Page 128 of Operation: Defiance

My shoulder twinges when I shift. Too many nights in this fucking chair. I make a mental note to outfit all my safe houses with recliners when this job is done.

The scar across my back pulls faintly. I hadn’t planned on telling her about that. I don’t talk about it with anyone. It’s one of those stories you bury under layers of professionalism and necessity. But the way she was looking at me…direct, steady, unafraid of the truth…it pulled something open.

She trusted me enough to stay in her body when my hands were on her. I can still feel the shape of her under my palm, the careful tension in her breath, the exact moment she decided not to pull away.

Most people don’t offer that kind of trust.

Even fewer understand the weight of receiving it.

As I close my eyes, one thought settles in with a certainty I can’t ignore:

Today changed something.

For her, yes—but for me too.

Whatever comes next, I’m already in it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Raine

I wake before I want to. Before my body is ready. Before the sky even thinks about sunrise. Still, I slept longer than I expected. Enough to keep me upright. Not quite enough to feel…human.

Asher sits in the chair near the bed. Between me and the door. Always. Between me and potential danger. His eyes are closed, but he holds himself in a way that tells me he’s alert. Braced for anything.

I shift up to sitting slowly, testing my ribs. They twinge, a small involuntary sound catching in my throat—half gasp, half breath. Quiet, but not quiet enough.

He’s awake before I finish straightening. His spine comes online like a switch flipped, his eyes opening instantly, with none of the fog most people have after sleep.

He meets my gaze. “Morning.”

I blink, still trying to catch up to how fast he surfaced. “Is it?”

A ghost of a smile warms something deep inside me. “Technically.”

He braces a hand on his thigh, then gets to his feet. There’s a brief hitch in his right shoulder before he straightens fully.

It’s small. Quick.

Most people wouldn’t notice.

I do.

From the old injury? Or spending most of the past two days in that chair? Maybe both?

“Tea?” he asks.

I nod, sliding my legs over the edge of the bed. “Tea.”

He watches me for a heartbeat—checking, calibrating—then heads for the door.

“Come out when you’re ready,” he says.

I pull in a breath, steady myself, then push to my feet. The room only tilts for a moment before I find my footing. My shoulder warns me it’s not playing around, but the rest of my injuries are more like background noise now.

My fingers catch on the tangles in my hair. Too long without my normal “routine.” Too many days dehydrated and depleted, adrenaline and cortisol and pure panic wrecking my body in ways I may never fully recover from.

The sounds coming from the kitchen are so familiar, so achingly normal, that they tug at me harder than I want to admit.