Chapter Twenty-Five
Raine
“Those five minutes must be up by now.”
I’m not ready to do this. But the longer we wait, the more the evidence degrades. I won’t let them have that.
Asher braces his hand on his thigh as he pushes to his feet, then rubs a hand over his jaw. Stubble rasps under his palm. “I stopped counting at four and a half. It seemed rude to keep going. And secretly, I’d hoped you’d rest a little longer.”
“Rest is one thing. Avoidance is another.”
His gaze tracks my face, then my hands, taking inventory from across the room. “I won’t touch you more than I have to. Or without warning. And we stop whenever you say.”
“And I need—”
“To see my hands. You will. I promise. I’ll get the phone. Okay?”
I nod, and he heads for the main room. After a minute or so, he returns with a small box in his hand. “It’s still sealed.”
Asher shows me the manufacturer sticker, then tears it off, opens the box, and tips the phone into his hand.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the edge of the bed.
He’s never assumed. Not once. Not after helping me wash my hair. Not after working on my shoulder and wrists. Not after helping me do something as simple as drink tea. That means something, but I can’t focus on it yet. Not until this next part is over.
“Okay.”
Asher takes a seat, leaving two feet of space between us.
“When we’re done, you set the password. The encryption codes. Everything. I’ll use it for the photos now, but it belongs to you.”
Mine.
A lump swells in my throat. I stare at the hunk of plastic and glass as the memory of them cutting off my bra plays on a loop in my head.
“Raine? Where did you go?”
The mattress shifts with his weight, but when I blink hard and look up at him, he hasn’t moved any closer.
“They took…everything. My wallet. My ring. My clothes. Did they empty my bank account? My apartment? Make it so I never existed?” My fingers tighten on the blanket. The tremor starts a moment later.
“I have resources,” Asher says, his voice smooth, confident, and gentle. “If they did take everything, I’ll help you get it back.”
Help.
Not do it for me. Not rescue me or save me.
Help me.
Heat pricks behind my eyes before I can stop it. My lungs loosen a fraction, enough that the next breath doesn’t scrape going in. Even my bad shoulder drops slightly, as if my body believes what my brain can’t quite process.
Asher might not be a hero. But he is a decent man.
After a beat, he powers on the phone. “Where do you want to start?”
I think through the possibilities. Hands. Shoulder. Ribs. There’s too much. The static in my head gets so loud, it drowns everything else out.
“My wrists,” I finally manage. “They’re…accessible.”
“Okay. Do you want help pulling up the sweatshirt cuffs?”
“I’ll do it.” It’s slower that way, but slower is fine.
Safer.
I ease the stretchy fabric up to the middle of my forearms, then rest my hands on top of the blanket, palms down. The bruises at the base of my thumbs are dark and ugly, the skin on my fingers so dry and pale, I can see every vein.
“I’m going to take three shots,” he says. “One zoomed out slightly to show both hands, then a close-up of each.”
“Wait!” My breath snags on a wave of panic so strong, it feels like someone just punched me in the chest. “Just…one. First. Then…show me.”
The soft electronic click detonates in the quiet of the bedroom.
I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until Asher speaks.
“Raine? If it’s not what you want, we can delete it and try again.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth as hard as I can. The pressure steadies me enough to open my eyes.
It’s…me. My fingers. My hands. They look so small in the photo. Smaller than they ever have. Vulnerable. Dark purple bands loop around both wrists, the skin mottled where metal bit over and over again. Faint lines radiate out in uneven ripples.
“It’s fine. We need…notes too.”
“May I use my laptop? Or would you prefer paper only?” he asks.
I lift my eyes to meet his. Every time it matters, he gives me a choice. “Laptop is fine. Faster, right?”
He inclines his head. “Yes. But also not in your direct control.”
“I…trust you.” The admission feels both reckless and necessary.
He goes very still, then nods once, the motion careful, as if he understands exactly how much that cost me.
Asher pulls his laptop out from under the chair and opens a new file. “Okay. Photos one, two, and three. What do you want me to say about them?”
My voice is tiny, thin. But it doesn’t shake. That matters. “Day nine. Hands and wrists.” After a beat, I add, “Note: continuous restraint for…eight days. Minimal removal—only long enough to change orientation. Nerve compression. Loss of fine motor control. Emotional impact…significant.”
My throat tightens on the last word. Significant is clinical. Safe. A word you use in reports. Hearing it applied to my own body makes my vision blur anyway.
“Note,” I say. “Pressure points. Handling. Constant correction. Emotional impact: destabilizing.”
The word feels too neat for what the pain did to me. For how my hands—my entire body—stopped feeling like mine. But it’s all I have right now.
