Page 91 of Operation: Defiance

“Help me up? A little?”

Much like the previous night, he lets me hook my good arm around his, then eases me up enough to wedge a pillow behind my back. He doesn’t rush. That matters more than I can say.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod.

He retreats a step. “Spoon or fork?”

The question catches me off guard. Another choice with no consequence.

“Spoon.” Less chance of stabbing myself.

He passes it to me carefully, handle first, then moves back to the chair. No hovering.

My fingers curl weakly, but the pressure isn’t…right. When I try to compensate, the nerve pain shoots all the way to my shoulder.

I manage to scoop up a small bite of eggs. But then the tremor starts in my hand. After a second, it moves into my forearm. My grip falters, fingers too slow. Too clumsy. Too numb to listen to my desperate pleas for them to work.

The spoon wobbles. Tilts. Most of the egg slides back onto the plate. The remnants make it halfway to my mouth before my fingers spasm violently, and the metal utensil crashes against the edge of the tray before hitting the floor.

The sound is worse than any silence.

My whole body goes rigid. I wait for the hand on the back of my neck, the barked correction, the jolt.

The pain.

Nothing happens.

Asher doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t dole out reprimands or threaten me with correction.

“Do you want to try the toast instead?” he asks. “Or is this all too much for now?”

Heat pricks behind my eyes. Humiliation hits next, burning hotter than the tears.

“I can’t…” I stare at my hand. The tremor worsens under the scrutiny. “It won’t—” I stop before the entire sentence can fall apart.

Asher’s gaze drops to my fingers. He studies the way they’re shaking, the angle of my wrist, the line of tension up into my forearm.

“That’s not you failing,” he says. “That’s restraint damage and nerve compression. I can probably fix some of it. But it means more contact than we’ve had so far.”

I swallow hard. Contact means pain. Correction.

No. It meant pain there. Not here.

“Define more contact,” I say.

“Shoulder. Forearms. Hands.” He ticks them off like items on a checklist. No apology, but no assumption either. “Pressure. Some movement. No surprises. I’ll tell you before every touch. And you can stop at any time.”

My heart crawls up into my throat. “Why?” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “What do you want in return?”

He takes another step back, his jaw flexing once before something soft and warm flickers briefly in his eyes.

“Nothing. I realize you have very little reason to trust me, Raine, but this isn’t a trade, and you don’t owe me anything. You deserve to be functional,” he says. “And the assholes who did this don’t get to take your hands from you.”

I sit with that. With the smell of food so tantalizingly close, but still out of reach. With the memory of how it felt to stand on my own feet, socks warming my toes, and what even that small victory cost me.

I hate that I need him.