Page 32 of Finding Fate

Fate

Before

Days, weeks go by asI wait for the sexy stranger to move.

Okay, it’s only been an hour or so, but it seems like days and weeks when you don’t know if you’re lusting over a live human or a dead body. The earlier unbearable heat dissipates as the sun sets and deep shadows of the night creep in, but still no sign of movement or sound. I’ve kept my vigil, only moving once to use the bucket in the corner. With a guy, dead or unconscious, within hearing distance, stage fright sank in, making the whole peeing process take way longer than normal. So I guess he could’ve moved in those few minutes I wasn't watching but doubtful. He still looks dead.

Please don't be dead.

The guards ditched their post a while ago to join their evil comrades around the fire, but still here I sit. Waiting. Watching. Praying. Hoping.

I don’t think I can take any more death, of people leaving craters in my heart where their love used to reside. Two deaths within a year is enough. I guess three if you count the sweet blue-eyed girl from the first day. At least I hope she's dead and not somewhere continuing to suffer through daily abuse.

A tear streaks down my cheek beneath my veil. How depressing is the fact that my prayer is she's dead?

"Please wake up," I whisper into the night. Through the thin material of the veil, the rough wood of the dividing wall scrapes the skin of my forehead as I rest against it and shut my eyes. "I can't take any more. Please don't be dead."

At some point, my eyelids turn to lead, shuttering closed for longer and longer periods of time before I can yank them open again. But sleep seems like a fantastic way to make the insistent throbbing in the back of my skull stop. With a deep, resigned sigh, I give in and allow the peaceful night sounds to lull me asleep.

It could’ve been three seconds, three minutes or three hours when a pained groan rattles from the other side of the wood divider. My lids snap open, my mind and body tensing, putting every muscle on full alert.

Inch by inch, I shift along the divider in search of a better view between the planks. At a larger opening, I pause and watch. Another grunt rumbles through the dark, and a tattooed arm reaches out before falling hard against the dirt. His legs twitch and lift like he's testing to make sure nothing is broken, or maybe shaking out the stiffness from being in one unconscious position too long.

With another moan, he rolls to his back and prods his face.

"Shit," he declares.

Staying true to my awkward self, I watch in silence, hoping it’s too dark for him to notice me. I'll say something, eventually, but this opportunity to see all of him without him knowing is quite enjoyable. Not sure when I turned into a voyeur, but who wouldn’t stare? This guy... he's interesting.

Yeah, I'll stick with interesting, because saying a guy is hot doesn't seem appropriate in this type of situation. But he is hot. Hell, even from here—and in the dark, no less—I can tell he's built differently than the men, boys really, I'm typically around or have dated in the past. Those tatted arms look strong, his forearm nearly the size of my calf. And his chest, which he's now feeling around, is thick, just like his broad shoulders. There's definitely something manly about him.

Great. Of course the sexiest, manliest man I’ve been within twenty feet of is when I'm a captive in Africa with a goose egg knot on the back of my head. And I smell.

Like a creeper, I continue to watch, waiting for him to look my way but also hoping he doesn't. Hopefully his face and personality are awful, unlike the rest of him. No way I'll be the cliché woman who falls for the guy who saves her. This past year has taught me those fairy-tale endings don’t exist. They’re lies spewed out to the masses. This is real life, not some Disney movie.

If anything, I'm Hermione. I'm smart. I'm courageous. I'm resourceful.

At least those are the qualities I’ll hopefully harness one day.

His head rolls to the side, casting a shadow over his face. "Well hey there, Poppy." He attempts to push off the ground but his arms give out, sending him falling back to the dirt with a grunt. On the second attempt, he successfully sits up and grips his head. "Nice digs you have here. What kind of rates do they charge?"

He's joking. Almost dead to joking in a matter of hours. Who the hell is this guy?

"Poppy?" I finally manage after a few beats of awkward silence as he massages his legs.

"Later," he responds as he scoots closer to lean against the other side of the divider. "I think they broke a rib. At least my face feels like it's in one piece. Which is good since it’s my best feature." His laugh turns into a cough and then a groan as his right arm wraps around his waist.

"Anything else?" I whisper.

"Not sure. My legs work, so that's a positive, but my right leg hurts like hell. And fuck, do I need to piss."

"There should be a bucket—"

To my horror, he laughs and whips open his belt where he lays. Watching his long fingers fumble at the top button of the black pants sends heat blasting across my face, like someone doused it in lighter fluid and then set it on fire, burning my cheeks and drying my eyes. I pivot away just as the sound of him pissing fills the night.

"Sorry, couldn't wait. How long was I out?"

"A while," I say to my empty area, too afraid to turn back in case he's not done. "I thought you were dead."

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