Page 77 of Operation: Defiance

“Yes. I’ll go slow. If you need me to stop, I’ll stop. Or I can get you a towel right now and we can be done with this.”

I move my left hand enough to see her eyes. She has to know all of this is her choice. That she’s in control.

“No. Please…”

“All right. I’m going to touch you now.”

Her light brown locks are tangled, greasy, and covered in a layer of grime so thick, brown rivulets run over her shoulders and down the drain.

She’s bruised almost everywhere. Jawline, collarbones, back, arms, hips, knees… I do my best not to stare—to keep my gaze from drifting to any place…intimate—but I’m not blind, and I know what all these marks mean.

I’ve seen most of them before, and none of them are accidental.

They’re the signs of long-term captivity. Bruises this deep don’t develop overnight. The nerve damage in her hands can’t happen in twenty-four hours. I don’t know how long they had her, but it must have been at least four or five days.

I’ve handled enough extractions, experienced the fallout. I’ve learned how to move. How to talk. How to slowly ease a person back to a place where they can speak and move on their own.

Some sit too still because that feels safer than movement. Others can’t stop moving once they’re no longer restrained.

Some recover. Mostly. Others never do.

If I have anything to say about it, Raine will get her life back. Whatever she needs—whatever that looks like—I’ll give it to her.

“I’m going to change the angle of the shower head, then reach for the shampoo with my left hand. My right is pressed to the wall next to you.”

Another small nod. I narrate everything. When I apply the shampoo. When my fingers comb through her locks. When I hit a snag and pause to unravel the tangled strands.

Through it all, she doesn’t make a sound unless it’s to give me permission to continue. And she hasn’t stopped shaking.

I want to go back to the facility and burn the whole fucking place to the ground. After I find the contractors who hurt her and see how much pain they can tolerate before they break.

It’s a nice pipe dream. Half of the contractors I saw moved with such practiced lethality, they’d be on me before I killed more than two of them. That’s assuming they didn’t simply shoot me on sight. By now, they’ll know she’s gone. And if they aren’t already wondering if I helped her, they’d figure it out pretty damn quick if I showed up with thumbscrews and C-4.

“Almost done,” I murmur. “Just need to rinse. My left hand is going to shield your face again. Okay?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

That’s progress.

My fingers come too close to one of the bright red electrode burns on her temple. She chokes on a sob, swallows it back, and curls inward.

I pull my right hand away immediately. But silent sobs wrack her shoulders, and if she can’t calm down, she’ll start hyperventilating.

“Raine. You’re safe. You’re not back there. If you turn away from the water, I’ll sit on the end of the bench with both hands on my thighs where you can see them. Or I can leave the room. Right now.”

After a long moment, she swallows hard, and swivels enough I can stop shielding her eyes from the spray.

Her gaze follows my left hand down to my legs, staying there as she fights to control her breathing. Her pupils are blown wide, shoulders so tense, the tendons look like they’re about to snap.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t intentional. There’s still a fair bit of shampoo in your hair, but if your neck isn’t too sore, you can probably tip your head back and rinse it out yourself.”

For a single second, her eyes flick to my face.

Fuck.

The fear in those brown depths cuts deeper than any blade. I don’t know who ordered it. I don’t even know what they did beyond electroshock, restraint, and repeated abuse of every goddamn pressure point in the human body. But I can see the results.

With each touch, they made her smaller and smaller. Conditioned her to fear what most people take for granted. Light. Sound. Movement. Freedom. Choice.