Page 35 of Finding Fate

I don't move. Hell, I even shorten my already-shallow breaths to make as little movement as possible. Even if I wanted to make a break for it, stand and fight maybe, there's no way my muscles would respond. That's another thing I didn't expect, the way terror can freeze the most subconscious movements like blinking, breathing, thinking. True fear locks everything down. There's no fight or flight like everyone expects there to be, only crippling mental and physical terror.

Several minutes tick by, the scorching overhead sun raising the temperature beneath my burka to that of a sauna, before he dictates something to someone I can’t see and the crunching of retreating steps fills my ears.

It's only then the built-up tension drains and I allow myself to slump forward.

At my back, a man’s voice draws my attention. One of the grunts, a machine gun strapped across his chest, points to the bucket of dirty laundry and nods toward the water.

Tossing the pair of fatigues into the water, I start to scrub.

I don't even know the man in black’s name. That would’ve been a good question to ask last night. I roll my eyes beneath my veil and keep scrubbing. Even here I'm terrible at this social interaction shit. Hopefully he's still alive when I get back to find out. I bet it's something manly like Crash or Thor. Or maybe I'll just give him a nickname since he seems to like calling me this Poppy character.

And just like that, daydreaming of him, playing out future conversations, makes the hotter-than-hell, exhausting day go by faster than ever. The fires burn bright around the camp when I'm finally finished and escorted back to my pen. The weight of the entire day causes my footing to stumble, and I fall to the ground in the middle of the shack with barely enough energy to catch myself. At my back, the door opens once again and metal clatters against metal as something falls to the ground. The door slams shut, the grind of the lock sliding into place signaling I’m locked in for the rest of the night.

I don't need to look up to know what they brought.

Food. If you can call it that.

It could be dinner, breakfast, lunch—it doesn't matter, it's all the same. Some kind of beans, flat tasteless bread, and unidentified meat that the local girls told me to stay far away from early on. And water. The water must be from a clean stream in the area; it's always fresh, and by some small miracle hasn't gotten me sick yet.

A groan pushes past my lips as I roll to face my neighbor, but it's cut short, turning into more of a gasp when I find him staring back.

"Hi," I croak. "What's your name?" Nice. The sentence I’ve been planning all day came out smooth and not awkward. Five hundred points for Gryffindor.

"What do you want it to be?" he says.

Okay, wait. Why does that line sound familiar? It's right at the tip of my tongue....

"The guys call me Snowflake."

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, a true laugh builds in my chest. "Snowflake. Seriously. You don't look like a snowflake." You look like a gladiator is what I want to add to the end, but I keep that part to myself. My arms tremble beneath my weight from all the scrubbing as I crawl across the floor and lean against the wooden planks.

"Yeah, well I'm the youngest of our little group, and they think since I'm a damn Millennial, I'm as delicate as a snowflake. Always getting my feelings hurt or offended by stupid shit." He huffs a laugh. "The hair and tattoos don't help with their misjudgments."

"Are you?" Okay, how and why is there a smile pulling at my lips?

"Fuck no. They just like to give me a hard time. Fuckers." Shouting outside the shack makes him pause until it dies down. "If you don't want to call me that, Nash works too."

"Nash," I mumble. Knew it would be something unique. Unique like him.

"So, Pops, let’s talk about rules."

I snap my head up to meet narrowed brown eyes. "Rules?" I question.

"Okay, rule. You got me there. One major rule."

Beneath my veil, I search his eyes as I wait.

"Do not, under any circumstances, risk your life for mine again. They’ll do all that beating shit again to get information out of me, and next time I need you to keep your mouth shut."

Great, he thinks I'm an idiot. Embarrassment drops my gaze to the dirt.

"I can't watch them hurt you again because of me," he sighs. The wood vibrates at the back of his head falling against it. "If we're not careful, they'll learn my weakness isn’t my own pain."

Not sure how to respond to that bit of honesty, I avoid responding and crawl to the dinner pan, taking a sip of water from the cup beside it. Halfway through the overcooked beans, I glance over. He's lying on his back, hands resting on his chest, staring at the ceiling.

"Do you hear that?" I whisper, then close my eyes, relishing the silence.

"What's that, Pops?"

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