Page 65 of Operation: Defiance

Because whatever comes next for her, the first thing she needs to learn is that no one will move her or touch her without permission again.

And if she opens her eyes and decides I’m a problem?

I’ll deal with that.

But not before she gets the chance to wake up on her own terms.

Chapter Seventeen

Raine

I wake in uneven fragments, my body and mind agreeing something is different, but unable to sort out what that might be.

Parts of me are warm.

Warmth means hands. Hands mean correction. Correction means pain.

My muscles seize on instinct, breath catching hard in my chest before I force it to move again.

I wait for the familiar cues. The hum of ventilation. The weight of thick cloth over my face. The stale, recycled air, thick with chemicals and neglect.

But it’s quiet. I don’t smell…anything.

I keep my eyes closed and take inventory instead.

I’m horizontal, lying on something soft. Too soft. A steady, even warmth spreads from my feet to my chest, stopping short of my arms. The skin there prickles, oversensitized, braced for contact that doesn’t come.

My hands are free. They’re never free. That single realization is enough to terrify me.

I don’t move them right away. I wait, counting breaths that come almost too easily without forced posture, finally testing one finger, then another.

Pain flares immediately.

But it’s the right kind of pain. Sharp and localized and entirely mine. Not the heavy, numbing pressure from the restraints digging into my wrists.

I swallow and risk opening my eyes to slits. Light exists here—dim, but still bright enough to blur everything. I clamp my lids shut and breathe through a flare of panic.

When I try again, the room resolves slowly. Neutral walls. A window with the shade drawn. An open door.

Open?

My right shoulder throbs in a steady, nauseating rhythm. My legs feel distant, like they’re not fully attached to my body. When I try to shift them, the motion pulls a thin sound from somewhere deep in my chest.

A flash of movement registers at the edge of my vision.

Someone’s here.

Close enough that the air feels occupied, but not threatening. No one’s touching me, but my body braces anyway, waiting for a correction that…doesn’t come. The space around me stays still in a way my nervous system can’t interpret.

That’s new.

I take a deeper breath, and my ribs protest sharply. This time, I swallow the whimper. No noise. Noise brings attention. Then correction. Then⁠—

“Raine.”

The voice is deep. Soft, not clinical, and filled with unmistakable concern.

“It’s Asher,” he says. “You’re safe. You don’t need to talk. I just want you to know where you are. And that I’m here.”