Page 169 of Operation: Defiance

I check the time. Asher still has ten minutes. He won’t be late. He’s too careful for that.

Moving to the couch, I pick a book from the small collection under the window. The Christie novel waits for me in the bedroom, but what I need most right now is something dry. Boring. Words to occupy a part of my brain so the rest of it can work out what happens next.

I pick up the Field Manual for Technical Communications, flip to the first page, and start reading.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Asher

Raine’s staring at the door when I let myself in, a book open on her lap, legs tucked under her.

“I still had two minutes.” I arrange the bags on the counter, then lock the door behind me.

She sets the book on the coffee table, pushes to her feet, and checks herself, like she’s not quite sure the room isn’t going to tip sideways. “I know.”

Shit. Lunch—if you could even call the amount she ate a meal—was all of a single piece of toast with peanut butter and two crackers.

“I got everything on the list,” I say. “And a little more.”

Her brows lift, and her soft huff—almost a laugh—brightens the entire room. “Let me guess. You found a recipe that actually used marjoram?”

“Fuck, no. I’m not that dedicated.” I pull a container of rice pudding out of the bag, followed by pound cake and four cans of pears. “In case you happen to be a dessert person…”

She meets me at the counter and eyes the lineup, her gaze lingering on the pudding. “I like that brand. The cake…might be aspirational.” Warmth races up my arm as she rests her fingers over mine. “Thank you for not treating me like I’m some broken thing.”

I don’t respond. Anything I’d say would turn the moment into something neither of us are ready for. Instead, I wait for her to step back, then unpack the rest of the groceries.

Once the potatoes are on the stove and the tofu is diced, I go to work shredding the rotisserie chicken I grabbed at the last minute. Raine watches me with a little furrow between her brows—the one she gets when she’s working through something complicated. I’m mashing the potatoes with the tofu before that tiny wrinkle eases.

“The people Coherent Path…releases,” she says, her voice soft, “aren’t free. There’s a whole monitoring protocol.”

I nod. “Another phase, then. Making sure the program stuck.”

“It’s not a phase.” A small tremor runs through Raine’s left hand, and she curls her fingers into a tight fist. “It doesn’t end. They keep collecting data for as long as the person is out.”

I stop mid-mash.

“They log small changes,” she continues. “Sleep. Responsiveness. Whether someone keeps up with what they’re told to do. Not because any one thing is a problem.” She meets my gaze, and I can see what this is costing her. “Because once enough of it adds up, they have a reason to pull the person back in.”

Fuck.

They’ve designed a trap that waits until the victim least suspects it.

Every instinct I have lines up behind one impulse.

Protect Raine.

Get her out of their reach. Erase every line that leads back to her. Burn any alias I’ve used in the past ten years. Then make us both disappear.

I don’t say any of that.

Instead, I watch her. Her posture. Her breathing. The way she’s holding herself together on purpose, not by force.

“You steady?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Yesterday, that would have worried me. Today, I recognize the delay for what it is. She’s working through the pattern before she commits to an answer.

“Yes,” she says, finally. “I’m holding. And I know what comes next. I just needed you to understand the shape of it.”