Chapter Twenty-One
Raine
Light presses against my eyelids. My body goes rigid before my brain catches up.
No hood. No restraints. No bone-chilling cold.
Steady, unfamiliar warmth pools along my legs and lower back. My body doesn’t trust it yet.
I stay still long enough to be sure it’s real, then work through an inventory of my body.
My shoulder pulses in time with my heartbeat, but the sensation has shifted. Less like someone’s jamming a live wire into the joint, and more like a deep bruise that’s been pushed too far. My ribs complain when I breathe too deeply. My hands…
I flex my fingers. They still feel thick and clumsy, but they move. All of them. The tingling is duller.
Calm, lilting notes keep the silence at bay—something a little lighter than before. Relaxing, but not in a way that pulls me back toward sleep.
I open my lids a fraction.
The bedside lamp is on, casting warm light away from my face. Across the room, a hint of sun peeks around the blinds.
Focus comes slowly. The nightstand. The closet door. A small slice of the hall.
And the chair. The empty chair.
The room shimmers. My heart kicks up a dozen notches in a single breath.
Did I imagine it? Getting out? Safety?
Asher?
Then I hear it. A low clink of ceramic. The soft thud of a cabinet closing. Running water.
I inhale slowly. The air smells…warm. Savory. Not broth, but something…more.
My stomach clenches. I can’t tell if it’s hunger or pain.
I push my heels into the mattress, test my legs. They answer, shaky but present.
Progress?
Asher steps into view a second later, barefoot, hair a little more rumpled than last night. Faint shadows linger under his eyes that weren’t there before. And there’s a tray in his hands.
“Morning.” He doesn’t come closer yet. “How’s the pain?”
“Different.” My voice sounds less like gravel dragged over concrete. More like me. “Still bad.”
He nods. “We can deal with that. When you’re ready.”
A wave of scent washes over me, and my gaze snaps to the tray. Eggs. Toast cut into small pieces. My mouth waters, and my stomach tightens with a need I barely remember how to give voice to.
“I made a few options,” Asher says. “There’s also broth if that feels safer. We can try or not try. Your call.”
Options.
He’s giving me options.
“I can…try,” I say. “If it’s…small.”
“Small is easy.” He moves into the room slowly enough I can map each step. Setting the tray on the nightstand, he backs off so he’s not crowding me. “Do you want to sit up more, or is this angle okay?”
My shoulder is already angry at me. My ribs vote against any sudden changes. But the eggs…I want actual food in a way I never have before.
“Help me up? A little?”
Much like the previous night, he lets me hook my good arm around his, then eases me up enough to wedge a pillow behind my back. He doesn’t rush. That matters more than I can say.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod.
He retreats a step. “Spoon or fork?”
The question catches me off guard. Another choice with no consequence.
“Spoon.” Less chance of stabbing myself.
He passes it to me carefully, handle first, then moves back to the chair. No hovering.
My fingers curl weakly, but the pressure isn’t…right. When I try to compensate, the nerve pain shoots all the way to my shoulder.
I manage to scoop up a small bite of eggs. But then the tremor starts in my hand. After a second, it moves into my forearm. My grip falters, fingers too slow. Too clumsy. Too numb to listen to my desperate pleas for them to work.
The spoon wobbles. Tilts. Most of the egg slides back onto the plate. The remnants make it halfway to my mouth before my fingers spasm violently, and the metal utensil crashes against the edge of the tray before hitting the floor.
The sound is worse than any silence.
My whole body goes rigid. I wait for the hand on the back of my neck, the barked correction, the jolt.
The pain.
Nothing happens.
Asher doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t dole out reprimands or threaten me with correction.
“Do you want to try the toast instead?” he asks. “Or is this all too much for now?”
Heat pricks behind my eyes. Humiliation hits next, burning hotter than the tears.
“I can’t…” I stare at my hand. The tremor worsens under the scrutiny. “It won’t—” I stop before the entire sentence can fall apart.
Asher’s gaze drops to my fingers. He studies the way they’re shaking, the angle of my wrist, the line of tension up into my forearm.
“That’s not you failing,” he says. “That’s restraint damage and nerve compression. I can probably fix some of it. But it means more contact than we’ve had so far.”
I swallow hard. Contact means pain. Correction.
No. It meant pain there. Not here.
“Define more contact,” I say.
“Shoulder. Forearms. Hands.” He ticks them off like items on a checklist. No apology, but no assumption either. “Pressure. Some movement. No surprises. I’ll tell you before every touch. And you can stop at any time.”
My heart crawls up into my throat. “Why?” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “What do you want in return?”
He takes another step back, his jaw flexing once before something soft and warm flickers briefly in his eyes.
“Nothing. I realize you have very little reason to trust me, Raine, but this isn’t a trade, and you don’t owe me anything. You deserve to be functional,” he says. “And the assholes who did this don’t get to take your hands from you.”
I sit with that. With the smell of food so tantalizingly close, but still out of reach. With the memory of how it felt to stand on my own feet, socks warming my toes, and what even that small victory cost me.
I hate that I need him.
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?”
“Good.” He shifts his hand a little lower. “Same rules. Pressure coming in again.”
He works in slow, steady passes.
Top of the shoulder first, then the muscles of my upper back, then gently along the side of my neck, where everything has been clamped down for too long. He narrates each move until he’s ready to work on my wrists. Then, his voice softens, and he holds my gaze for a long moment.
“This might hurt a little more. But we can stop whenever you want.”
I swallow hard, bracing myself before I nod.
