Page 92 of Operation: Defiance

But I hate feeling trapped inside my own body more.

“Rules,” I say. “If we do this.”

“Name them.”

“I have to see your hands. Always. You tell me where you’re going to touch, and for how long, before you do it. No grabbing. No holding me down. If I tell you to stop, you stop. No questions. No ‘one more’ or ‘just another few seconds.’”

“Agreed.” He rises slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “This is normally where I’d offer to shake on the deal, but…”

I’d laugh if I had the breath to spare. But I try for a half smile. From the look in his eyes, I might have succeeded.

“Can I sit on the edge of the bed? It’ll put less strain on you. I’d be in your eyeline. Only close enough to touch your shoulder and left arm.”

My pulse spikes, but I nod.

He sinks down, resting his hands on his knees, fingers relaxed.

“I won’t move again until you’re ready.”

My hand is still clenched in my lap. The tremor feels even worse with him right next to me.

“You can…start.”

“First, my right hand is going to rest on top of your shoulder,” he says. “In the middle. No pressure yet. Just weight. Okay?”

“Yes.”

He lifts his hand slowly, then lets it settle, the contact warm and solid, over the highest point of my shoulder. He doesn’t grip or dig in. Just…rests there.

My breath stutters, but I force it to even out.

“Okay?” he asks.

“For now.”

“Good. I’m going to add a little pressure. You’ll feel it spread down toward your shoulder blade. No movement. Just steady. Tell me if it’s too much.”

He presses gently until the muscle protests. The pain spikes, sharper than I’m prepared for, then starts to shift—like something being pushed out of a locked space.

My eyes sting.

“You’re doing fine,” he says, his voice low. “That’s the tissue arguing with me, not you.”

I let out a sound that might be a laugh if my ribs weren’t doing their best to squeeze all the air from my lungs.

“Hurts,” I whisper.

“I know.” He doesn’t apologize. Keeps the pressure steady. “Ten more seconds, then I back off. Count them or ignore them. Your call.”

I don’t want to count, which surprises me. My thoughts don’t turn to escape or endurance. Instead, I focus on the heat of his hand, the shape of his fingers, the way every part of me is braced for him to tighten his grip, yet he doesn’t.

He eases off before I can ask.

“Better, worse, or the same?” he asks.

I roll the joint carefully. The pain settles into a different pattern. Softer around the edges.

“Different,” I say. “Duller? Less hot poker and more…butter knife?”