Chapter Sixty-One
Raine
I stare at his hands. The hands he never hides from me. At the tear glistening on his thumb. I think about how tomorrow, those hands will be trapped in cuffs. Or bloody. Or shaking.
They’ll do everything they can to break him.
And they’ll succeed. Even if it all goes as planned.
Even if Northbridge calls at exactly four thirty.
Even if they can manage to get me the Procedure Index, the logs, video evidence of what goes on inside the black site.
Asher will never be the man he is right now again.
“It changes you,” I say, surprised—and a little proud—that my voice is clear. “Enhanced interrogation. I’ve seen it.”
“I know. There is no version of this where one of us isn’t forever changed. But you’ve survived enough hell, Raine. And you’re the only one who can finish this. Whatever they do…I’ll come out the other side.”
He’s right. Mostly. GSD will keep him alive as long as he’s useful. But once I go public…will they consider him nothing more than a liability?
I’ve run dozens of extractions. Some were rescues. Others, nothing more than government-sanctioned kidnappings. The targets were clear—Assets. Terrorists. Murderers. Every single op plays on its own loop in my head over and over again.
“How will you do it? Let them think they’ve trapped you?” I need to know the plan so I can track it. Track him.
Asher braces his hands on his thighs to push himself to his feet. “I need to cook some meals for you. Come into the kitchen with me and we can talk it over.”
I follow him, catching his arm before we make it more than three steps. “You…no. That’s not—”
“It is.”
Any argument I might have made fades at the anguish in his eyes. He’s doing this for me, yes. But also for himself. Whether he needs something to do with his hands or needs to know that I’m eating while he’s…not isn’t clear.
I drop his arm, painfully aware that this could be our last night together.
He’s already pulling ingredients from the fridge. Vegetables, chicken, tofu. Potatoes and garlic from cabinets. Stock from the freezer.
The apple pie is still cooling on the counter. We never had a chance to cut into it.
“I’ll go back to the Seattle safe house in the morning,” he says.
The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board brings a hint of structure to the world around me. That matters more than I can say.
“They’re already circling that area. It won’t take much.”
“No,” he agrees. “If I use your credentials and hit that internal archive you found without a VPN, they’ll trace the IP address in minutes. I can sever the connection almost immediately. Open a VPN, reconnect. It’ll look like a mistake.”
I nod. “Wipe the laptop tonight.”
“I have a couple of clean tablets in the closet. Older ones. That’s all I need. Then as soon as I reconnect, I’ll…go out. Hit up a grocery store. The pharmacy. Public places. No disguise. They’ll think you’re online and I’m out shopping.”
He walks through the steps like this is any other op. Like he’s not about to be tortured because of me.
“They’ll take you as cleanly as possible. They won’t want you injured. But if you don’t fight back—”
“It’ll look like we planned this. I’ll fight. Don’t worry.” As soon as the words leave his lips, he chuckles. Not a happy laugh. Closer to a huff. “Sorry. That was wildly inappropriate.”
I don’t disagree. “You’ll be black-bagged in ninety seconds. Probably one vehicle swap. There’s only one official GSD interrogation facility in the state. It’s in Kent. They won’t want a ton of eyes on you, but they won’t take you to Coherent Path. They’ll want this on the record.”
“Okay.” He finishes chopping the carrots and moves on to celery.
“Medical baseline. Probably photographs or video of any injuries. They won’t be gentle.” My voice finally cracks, and I reach for the challenge coin. I want to give it back to him. I want him to have something to hold onto. But they’ll take it the second he’s processed.
“Raine, I know how this works. Interrogation. Pressure.” He’s too calm. Too ready.
“Don’t escalate. Not unless you have to. Don’t give them a reason to hurt you.” I want to touch him, to wrap my arms around him and keep him safe—keep him from doing this. But I can’t. That’s not how this works.
Asher pulls containers from the cabinet, moves to a drawer, and finds a Sharpie. Labels are next. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday.
“You don’t get to disappear,” I say quietly.
His head snaps up, a deep crease between his brows. “There is no scenario—no pressure or circumstance or outcome—in which that becomes an option.”
He’s wrong, in a way. But I don’t correct him. He’d never choose to disappear. That doesn’t mean I won’t lose him.
