Page 61 of Operation: Defiance

Names matter. He’s using mine, offering his. An exchange rather than a demand.

I don’t look at him yet. If I do and there’s nothing there, I don’t know if I’ll come back from that.

“How long?” I ask.

The words scrape over my throat, brittle and hoarse. My mouth tastes wrong. Old. I can feel it on my teeth, the stubborn film I haven’t been allowed to brush away.

Nausea rolls through me, and sweat prickles across my brow.

Fabric shifts, but I don’t think he’s moved closer. The sound places him without advancing.

“Four hours, twenty-three minutes,” he says. “You passed out before we got to the service elevator. We’re at my safe house in Seattle.”

I turn my head just enough to see him.

He’s in a chair across the room. High back, padded, and as neutral as everything else here. Except him.

Reddish brown hair, a few locks out of place. His blue button-down shirt is rumpled. Gray slacks.

I blink hard until his face comes into focus—most of it, anyway. It’s still a little blurred around the edges.

“You moved me.”

“Only as much as I had to.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled, then stops. “Would you like the full rundown?”

“Yes.”

“I caught you when you passed out. Carried you to the car and put you in the front seat. We changed vehicles twice. I checked you for a head injury. Took blood pressure and heart rate readings. That’s it.” He pauses, and I think I see a slight flush to his cheeks. “You’re under a heated blanket. You can remove it. Turn it down. The control’s on your right. Or I can do it. But only if you want me to.”

I slide my hand an inch. Fabric bunches under my fingers. My next breath is easier.

“You’re dehydrated,” he continues. “There are electrolytes on the nightstand. Strawberry flavored. They’re halfway decent.”

The idea of drinking is so foreign. Like it belongs to someone else. The few times I could bring myself to ask for water, it arrived the same way the thick, chemical “food” did.

I try to sit up.

My abs seize. My shoulder flares white-hot. The room tilts hard enough that the sound I make doesn’t feel like language.

Asher grips the arms of the chair hard enough they creak.

“Do you want help?” he asks. “I’d have to touch you. I’d move back right after.”

He keeps giving me exits. I don’t know what to do with that.

“Yes.” The word catches in my throat, and I try again. “Help me up slowly. Then take two steps back.”

“All right.”

He moves carefully. One hand under my back, the other held in such a way I can hook my good arm around it. He lifts me an inch at a time, pausing when my breath hitches, waiting for me to settle before easing me the rest of the way.

“Can I put a pillow behind you?”

I nod. The effort costs more than it should, but I don’t black out. That feels like a win.

As soon as I’m supported, he retreats exactly two steps.

I can see him more clearly now. Broad shoulders. Large hands, steady and relaxed at his sides. A short layer of stubble shades his jaw, and the first hint of lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes.