Page 75 of Operation: Defiance

I nod.

“Don’t move the injured side,” he says. “Lean forward. Gravity will help. I can guide the sleeve off your good arm, then over your head.”

It makes sense.

“You’ll have to touch me.”

“I’ll do my best not to.”

The gentleness in his tone is enough to convince me. I lean forward, palms on the counter, tile cool and solid beneath my hands.

“I’m going to stand behind you,” he says. “If you’re ready.”

“I am.”

The shirt drags over my shoulder blade. Catches briefly in my hair. My throat closes. The world narrows to fabric and breath and the memory of the ties cinching around my neck.

Panic flares. Too dark. Trapped. Can’t see. No!

“I’m stopping,” Asher says. “Until you tell me to continue.”

The panic doesn’t vanish. But it stops climbing. I count. Three in. Hold. Three out.

“Okay. Now.”

I squeeze my eyes shut as the shirt passes over my mouth and nose, the roughness brushing my cheeks, trapping my breath for a half-second too long.

My shoulders lock.

Then it’s gone.

For a moment, I don’t move. Hunched over the sink, bare skin prickling in the cooler air. Exposed—but untouched.

“I’ll give you some privacy.”

He retreats without being asked. I don’t want to be alone. Not…completely. “Door open,” I manage. “If I need…”

“I’ll come,” he promises.

I wait until I can’t see him before I take off the pants, then sit on the bench under the spray.

The water runs faintly brown.

I get enough soap in my palms to lather, but sensation floods in without warning. Too many inputs overloading my system at once.

I brace my hands on my thighs and force myself to stay seated.

In. Out. Count the drops. Notice the sound.

The water hits unevenly. Higher pitched where it strikes the metal drain. Softer against the tiles. The temperature stays constant. Warm. The pressure doesn’t change. My breathing evens out first. Then the tremor in my hands. Enough that I can take the thick washcloth and start to drag it over my skin.

But the adhesive is too strong.

Every tug sends a sharp spike of panic through my chest.

“Asher,” I say, surprised by how much my voice shakes. “I need help.”

His bulk fills the doorway, but he doesn’t enter. He waits, his eyes locked on mine. “Tell me how.”