Chapter Nineteen #2
Some sit too still because that feels safer than movement. Others can’t stop moving once they’re no longer restrained.
Some recover. Mostly. Others never do.
If I have anything to say about it, Raine will get her life back. Whatever she needs—whatever that looks like—I’ll give it to her.
“I’m going to change the angle of the shower head, then reach for the shampoo with my left hand. My right is pressed to the wall next to you.”
Another small nod. I narrate everything. When I apply the shampoo. When my fingers comb through her locks. When I hit a snag and pause to unravel the tangled strands.
Through it all, she doesn’t make a sound unless it’s to give me permission to continue. And she hasn’t stopped shaking.
I want to go back to the facility and burn the whole fucking place to the ground. After I find the contractors who hurt her and see how much pain they can tolerate before they break.
It’s a nice pipe dream. Half of the contractors I saw moved with such practiced lethality, they’d be on me before I killed more than two of them.
That’s assuming they didn’t simply shoot me on sight.
By now, they’ll know she’s gone. And if they aren’t already wondering if I helped her, they’d figure it out pretty damn quick if I showed up with thumbscrews and C-4.
“Almost done,” I murmur. “Just need to rinse. My left hand is going to shield your face again. Okay?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
That’s progress.
My fingers come too close to one of the bright red electrode burns on her temple. She chokes on a sob, swallows it back, and curls inward.
I pull my right hand away immediately. But silent sobs wrack her shoulders, and if she can’t calm down, she’ll start hyperventilating.
“Raine. You’re safe. You’re not back there. If you turn away from the water, I’ll sit on the end of the bench with both hands on my thighs where you can see them. Or I can leave the room. Right now.”
After a long moment, she swallows hard, and swivels enough I can stop shielding her eyes from the spray.
Her gaze follows my left hand down to my legs, staying there as she fights to control her breathing. Her pupils are blown wide, shoulders so tense, the tendons look like they’re about to snap.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t intentional. There’s still a fair bit of shampoo in your hair, but if your neck isn’t too sore, you can probably tip your head back and rinse it out yourself.”
For a single second, her eyes flick to my face.
Fuck.
The fear in those brown depths cuts deeper than any blade. I don’t know who ordered it. I don’t even know what they did beyond electroshock, restraint, and repeated abuse of every goddamn pressure point in the human body. But I can see the results.
With each touch, they made her smaller and smaller. Conditioned her to fear what most people take for granted. Light. Sound. Movement. Freedom. Choice.
“Finish it? Please?”
Tears well in her eyes. But her breathing has settled enough, it no longer feels like she’s borrowing oxygen she’ll have to repay.
I nod. “You don’t have to move. It’s only the back that needs rinsing now. My right hand is going to come up behind you to angle the water, then I’ll lift your hair one section at a time. My other hand won’t move at all.”
I wait long enough for her to nod, then get to work.
The moment the last of the shampoo is gone, I take a step back.
“That’s…enough,” she says softly. “The water is…too loud now.”
I wrench the knob so hard and fast, I’m surprised it doesn’t come off in my hand.
Passing her a towel, I peel off my wet socks and toss them in the hamper in the corner before I step out onto the mat. “I’ll get you something to put on.”
The closet is stocked with a week’s worth of my clothes, along with two pairs of sweatpants and two sweatshirts in my target’s size. They’ll be huge on Raine, but there’s no way in hell she’ll want to put those fucking scrubs back on. And she shouldn’t have to.
I add a pair of thick white socks from the dresser drawer to the top of the pile, then slide them onto the bathroom counter through the crack in the door. “These won’t be the best fitting, but they’re soft and warm. I’ll be right outside if you need help.”
Snagging another towel from the top of the closet, I strip, dry myself off in record time, and tug on a fresh pair of briefs and gray slacks.
That’s when the rage hits. I ball my hands into fists before I’m tempted to punch the wall.
Too many times, I’ve watched people start to rebuild after extreme trauma. They’re never quite the same. What Raine went through will be with her for the rest of her life.
I don’t know what scars she’ll carry. But, I know she’ll carry them.
Raine
The tile starts to cool under my feet. I try to draw my knees up to my chest, but pain flares along my ribs, forcing me to lower them again.
The towel catches on my swollen shoulder. Tears burn my eyes. Before they took me, I hadn’t cried in years. Now…I don’t know how to stop.
Dragging the back of my hand over my cheeks, I swallow hard. With every passing second, more of the comforting heat from the shower fades. I can cry when I’m warm again.
I squeeze my wet locks in the towel until they’re no longer dripping, then wrap the thick, black, cotton bath sheet around myself like a shield.
I feel a little less exposed now, and try standing. The room only tilts a little. Progress.
But after three steps, my legs are shaking so badly, I’m about to collapse.
Until I see them.
Socks.
Asher put a pair of thick, white socks on top of the folded pile of clothes.
