Page 47 of Finding Fate

Fate

Before

Seven days pre-Nash. Nine days since the welcomed intrusion.

Sixteen days.

Sixteen damn days and the only difference? Nash.

Which I'm not complaining about, as he's a nice addition. Visually and his misplaced humor. Both are a nice diversion from the hell we're living in every day. But besides the brief mention of his sisters, niece, and being 'fired' from the Army, he hasn't revealed much about himself. It's all nonstop questions to me. It would be unnerving in a normal setting, but strangely it's not with him. Well, until he turns the conversation toward sex, which is almost every night, like it’s his fallback to keep me from turning the questions to him. And he definitely uses it to his advantage.

Besides Mac, no guy, or girl for that matter, has asked this much, been intrigued enough to work past my awkward answers and dig to the source. They aren't hard questions, just real ones. Questions where the answers mean something, where you know the only reason the person asks is because they truly want to know. The type of questions you ask someone you care about.

I guess this is where we are in our strange relationship—me with an awkward crush on the man who tried to save me, and him trying to pass the nights with random conversations and trying to get me to blush.

It’s fun.

Can I say that while being held captive during a hate-driven mission to kill the man who murdered my sister?

Either way it’s the truth. The crush, which started before I even saw his sexy arms, crooked smirk, and soul-searching eyes, has grown. I wish I could tell him how much the conversations and distractions matter without it being awkward.

But on nights when I want to scoot a little closer or have his fingers brush against my cheek instead of my hand, I remind myself that he doesn't feel the same way. He's a good guy. A protector. This means nothing more to him than keeping me safe and getting me home. Which makes sense knowing about his sisters. They clearly trained him to be this way.

A good guy. Not into me.

A good guy. Not into me.

This is my new mantra.

The distraction he provides does come at a cost, however. A cost he pays daily. Not sure how many more days I can sit in the corner with my palms suctioned against my ears and do nothing while they press him for answers.

Like now.

The muffled sounds from the other side of the divider haven't happened for several minutes, which is a good sign. Testing, I pull one hand from my ear and listen. Nothing except the normal camp activity outside the rotting walls. Turning, I let the other hand fall.

This morning, he's propped against the wall instead of his normal place in the middle of his makeshift cell. And like most days, his eyes are already on me.

"Not a bad morning, Poppy," he says with a chuckle and cough. "Definitely had worse. Yesterday, actually."

"Why not give them what they want? Tell them why you're here?" I say, creeping closer to the dividing wall, needing to be closer to him.

He does the same until we’re face-to-face.

"Ah, here's the thing, Pops. They don't really want anything from me. They figured out I'm not American military, and now they're just having some fun treating me as their human punching bag. And as the days go on, they realize no one is coming for me, so...."

I grip the boards between us. "You don't think they’ll come for you? For us?"

Heavy footsteps draw our attention to my door.

"Later.” I suck in a sharp breath at the brush of his fingers against mine. “Looks like your chores await." The dip in his tone, the undercurrent of anger, forces my attention to him.

"Nothing bad happens when I'm gone."

"You don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" I say exasperated. "Nothing happens."

"I fucking hate that thing," he says through gritted teeth, wrapping his fingers around mine and holding tight. "I can't tell if you're lying to me."

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