Page 153 of Operation: Defiance

Chapter Thirty-Two

Raine

My hands ache.

My back hurts.

My brain feels like it’s vibrating inside my skull.

But tea helps.

Enough that my fingers stop trembling and my vision stops pulling in and out like a faulty lens.

Asher watches me too closely for a man pretending not to watch at all.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” I admit as I press my palms to the warm mug.

His brows lift—just slightly.

“Do what?”

“Exist,” I say. “Outside of…that place.”

It’s the closest I’ve come to naming Coherent Path out loud. The words still feel wrong.

Asher doesn’t rush to fill the silence, but eventually, he sits back against the cushions. “You should rest.”

“I can’t.” It slips out before I can stop it. My cheeks warm slightly. “I mean…I’d love to. But I’m too raw. I need my routines or I’m going to spiral.”

“What does that look like?” he asks. “Your routines?”

I shift, turning toward him slightly. My ribs ache, but the pain no longer steals the breath from my lungs. “Dinner. Something light on TV after. Something I’ve seen before. Brushing my teeth. Reading in bed. My brain can settle inside those patterns. I don’t know how to…come down without them.”

He studies me—attentive, not analyzing.

“Then let’s start with dinner,” he says. “Something your body can handle. I can make a loose risotto. It’s close to ‘real’ food, but hopefully not too taxing?”

Relief eases the tension in my shoulders a notch. My stomach makes a noise, and the sensation accompanying it is almost enough to bring tears to my eyes. Hunger. Normal hunger. Not the hollowed out feeling of nothingness I’ve lived with for so long.

“I want to help.”

“You can stir.” His mouth curves the faintest bit. “Only stir. You’ve done enough work today to wipe out three healthy people.”

He isn’t wrong.

Asher moves to the stove, assembling ingredients with quiet efficiency. The safe house is small enough I can feel the warmth from my seat on the couch without needing to get too close. Yet.

“All right. If you still want to help…” After a short time, he offers me a wooden spoon. “If not, relax. This won’t take much longer.”

The tremor in my right hand is back, but my left…I can manage a gentle stir.

Steam rises from the pan, warm against my face, and my breathing starts to match the pace of the spoon.

Asher glances over—checking on me, but not hovering. “If your shoulder starts to bother you, stop. I can take over.”

“It’s fine.”

And it is.