Chapter Twenty
Asher
Raine doesn’t ease into sleep. She crashes. One second she’s here, eyes open and unfocused. The next, she’s gone. Like her body finally hit a hard limit and shut itself down.
I don’t move. The chair isn’t comfortable, but comfort isn’t the point. She asked me to stay. So I stay.
Midnight ticks past on my phone, and I close my eyes.
It doesn’t last.
A small, broken sound pulls me fully awake. The room is dim, lit just enough she won’t surface into darkness. Raine’s curled on her side, knees drawn in a fraction, fingers hooked into the blanket like it’s all that’s holding her here.
Her chest stutters. Once. Twice. Another thin cry slips out, raw at the edges.
I don’t move.
“Raine,” I say quietly. “You’re safe. I’m right here. In the chair.”
Her fingers twitch. She drags in a breath that edges toward panic.
“No one’s going to hurt you.”
The tremor runs through her and fades. Her breathing evens enough that I trust she’s through the worst of it.
The next time I surface, a little over an hour has passed. My neck is stiff and my foot’s half asleep.
Raine’s eyes are open, fixed on the closet door. Her jaw is clenched hard enough, I’m surprised I can’t hear her teeth grinding together.
“Pain?” I ask.
“Ribs,” she whispers. “Shoulder. Hands. It’s…loud.”
I nod. “I’ll get you more electrolytes. You don’t have to sit all the way up. I can hold the glass. Do you want strawberry, raspberry, or grape?”
She hesitates. Stalled, like she doesn't understand the idea of choice. Or she’s afraid there’s a wrong answer.
That shouldn't bother me as much as it does.
“This isn’t a test. Or a trick. I’ll bring you whatever you want. If you’re not sure, I’ll bring all three.”
She works her jaw for a beat, and her eyes finally focus on me.
“Grape.”
I stand slowly, giving her time to track me as I head down the hall. In the kitchenette, I mix a small dose—barely a quarter cup. Any more would overwhelm a system that’s been pushed too far for too long.
When I come back, she watches as I sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll hold. You guide. Same as before. Okay?”
Her hand shakes as she brings her fist against the cup. The first sip sloshes. The second lands better. “Enough,” she says after the third.
I set the cup on the nightstand and retreat to the chair. Same position. Hands visible. Blanket over my legs.
“Try what we did earlier,” I say. “Heels into the mattress.”
She does. Her legs jerk once. Then she stills.
“Okay,” she whispers. “It’s…better.”
I don’t say I’m proud of her—even though what she’s doing is hard as fuck. She doesn’t need approval. She needs confirmation that her body isn’t failing her.
I watch her breathing steady, her shoulders soften, and finally her eyes slide shut again.
I drift in shallow increments. Never more than half an hour. Every change in her breathing pulls me back.
Once, her whole body jolts like she’s bracing for impact.
“Not there,” I murmur. “You’re not back there.”
She doesn’t wake, but the tension drains from her forearms. Her fingers uncurl an inch.
The chair isn’t doing my back any favors. That’s fine. I need to stay between her and the door, awake enough to act if someone who isn’t me tries to come through it.
They’ll realize she’s gone soon, if they haven’t already. They’ll replay the camera footage. Pull on the threads they can find. My cover identity. The dead man I was sent to extract.
I watch Raine in the half-light. The bruising along her jaw has darkened, spreading like spilled ink. The cuts at her hairline are sharp and angry now that the grime is gone. Easier to catalog.
And harder to ignore.
I’ve seen what executions look like. More times than I can count.
Some are clean. Others are messy.
This wasn’t a hit. Not a planned one.
This was a decision.
Keep her breathing, but take everything that makes her Raine. When that didn’t work, they marked her for disposal.
You don’t do that unless you’re very afraid of what happens if the mind is left intact.
Whoever put Raine in that room crossed a line they don’t get to come back from.
I know what kind of person does that.
The kind I don’t lose sleep over stopping.
By the time gray light edges around the blinds, the worst of the shuddering has stopped. She’s still pale, still drawn tight around the eyes, but the lines of her body are different now. Less locked. More spent.
The broth at four stayed down. An hour later, she asked for water. Small steps. Important ones.
Her breathing has more depth now. Not enough. But it’s less precarious.
My eyes burn. I blink hard and focus on her hands.
She’s flexing them in her sleep. Tiny movements. Tendons jumping under bruised skin. That’s good. It means the nerves are still arguing with the damage. It also means she’s going to hit a wall the first time she needs fine motor control.
If I’m right about the bruising around her wrists and the way she’s guarding her shoulder, she’s going to need more than rest and fluids soon.
I’m going to have to put my hands on her.
Carefully. On her terms. Or not at all.
“In a few hours,” I whisper to the room, more promise than plan, “we’ll talk. And then we’ll fix what we can.”