“My hand is going under your wrist,” he says. “Palm up. I’m going to support the joint and move your fingers one at a time. Slowly. You don’t have to help. Let me do the work.”
I let my hand go limp, surprised at how easy it is to trust him.
He cups my wrist, careful not to touch the deepest bruises, and lifts just enough to change the angle. His thumb glides along tendons as he curls my index finger in, then straightens it. The nerves fire badly at first, sending sharp shocks all the way to my elbow.
I swallow a curse.
“Too much?” he asks.
“Keep going,” I grunt. “It’s…worth it…if it works.”
He repeats the motion, then moves to the next finger. Each time, the burn shifts a little. By the time he reaches my pinky, my entire forearm is buzzing. But the tremors have faded, and the pins and needles are gone.
“Try a fist,” he says, shifting enough that he’s not holding me. Just supporting me. “Slowly.”
I do.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then my fingers curl. Not all the way, not with full strength, but enough that they feel like they actually belong to me.
The wave of emotion threatens to swallow me whole.
“I’ve got you,” Asher says quietly, misreading the sound that escapes as pain. “We can stop.”
“No. Just…give me a second.” I take a breath that isn’t as shallow as it was an hour ago, and open my hand again. “It’s better. I hate that it’s better, but it is.”
Needing him is a risk. One I wish I didn’t have to take. But I do. At least, for now.
“Good.” There’s no victory in his tone. Just acknowledgment.
He glances at the tray. “The eggs are cold. Last thing you need is rubber pretending to be food.” The corners of his mouth tip up slightly. “I’m going to make a fresh plate. Don’t move unless you have to. Let your muscles relax and adjust to this new normal.”
The absence of his hand is immediate. The space he leaves behind feels bigger than it should.
I let my eyes drift close and listen to sounds too normal to belong there—Asher’s light steps across the floorboards, a cupboard opening, a quiet hiss when something hits a hot pan.
My stomach tightens as the scents carry down the hall. By the time he comes back, I’m caught between wanting and not trusting myself to want…anything.
Asher sets a fresh plate and spoon on the tray, and retreats to the chair.
“Same rules. You try. If it doesn’t work, that’s on me, not you.”
I look at the utensil for a beat, then close my fingers around the handle.
The tremor is still there, but smaller. Contained.
I scoop up a bite of eggs. A few pieces slide off, but most stay.
The relief at such a simple motion shouldn’t hit this hard.
My shoulder complains, but not as loudly, and I get the spoon to my mouth.
The heat is gentle, not scalding. Salt and warmth hit my tongue.
My stomach tightens, but after a second, eases. The relief is so sharp, it almost feels like pain.
I try another bite. Then a third. By the fourth, my ribs remind me they’re not entirely on board with being upright.
“Okay.” I collapse against the pillow. “I need to stop.”
My arm feels heavy. My shoulder aches in a different way, but I can tell, in the places that still recognize data, that something has shifted.
I flex my fingers. They still shake. But they answer.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Asher’s mouth quirks into a small smile. “You did the hard part. Healing is work. And you get to rest between rounds.”
Rest was one of the first things they took from me.
“You’re safe here,” he adds, his voice softening. “Nothing gets to you without going through me first. And I don’t go down easy.”
My fingers twitch against the blanket. They’re still buzzing, still unsteady. But they’re mine.
“I’ll be right back. Just going to do the dishes. You’ll hear me. Okay?” He picks up the tray, but holds my gaze until I nod.
I should close my eyes. Try to sleep some more. But instead, I rest my hands in my lap. Turn them over. The tremor is still there. Fainter. Persistent. Veins too visible. Skin too dull. So dry, it doesn’t feel like mine.
When I flex my fingers, they drag faintly against each other, catching instead of sliding. The pads are rough. The backs tight. Every small movement leaves a whisper of resistance, like my hands have forgotten how to be used.
The dark purple bruises will fade with time. But the memory of the restraints, the hood, the helplessness? Those will stay with me forever.
I swallow and my throat burns, the ache deeper than thirst.
My body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.
I don’t pull away from it. I just…note it. Save it for later when I have the energy to recognize myself again.
Footsteps sound in the hall. Unhurried. Familiar already.
Asher pauses in the doorway, drying his hands on a dish towel and draping it over the back of the chair before sitting. “Didn’t mean to keep you up,” he says quietly.
“You didn’t.”
“You okay?” he asks.
“I think so.” I hesitate, then add, “Different, but…better.”
He leans back slightly, weight settling, like he’s decided we’ll be here for a bit. “Anything spiking?”
I shake my head. “Not like before.”
“Good.”
He doesn’t push. I don’t explain. The silence is comfortable, and I don’t know what to do with that. The music hums softly beneath it, steady and unobtrusive.
I look down at my hands again.
“How did you know how to do that?” I ask. “With my shoulder. My arm. You didn’t hesitate.”
He considers me for a beat.
“I had a job go sideways a few years ago,” he says. “The guy I was sent in to rescue had similar injuries. I got him out, but by the time we made it to a doctor, the nerve damage was permanent.”
His eyes are haunted. Sad.
“After that,” he continues, “I paid a physical therapist to teach me what she could. Then found a couple of doctors who didn’t ask questions. Field medicine. Damage control. Triage.”
“What was this?” I ask quietly.
“Damage control. For someone who didn’t deserve what happened to them.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. It’s better that way. I don’t want to see pity in his eyes.
I let my hands stay where they are. Still unsteady, but mine.
The last thing I see before I close my eyes is Asher, still watching the door.