asher’s shirt, peeling it away, followed by the dirty, blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his torso.

Mottled bruises, everywhere. Some already turning purple, others red and angry.

The wound is worse than I expected—and I knew it would be bad. An involuntary sound slips free. Small, caught, and swallowed back before it can fully escape. But Asher notices. He always notices. Even now, exhausted and in pain, he notices, and his eyes find mine.

After Doc shines a penlight at the injury, he shakes his head. “Piece of glass in there. Fuckers. You’re going to need something to take the edge off for this.”

Asher grabs the man’s arm, fingers digging into the muscle, and the tendons in his neck strain as he shakes his head.

“It won’t put you under. I promise,” Doc says.