Chapter Sixteen
Asher
Adjusting Raine carefully, I wonder how the hell I’m supposed to fight if the doors open to a welcoming committee. But we’re lucky, and the elevator spits us out at the back of the facility, nothing but cracked asphalt, pine trees, and silence around us.
For a black site, their security is abysmal. The main elevator was guarded by two armed men, but after that, almost nothing. Then again, the entire building is hiding in plain sight. The only sign it’s not completely abandoned is the thick razor wire at the top of the fence.
I modify my hold automatically as I move toward the parking lot, shifting Raine’s weight so her head doesn’t snap back and keeping pressure off the shoulder she’s been guarding since the second I walked into that room. She’s lighter than she should be.
Not fragile.
Depleted.
My car is the only one here. Either the contractors live on site or they bus them in on a schedule. I get Raine into the passenger seat and ease her back carefully. I don’t buckle her in. No restraints. Never again if I have anything to say about it.
Even unconscious, her body flinches when my hands pass too close.
“Okay,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “I’ve got you.”
I start the engine. Only then do I really look at her.
Grime streaks her skin in uneven shadows. Her complexion is sallow, stretched thin over bone. Hair dull and tangled where adhesive residue clings to her temples. Everything about her looks brittle. Her body’s been burning through reserves it didn’t have to spare.
Her hands are still trembling—not from fear, but aftershocks from pain stacked on deprivation stacked on exhaustion.
“All right,” I say softly. “We’re clear. You did good, Raine.”
No response. Not that I expected one.
I have to get her somewhere safe. Somewhere she can heal.
The safe house I prepped before heading here is over an hour away in the center of downtown Seattle. I stretch the drive to almost ninety minutes. Three different vehicles. The first switch is only ten miles from the facility, at a rest stop no one uses unless they’re desperate.
I slide one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lift carefully. She’s settled in the new vehicle, a dark blue sedan, in sixty seconds, still unconscious.
Forty minutes later, I pull behind a grocery store under flickering sodium lights. This time we transfer to a small SUV with plates I stole off a BMW this morning. She shudders once as I gather her close, then stills.
I alter my route just enough to make anyone following me doubt themselves.
I’ve built an entire career out of doubt.
While we’re moving, I keep one hand on the wheel and the other close to her knee. Not touching. Just there.
Close enough to feel if she stirs.
Close enough to pull back if she flinches.
She doesn’t do either.
By the time I pull off the freeway, her breathing has evened out. Still shallow, but consistent. The tremor fades into stillness that looks like sleep if you don’t know better.
I know better.
When I pull into the garage beneath the safe house, I kill the engine and wait a full ten seconds.
No footsteps. No voices. No surprises.
Good.
The elevator’s secure. No cameras. A key card for access. A six digit code for the apartment door.
Inside, the apartment is deliberately boring. Quiet. Temperature-controlled. Neutral walls. Soft light. No sharp smells or sounds. Calming.
Exactly as I designed it to be.
Too many extractions. Too many people who didn’t know how to come back to themselves without tripping every alarm in their nervous system.
I carry her into the bedroom, lay her on the bed, then kneel beside her.
“Raine,” I say quietly. “You’re safe. I’m going to touch you now. Only where I have to.”
No response.
I cup her cheek to keep her head steady. Her skin is cool. Dry in a way that tells me she’s horribly dehydrated. There’s swelling over her right eye, purple giving way to yellow around the edges. That bothers me more than I’d like.
Wrists and ankles bruised, deep enough to suggest nerve compression. Shoulder visibly swollen. The rise and fall of her chest isn’t quite even. At least one rib bruised or broken. Maybe two.
Her feet are mottled from the cold.
Fuck.
Exposure is one of the most insidious types of torture. The one you don’t see coming until you’re too hot or too cold to regulate anything else.
I reach for the med kit.
Heated blanket first. I drape it carefully over her, leaving her arms free. Temperature regulation before intervention. Always.
Electrolytes next. I mix them quietly and set the cup within reach for later.
A quick check of her blood pressure and pulse. Her BP is in the basement. Her heart is racing, trying to compensate.
If I thought she’d tolerate it, I’d start an IV. But I don’t know if they drugged her. Waking up with a needle in her arm could destroy her.
I move to the chair opposite the bed, cross my ankles, and think.
Not about what I’m going to do to the people who signed off on this.
That can wait.
I think about Raine
What not to do.
No sudden noise.
No unnecessary touch.
No waking her unless I absolutely have to.
I open a note on my phone and document what I can see. Record timestamps. Not for a report—for leverage against the people who did this.
After that, I keep watch.
Minutes pass. Then an hour.
At some point, she shifts. A small sound catches in her throat. Not words. Just breath snagging on memory.
I stay exactly where I am. Quiet, still, as non-threatening as I can be to someone who’s obviously been under constant threat for quite some time.
Because whatever comes next for her, the first thing she needs to learn is that no one will move her or touch her without permission again.
And if she opens her eyes and decides I’m a problem?
I’ll deal with that.
But not before she gets the chance to wake up on her own terms.