Page 69 of Operation: Defiance

“Twenty minutes.”

I don’t know what’s worse—that it was only twenty minutes, or that it helped at all.

He hasn’t moved from the chair. One ankle crossed over the opposite knee. Fingers relaxed on the padded arms.

Visible.

He remembered that I need to see his hands. Of course he did.

“I have broth,” he says. “Clear. No solids. If you want to try something more than electrolytes.”

My stomach tightens sharply. A confused, almost painful pull that doesn’t translate to anything I remember or recognize. I curl inward until my ribs protest, waiting for it to fade.

It doesn’t.

“I can’t hold anything,” I say quietly. “My hands…”

“Nerve compression.” He glances at my wrists, but his eyes quickly move back to my face. “The restraints were too tight.”

I nod. The memory is lodged so deep I’m not sure it’ll ever leave me. Metal biting into my skin until there was nothing left but pain.

“We don’t have to do this now,” he adds. “Or I can hold the mug. Like before.”

I need this. Whatever this is, whatever my body is telling me, I know I need it.

“Please.” The single word scrapes my throat raw.

He nods. “Okay. The kitchenette’s down the hall. I won’t be long. Five minutes at the most. You’ll hear me the whole time.”

I don’t want him to leave. I feel almost…safe with him here. But the idea of broth is making my mouth water.

Asher stands slowly, hands at his sides, and keeps his gaze on me until the last possible moment. His footsteps are heavy and measured. Easy to track as he moves down the hall.

The room feels larger now. My body doesn’t react—much. A subtle kick of my heart rate. The tremor in my hands worsens.

I listen, anchoring myself in the noise of another person. Cabinets. A spoon against ceramic. Water running. Normal sounds I haven’t heard in too long.

When he comes back, the smell reaches me first.

Real chicken. Warm and salty and rich.

“I’ll sit like before.” He waits for my nod, then approaches the bed. Sits exactly where he said he would. Not looming. Not retreating too far.

I track his hands and the steam curling from the mug. I want this badly enough my chest aches.

My fingers won’t listen to me. The tremor worsens, crawling up my arms.

“Easy,” he says. “You can guide me. Or tell me to stop.”

“No.” The word is thin and brittle. But it’s mine. I can do this. I need to do this.

I brace my fist against the side of the mug and tip it a fraction. The effort is enormous for something so small.

The first sip hits my tongue—hot, but not burning, familiar in a way my body accepts even if my mind doesn’t understand why.

After a few sips, my stomach cramps violently.

“Stop,” I choke out.