That shouldn’t matter, but it does. More than I have language for at the moment.
I cradle them carefully as I ease myself back down onto the bench. The cotton snags on my damp, abused toes, sliding over the places cold concrete tore at until I stopped feeling anything but pain.
The second one goes on easier, and something deep inside me settles.
That’s when the words finally line up.
I hadn’t realized how much of me was braced for bare skin on freezing ground until now.
I sit with it for another breath. Two. Long enough I think my body will tolerate standing again.
The rest of the pile waits on the counter.
Soft black pants. A blue sweatshirt, the inside so fuzzy, I wonder if it’s brand new.
It takes me longer than I’d like to figure out how to work the sweatshirt on. Long enough I almost call Asher for help.
But he’s done so much for me already. Stepped right into the shower fully clothed to clean the residue from my skin. He narrated every movement, stopped whenever my panic flared, and kept his voice low and steady. Reassuring.
I shouldn’t feel safe around him. Not after so many hands causing me so much pain.
He doesn’t rush me. He adjusts around my panic without making me explain it. Like recalibrating for me is the most natural thing in the world. I don’t know what to make of that. Not yet. But maybe for now, it’s enough that he’s not treating me like a problem he has to solve.
My shoulder protests as I pull the collar of the sweatshirt over my head, but it eases after a couple of slow breaths. The weight of the fabric anchors me in my body. The warmth reminds me I’m free. The softness lets me think again.
I’m more me than I’ve been in days. But my muscles are no longer on board with being upright. My legs shake, and I grab the door jamb before I fall.
Asher stands in front of a closet, his back to me. He’s changed into a pair of gray pants, but he’s naked from the waist up.
My gaze catches on the line that shouldn’t be there.
A deep scar cuts across his mid-back, white and uneven against his skin. Old, but not clean work. The kind of damage that comes from someone making a point, not a mistake.
I file the information away. Location. Depth. Direction. The way it tugs on a muscle as he drags a light green t-shirt over his head.
The bed is turned down, and the sheets look as soft as the clothes. My eyes water, exhaustion pulling at me in a way I’m not prepared for. The sound I make is something between a moan and a sob.
“Raine?” Asher turns, and his eyes darken. “Fuck. Can I walk with you? Not touching. Not unless—”
“Your arm,” I say. “Only your arm. On…my terms.”
He moves slowly, letting me track each step, then offers me his forearm, hand loose, palm down.
His skin is warm. Muscles shift under my fingers. Strength I borrow for the half dozen steps to the bed.
When I let go and lower myself onto the mattress, he retreats to the doorway.
“I’ll be in the living room. If you need—or want—anything.”
The space in the room presses in on me, gravity shifting enough to leave me unmoored.
“Stay,” I whisper. “In here. Not…too close. Please?”
Asher nods and returns to the chair across from the bed. He sits like he’s on watch. Alert. Shoulders held. Hands relaxed where I can see them.
The stillness settles, crowding the room without touching me and stealing all the air from my lungs.
They turned silence into a weapon.
It took away my anchors. I couldn’t measure myself against anything beyond my own unraveling.
“Asher?” My voice thins, nearly lost.
His gaze lifts immediately. “I’m here.”
“Could you—” I swallow. My throat tightens, words stacking up and refusing to come out cleanly. My fingers curl into the blanket, grounding on the texture. If I don’t ask now, I won’t ask at all. “Could you put something on? Not loud. Just…there. I need sound. Silence…hurts.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“I have an app,” he says. “Sleep sounds. No lyrics. They’re designed to be soothing. We could try that. There’s a Bluetooth speaker in the living room.”
“Please.” Relief stings sharply behind my eyes.
“I’ll talk while I set it up,” he says, already standing. “You don’t need to answer.”
I track his steps as he moves down the hall, his voice carrying easily back to me. Low. Even. Ordinary. Pointless commentary about menus and volume sliders and how he never remembers where the good playlists are.
Then a melody drifts in. Gentle notes that don’t fill the room so much as interrupt the silence so it can’t smother me.
Something in my body that hasn’t eased since they took me finally lets go.
Asher returns to the chair and sits.
“Tell me if it needs to change,” he says. “Or stop.”
I start to roll onto my side, but tense as fear cuts deep. They never let me move on my own. Never let me protect myself from anything. Kept me on my back where my chest felt too open and I couldn’t curl or shift or breathe without pain.
I’m not back there.
I risk moving again, drawing my arms inward, guarding my shoulder, tucking my knees just enough to feel contained. The blanket’s weight anchors me. My toes are warm inside the socks.
“You don’t have to stay awake,” I murmur, already drifting. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“All right,” he says. “Eyes closed. Ears open.”
A faint huff of amusement escapes me before sleep can steal it away.
Fabric shifts. A quiet exhale. The soft, repeating notes of something slow and comforting from the other room.
For the first time since this started, nothing is being taken from me.