Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“Over…everything. Then we deal with the sweatshirt under it.”
“Got it.”
He grabs the dark green blanket off the chair and holds it out for me.
I drag in a breath and ease the blanket up, one shaky inch at a time, until it’s draped over my shoulders and chest like a tent.
He sets the phone on the edge of the bed. “Tell me what you need.”
“You’ll have to help me out of the sweatshirt. Like you did…before.”
“Understood. Can I touch your left wrist?”
I nod.
His fingers slide under the blanket and close lightly around my wrist. Warm. Almost…comforting.
“Ready?”
“No. But do it anyway.”
“I’ll keep the fabric steady,” he says. “See if you can get your left arm free.”
I work the sleeve down slowly, carefully, until my arm slips out. The movement pulls at my ribs but spares my shoulder.
“Your right side is mine to manage,” he murmurs. “I’ll lift the fabric. You keep the joint as still as you can. If it spikes past tolerable, you say stop.”
The words settle some of the panic clawing at my ribs.
His hand moves higher under the blanket, finds the right sleeve, and eases it down with a care that makes my throat sting. There’s no yank. No impatient shove. Just slow, constant movement and a quiet curse when my breath stutters.
“Going over your head now,” he warns. “I’ll be quick.”
The fabric lifts. Over my chin. My mouth. My eyes.
For a single breath, it’s dark again, and my body braces hard.
Then it’s gone, and air rushes back in.
“Done,” he says, already stepping away.
I unclench my jaw slowly. “Okay. Collarbones first.” I grip the top edge of the blanket and tug it down just enough that the bruising at my throat and the tops of my shoulders is visible. It’s strange how exposed such a small strip of skin can make me feel.
Asher lifts the phone, then pauses. “Front, then back,” he says. “You call where.”
“Get the pressure points. The…the way they used their hands.”
“Understood.” His voice is flat now. Controlled. But his jaw ticks once as he frames the shot.
The first click of the shutter makes my stomach flip.
I keep my gaze on his hands instead of the phone. On the way his fingers stay exactly where I can see them.
“Notes,” I say, my voice sounding far away. “Day nine. Collarbones, shoulders. Finger-mark bruising from…manipulation. Shoving. Forced positioning. Right shoulder is still…wrong. Swollen. Different contour from the left.”
He sets the phone on his thigh long enough to get it all down. “Emotional impact?”
I swallow. The words stick, then scrape free. “Helplessness. Expectation that every touch meant pain. There was never any warning. My body started bracing before they even got close.”
His knuckles go white on the laptop for a second before he deliberately unclenches them. “Logged,” he says. “Ready for your back?”
“It’s going to take me a minute to turn around.”
“I’ll move to the window.”
I wrap the blanket tighter across my chest and stomach, then turn carefully until my spine is exposed, the blanket covering everything else.
“Like this,” I say, breathless. “Top first. Between my shoulder blades.”
“I’m behind the chair. Still in your sight line.”
I glance back. Barely. It’s enough to settle me.
“Okay.”
The phone rises. A few soft clicks. Cool air ghosts over the bruises that ladder the back of my neck, trail down one shoulder blade, and curve over my ribs. Pinpoint locations where hands dug in again and again, finding the same places every time.
“Notes,” I say, staring at the wall. “Upper back and shoulders. Repeated pressure point use for compliance. Stress positions. My body still expects hands there.” I swallow. “Always the right side. They rarely touched the other one.”
That realization hits hard.
They knew my right shoulder was already bad, and they took advantage of it.
I don’t look at Asher, but I feel the shift in him. Fury. Not at me. At them.
“At some point, they forced me to stand,” I say. “Hands cuffed overhead. They pushed. Pulled. Left me there until my legs couldn’t support me anymore. Applied corrective force until the joint gave.” I pause. “They put it back. Eventually.”
“Note,” he says tightly. “Deliberate dislocation and reduction. Primary purpose: compliance. Secondary: pain reinforcement.”
The silence afterward is sharp enough to cut.
I turn back around with a hiss, the blanket following. Everything hurts. But the tremor in my hands has changed. Less panic. More purpose.
“We’re not done,” I say. “I want…my ribs.”
His jaw flexes. “All right. How do you want to handle the sweatshirt?”
“Back on first,” I say. “Then photos. I need layers.”
“Okay.” He sets the phone where I can see it, then picks up the sweatshirt, hands low, fabric bunched in his fingers. “Talk me through it. Hurting you isn’t an option,” he insists. “If this is too much, we wait.”
“It’s already too much. But we still have to do it.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. Respect, not amusement. “Injured arm first?”
