Page 89 of Operation: Defiance

I don’t say I’m proud of her—even though what she’s doing is hard as fuck. She doesn’t need approval. She needs confirmation that her body isn’t failing her.

I watch her breathing steady, her shoulders soften, and finally her eyes slide shut again.

I drift in shallow increments. Never more than half an hour. Every change in her breathing pulls me back.

Once, her whole body jolts like she’s bracing for impact.

“Not there,” I murmur. “You’re not back there.”

She doesn’t wake, but the tension drains from her forearms. Her fingers uncurl an inch.

The chair isn’t doing my back any favors. That’s fine. I need to stay between her and the door, awake enough to act if someone who isn’t me tries to come through it.

They’ll realize she’s gone soon, if they haven’t already. They’ll replay the camera footage. Pull on the threads they can find. My cover identity. The dead man I was sent to extract.

I watch Raine in the half-light. The bruising along her jaw has darkened, spreading like spilled ink. The cuts at her hairline are sharp and angry now that the grime is gone. Easier to catalog.

And harder to ignore.

I’ve seen what executions look like. More times than I can count.

Some are clean. Others are messy.

This wasn’t a hit. Not a planned one.

This was a decision.

Keep her breathing, but take everything that makes her Raine. When that didn’t work, they marked her for disposal.

You don’t do that unless you’re very afraid of what happens if the mind is left intact.

Whoever put Raine in that room crossed a line they don’t get to come back from.

I know what kind of person does that.

The kind I don’t lose sleep over stopping.

By the time gray light edges around the blinds, the worst of the shuddering has stopped. She’s still pale, still drawn tight around the eyes, but the lines of her body are different now. Less locked. More spent.

The broth at four stayed down. An hour later, she asked for water. Small steps. Important ones.

Her breathing has more depth now. Not enough. But it’s less precarious.

My eyes burn. I blink hard and focus on her hands.

She’s flexing them in her sleep. Tiny movements. Tendons jumping under bruised skin. That’s good. It means the nerves are still arguing with the damage. It also means she’s going to hit a wall the first time she needs fine motor control.

If I’m right about the bruising around her wrists and the way she’s guarding her shoulder, she’s going to need more than rest and fluids soon.

I’m going to have to put my hands on her.

Carefully. On her terms. Or not at all.

“In a few hours,” I whisper to the room, more promise than plan, “we’ll talk. And then we’ll fix what we can.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Raine