“I…I need to work. Put together packets I can drop publicly. I need a whistleblower group. They’ll handle some of the deeper analysis if I give them the framework. It’s the only way there’s an end to this. To…what’s going to happen…”
I don’t say the last two words.
To you.
Asher nods, pulls out a pan, and sets it on the stove. “Go on. I’ll be right here.”
I linger for another moment, then move into his space and wrap my arms around his waist from behind. My cheek rests against his back, close enough to his heart that its steady beat thrums in my ear.
He rests his hands over mine. I don’t have words to explain what he means to me, but I have to find them before he goes.
After one slow, steady inhale, I let him go, pick up the laptop, and try not to think about where he’ll be tomorrow.
Two hours later, the patterns that were so clear in my head when I started have faded into a diffuse haze of puzzle pieces that don’t line up.
The first packet is nearly done. OSI’s founding charter, a list of agents Asher identified who went through the original program, the Operational Standards Adherence Manual, and the memo that created Coherent Path. I redact the names—both Commissioner Adams and Dr. Julian Voss.
Adams…doesn’t matter. If this goes the way I think it will, he won’t be able to escape the fallout. But Voss?
If I had proof Voss was in charge of Coherent Path—if I knew without a doubt he was the one signing off on the disposals—I’d highlight his name in pink neon with arrows and a flag saying “This man tried to murder me.”
But GSD kicked me out before I could even get a screenshot of the Risk Management org chart.
I can’t damage any potential credibility with the Public Integrity Project by releasing a name without proof. And PIP will contact GSD not long after they get this drop. If Voss’s name is attached, he’ll have time to disappear.
He doesn’t get to hide forever. But keeping him out of it for now? That gives me leverage.
The second packet is harder. This one includes the Contractor Incident Report, the Continuity of Care Guidelines, and will eventually have my affidavit—including my video testimony and the photos Asher took after he pulled me out of the black site.
I make a folder for the third drop, but this one, I can’t touch yet. Not without the Procedure Index and anything I can possibly get from Coherent Path—assuming Northbridge comes through.
Every few minutes, my mind drifts without my permission. Asher’s self-imposed deadline. The comforting sound of something sizzling in the pan. Quiet domesticity so predictable, my heart aches from it.
I start drafting the narrative thread that ties the memos together, laying out the timeline of how OSI became Coherent Path, how language shifted before policy. Ellen’s retirement date, not long after the program changed.
Then…everything stalls. I blink, and when the text resolves itself, I notice I’ve repeated the same line three times.
My jaw tightens.
I try again. Move to the incident report. Highlight the clause that redefines “terminal intervention.” My vision blurs slightly at the edges and I blink, forcing the words back into focus.
But…I can’t. Every time my fingers settle over the keyboard, the screen disappears, replaced by an image of Asher cuffed to a chair, harsh light beating down on him, a faceless, nameless GSD interrogator berating him. Demanding answers.
In the kitchen, the refrigerator door opens, then closes. Water runs. Then the dishwasher.
“I’m not…seeing it.” Even I can hear the exhaustion in my voice. “Any of it. I’m…done for the night.”
Asher wipes his hands on a dishtowel, then folds it carefully. “All right. Can I join you?”
The way he asks, like he still needs permission for closeness, clogs my throat. I nod. He sits a foot away on the couch, giving me space I don’t want between us.
“I should have done more. What if I can’t finish it all in time? What if—”
Asher closes the distance in a heartbeat, cups the back of my neck, and seals his mouth to mine.
The kiss is desperate, almost feral, and it should frighten me, but instead, all I feel is him.
The shape of his lips, the strength in his arms, the quiet way my body answers his without hesitation—like it’s known him longer than the rest of me.
I’m almost in his lap when he finally breaks off the kiss, his chest heaving, and touches his forehead to mine.
“You see all of it, Raine. Every angle. Every possibility.” His voice is strained. His hands tighten at my waist, shaking like he’s holding something precious and breakable. “You’ll put everything together in the morning. When you’re fresh.”
My eyes prick with tears. “You mean when you’re gone.”
“Fuck me.” His arms come around me, and he buries his face in my hair.
I curl my fingers into his shirt, right over his heart. The steady beat thrums against my hand. Impossibly strong. Alive. Here. If I press hard enough, could I anchor him to me?
