Page 119 of Operation: Defiance

I drag my fingers through my hair, my hands shaky, but I need it off my face. The motion tugs at the burns on my temples. I lock the panic away before it can drown me.

“Ready?”

“No,” I admit. “But do it anyway.”

He lifts the phone, movements small, deliberate.

I force myself to look straight at him. At the phone. At what it sees.

“Notes,” I say. “Face and neck. Electrode burns at temples from electro-shock. I was there…then I wasn’t.”

A sob wants to break free, but I swallow hard and force it away.

“They said it was the ‘final calibration’ after all their other measures had failed,” I whisper.

“What else?” Asher keeps his voice low and soothing.

“Jaw and collarbone bruising from…handling. The burn on the side of my neck is from the hood. They tied it so tight, I could barely swallow.” My throat works over the memory. “Emotional impact: disorientation. Erasure. Forced dependence through eight days of darkness. I never knew where I was or what was around me. My body no longer felt like it belonged to me.”

His jaw flexes, but his voice stays steady. “Got it.”

I swallow again. The sweatshirt feels too heavy over my skin now, too thick against the fingerprint bruises under the fabric.

“We have to do my collarbones next. And my shoulder. I’ll…need help with the sweatshirt for that.”

“I know,” Asher says. “We’ll go slow. You call every shot.”

He stands, palms open. “We can use a blanket to keep you covered. Where do you want it?”

“Over…everything. Then we deal with the sweatshirt under it.”

“Got it.”

He grabs the dark green blanket off the chair and holds it out for me.

I drag in a breath and ease the blanket up, one shaky inch at a time, until it’s draped over my shoulders and chest like a tent.

He sets the phone on the edge of the bed. “Tell me what you need.”

“You’ll have to help me out of the sweatshirt. Like you did…before.”

“Understood. Can I touch your left wrist?”

I nod.

His fingers slide under the blanket and close lightly around my wrist. Warm. Almost…comforting.

“Ready?”

“No. But do it anyway.”

“I’ll keep the fabric steady,” he says. “See if you can get your left arm free.”

I work the sleeve down slowly, carefully, until my arm slips out. The movement pulls at my ribs but spares my shoulder.

“Your right side is mine to manage,” he murmurs. “I’ll lift the fabric. You keep the joint as still as you can. If it spikes past tolerable, you say stop.”

The words settle some of the panic clawing at my ribs.