“Forearms now,” I manage.
Asher documents everything. Photos. Words. Clinically, without judgment or commentary.
“What’s next?” he asks.
My hand drifts to my bad shoulder. But…in order for him to see it—to document it—I have to take the sweatshirt off. I’m…not ready for that yet.
I stare at the blanket over my legs. The socks. Such a small barrier, but it feels enormous. It’s just fabric. Cotton. But my toes curl inside them, braced for cold and numbness and pain.
“Feet and ankles.”
“Okay,” Asher says. “Tell me what you need.”
I push the blanket down to my knees and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The room tilts a little. My heels hover over the floor.
Bare.
Cold.
Concrete.
My throat closes. I remember the way the chill crawled up through my bones and still hasn’t left. My muscles lock before I even make contact.
“Raine.” Asher’s voice is low, even. “Talk to me.”
“They took my shoes the first day. I’ve never been so cold.”
Asher goes very still. The hand holding the phone tightens, knuckles whitening for a heartbeat before he makes his fingers loosen again.
“They don’t get to take warmth from you again,” he says. His voice stays level, but something sharp hums beneath it. Not at me. At them. “Keep your heels on the bed. We can still get what we need.”
The promise settles over my skin like another layer of blanket.
My calves seize when I try to move. The memory doesn’t bloom this time, it clamps down, hard and fast. My toes curl inside the socks, bracing for a floor that isn’t there.
I drag in a breath. Then another. The mattress is soft under my palms. The air is warm. I can do this.
“Okay,” I whisper. My throat feels scraped raw. “Be quick.” The spell breaks enough that I can pull my feet back up. I plant them on the mattress, knees bent, socks still on. The relief is almost dizzying.
“Understood.”
I work the first sock off. The skin underneath is still so dry. So pale.
The second sock isn’t any easier.
Cool air hits my bare skin. Goosebumps rise in a heartbeat.
Asher doesn’t lift the camera yet. His hands rest on his thighs, empty. “You good?”
“Yes.” My feet feel small and exposed against the sheet. “Get my ankles too. Note the cold exposure and…whatever else you see.” I can’t narrate this bit. If I try, I’ll shut down.
“The shackles here were heavier,” Asher says as the camera shutter clicks. “Different material. Thick chain. Short.”
“They wanted me to know I couldn’t move on my own.”
Asher swears softly under his breath. “Okay. I’m done. You can put your socks back on.”
The relief coursing through me is like nothing I’ve ever felt. It’s too much. I shove it down deep until I have the words to unpack it.
“Emotional impact,” I whisper, “dehumanizing. The cold…I couldn’t…regulate. And the restraints…there were times they locked my ankles so tightly together, I couldn’t even stand.”
My throat locks up, tears spill from my eyes, and I use the arm of the sweatshirt to wipe them away.
“Asher.” My voice scrapes over my raw throat. “Next is—”
He doesn’t reach for the camera. “We can take a break.”
If I stop now, I won’t start again. I know that in my bones.
“My face,” I say. Even the words feel exposed. “Neck. Temples. Get…what shows.”
“Okay.” He rises, slowly enough that I can track every inch. The phone stays at his side. “Do you want more light, or is this enough?”
“Enough.” Anything brighter and I’ll shatter.
I drag my fingers through my hair, my hands shaky, but I need it off my face. The motion tugs at the burns on my temples. I lock the panic away before it can drown me.
“Ready?”
“No,” I admit. “But do it anyway.”
He lifts the phone, movements small, deliberate.
I force myself to look straight at him. At the phone. At what it sees.
“Notes,” I say. “Face and neck. Electrode burns at temples from electro-shock. I was there…then I wasn’t.”
A sob wants to break free, but I swallow hard and force it away.
“They said it was the ‘final calibration’ after all their other measures had failed,” I whisper.
“What else?” Asher keeps his voice low and soothing.
“Jaw and collarbone bruising from…handling. The burn on the side of my neck is from the hood. They tied it so tight, I could barely swallow.” My throat works over the memory.
“Emotional impact: disorientation. Erasure. Forced dependence through eight days of darkness. I never knew where I was or what was around me. My body no longer felt like it belonged to me.”
His jaw flexes, but his voice stays steady. “Got it.”
I swallow again. The sweatshirt feels too heavy over my skin now, too thick against the fingerprint bruises under the fabric.
“We have to do my collarbones next. And my shoulder. I’ll…need help with the sweatshirt for that.”
“I know,” Asher says. “We’ll go slow. You call every shot.”
He stands, palms open. “We can use a blanket to keep you covered. Where do you want it?”