“In front.” I nod. “No lifting. Just thread it.”
He brings the sleeve to my hand. “Fingers in. Push what you can.”
I manage it. He supports the fabric as it slides up my arm, easing it over my elbow so the shoulder doesn’t drag. I grit my teeth as the seam passes the worst of the bruising.
“Pause,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”
I do. The pain backs down from blinding to sharp.
“Other arm.”
This one’s easier. When both sleeves are on, he lifts the hem and slowly draws the sweatshirt over my head.
“Coming over your face,” he warns.
The fabric skims my forehead, my nose, then settles over my chest. I shiver once as the weight of it sinks in. Cotton over skin. Familiar. Mine.
“Ribs?”
“Ribs.”
“Notes first,” I say, fixing my gaze on a crack in the ceiling. “Day nine. Ribs. Multiple fractures. Kicked. Elbowed. Pressure-point strikes to maintain compliance. Breathing used as control.”
After I push the blanket away, I lift the hem just enough to expose my torso, keeping my grip tight so it can’t ride higher.
Asher lifts the phone.
“Ready?”
I nod. “Be quick.”
He is. A handful of clicks. Different angles. Never crowding. Each breath outlines the damage.
“Emotional impact?”
I swallow. “Breath stopped feeling automatic. Inhales were allowed. Exhales felt conditional. Like if I used too much air on anything but answering, they’d take it away.”
A tear slips free.
“Logged,” Asher says. His voice is rougher now, but steady. “We’re done, Raine. You can cover up.”
I let the hem fall. The sweatshirt settles back over my ribs, and my whole body loosens. Like someone just handed my nerves a shield.
For a second, neither of us speaks. Asher taps a few keys on the laptop, and the phone beeps.
“I sent you all the notes,” he says. “I’ll wipe my copy now.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “You don’t have to. You have the logs. I’ll need”—I swallow—“we’ll need both. To make it make sense.”
Something in his shoulders eases, even as the anger under his skin stays lit. “All right. They stay. They’re yours, even if they’re on my machine. We go through them together. Just…not today.”
I nod. He’s right. I can’t do more today. At least…not right now.
“Can I get you some water? More tea?” he asks.
“Water.”
He rises slowly, keeping his hands in my line of sight until he steps through the doorway toward the kitchenette. “You’ll hear me the whole time.”
The cabinet door, the faucet, the sound of a glass against the counter—they all narrate his movements. He’s being loud on purpose. So I can track where he is. So I feel safe.
“Coming in on your right,” he says. He sits on the edge of the bed again, a careful distance away, and holds up the glass. “Want to try it on your own?”
“My hands work now,” I say. “Mostly.”
“No heroics. If it’s too heavy, let me know.” He offers the glass, bottom resting in his palm so I can decide how much weight my fingers can handle.
I manage half a dozen small sips before I set the glass on the nightstand.
Asher retreats to the chair, settling back with his hands on the arms, fingers loose. Relaxed.
“You really don’t like that word, do you? Heroics?” I ask.
One corner of his mouth curves into a smile.
“Heroes die young. Or take jobs they regret. I prefer staying alive—and getting results. The one time I tried to be a hero, I found myself in the middle of a war zone with a target who didn’t want to be saved.
It caused too long of a delay, and the client pulled my exfil. ”
“You’re here,” I say. “So you survived it.”
“Eventually.” His gaze flicks over me. “Doesn’t mean it was smart.”
The heaviness hits all at once. My limbs go thick and dull, like I’ve been holding up the world for hours and someone finally said I could stop.
“You did a lot of work,” he says quietly. “Your body’s going to feel like it ran a marathon.”
My eyes sting. “It was just…talking.”
“No.” His voice is soft, but not gentle. Honest. “They spent days trying to break you. To make you doubt everything you thought you knew. And you just turned every mark they left on you into testimony against them. That’s not ‘just’ anything.”
The words land with more emotion than I want to admit. My muscles keep sinking, heavy and spent, but it feels earned now, not like failure.
“You’re allowed to rest,” he adds. “Rest isn’t losing ground. It’s how you keep it.”
My chest loosens by degrees. “You’ll stay?”
“Yes.” He closes his eyes once, slowly, then opens them again. “Between you and the door. For as long as you need.”
My body hears that more than my mind does.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Then…I think I can close my eyes for a little while.”
“Good,” he says. “Let your system stand down. The evidence isn’t going anywhere.”
I turn my face toward the wall, focusing on the weight of the blanket, the warmth at my feet, the quiet sound of his breathing.
They tried to catalog me into nothing.
Now there’s a record with my name on it. And I’m still here to decide what to do with it.