We’re running out of time.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you.” I shift so I can curl against his side, resting my head on his shoulder and linking our free hands tightly together.
He makes a low, contemplative sound, then sighs.
“There was a winter in Montreal.” His voice is quieter now. Almost…unsure. “Before I started taking contracts on my own.”
“You used to work with a team?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Everyone starts somewhere. I ran support for a group of black ops guys tracking a domestic terror cell. Surveillance. Logistics. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it paid the bills.
” His thumb traces patterns along my hip.
“One of the guys we were watching had a daughter. She was eight or nine. Used to wait for him at the bus stop every afternoon.”
He takes a deep breath, but it stalls halfway in.
“She’d stand on the bench so she could see over the crowd,” he continues. “Had this red scarf that would drag in the snow.”
The room feels smaller now. I can’t see anything outside the floor-to-ceiling window. Just the two of us reflected back at me.
“Then, one night, he never showed. We knew why. She didn’t.” His gaze trails across the room to the wall with the electric fireplace flickering softly. “The kid waited until it got dark. Someone who worked at the bus station eventually walked her home.”
I lace our fingers even tighter together. “You didn’t take her father from her.”
“No. I didn’t. None of us did. The government handled that.”
“What did you do?” Tipping my head back, I wait for him to look at me.
“The next day, I made sure someone was at the bus stop before she got there. Close enough if something happened, she wouldn’t be alone.
My heart stutters. “That wasn’t part of the job.”
“No.” His mouth shifts faintly. “It wasn’t. It didn’t change the outcome of the op. Didn’t mean a damn thing on paper. But I couldn’t stand the idea of her waiting there all alone.” That hint of a smile deepens. “I kept tabs. A neighbor took her in, then adopted her a year later.”
I cup his cheek and brush a gentle kiss to his lips. His stubble tickles my palm, settling me more than I expect.
By the time I’ve decided what part of me to give him, the silence is almost unbearable. “I’ve never really…dated.”
His eyebrows lift. “At all?”
“I’ve had sex. You weren’t my first,” I say quickly. “But relationships? The whole ritual? I never saw the point.”
He watches me with such intensity, it’s hard to keep my voice level.
“People asked. Mostly men. A couple of women. Agents I worked with. A neighbor once, when I was on a long-term field op in deep cover.”
Asher’s gaze softens, but he doesn’t stop me from this embarrassing admission. “I told myself it was discipline. Focus. My job required clarity, and clarity doesn’t survive entanglement. I moved every year for a while. Didn’t keep furniture. Or plants. Or friends. No attachments.”
I take a slow, steady breath.
“I’ve walked away from cities without looking back. From apartments I’d barely unpacked. From neighbors whose names I never learned.
“I’ve never built my life around someone coming back.” The tremble in my voice isn’t small enough to hide this time. “Around choosing someone to wake up next to every day.”
The admission tears something loose inside me—something I’ve hidden for years finally breaking free. My throat tightens, but I don’t look away. I hold his gaze even as every instinct I have demands distance.
“I’m choosing you, Asher. And you…might not come back to me.”
The room stays the same. Nothing dramatic happens. The world doesn’t come crashing down around us from my truth laid bare.
He swallows hard enough for me to hear it. “I’ll come back.”
“You can’t know that.” I’m not proud of how small the words sound.
“When this is over…” he says after a moment, something new threading through his tone. It’s not reassurance or bravado. It’s longing. “...we build something that doesn’t look like this.”
“What does that mean?”
“Protection,” he says. “Real protection. We take clients who don’t have leverage. We extract when they need extraction. We prevent harm when we can.”
I can see it. For the first time since he told me his plan for tomorrow, I don’t see restraints or concrete or a room with no windows.
I see light. Frosted glass walls. Desks that aren’t bolted to the floor. A coffee mug that says, “Caffeine before tactics.” And Asher. Smiling.
“You’re assuming you’ll be there to build it,” I say.
“I am. And I will.”
“You don’t get to promise that.”
“I’m not promising.” He squeezes my hand. “I’m planning.”
The difference is microscopic and enormous at the same time. Promises hope for mercy. Plans assume survival.
“I don’t know how to build that without you,” I admit.
He presses his lips to the curve of my neck below my ear. “Then build it with me.”