Page 60 of Finding Fate

Nash

Today

The metal knob slipsin my sweaty grip. Shit, hopefully Raider didn't see that, but knowing how observant he is, he did. The fucker notices everything. Which was a good thing four months ago when they found me in the damn shack and dragged me out of that hell hole. Raider was the one who, from what I've been told, since I was too busy being passed out to notice, looked past the bullet wound in my shoulder and pointed out the infection in my leg.

He's probably the reason I only lost it from the knee down instead of the full leg.

Not sure which was more upsetting the day I woke up in the hospital: the fact that they had to amputate the lower part of my right leg to save the rest from the gangrene that had set in, or when I asked for Fate and everyone looked away. Well, everyone but Raider. He stood by my bed to look me straight in the eye and told me what they found, or rather didn't find.

Not a trace. The damn tracker was on the ground, but she and those two bastards were gone. And now here we are after four months of recovering. Waiting. Dreading.

I pull the door open an inch and pause. "I don't know what to say," I admit, staring at the dark wood of the door.

"Pretty sure not even you could fuck this up, Snowflake. Say something. Say anything. But make it fast, because Drake just texted saying some fucksticks from the FBI are headed our way. You don't have much time."

Fucksticks. I know said fuckstick they’re talking about. And he's not a fuckstick at all like the rest of those bastards. He's just like she made him out to be all those nights we lay awake talking to the moon. If I didn't have a great dad to look up to, Mac would be someone who could sit on that pedestal easily.

Swallowing against a throat as dry as the Sahara, I turn the knob and pull the door open while popping my knee to the side to keep the dog inside the room. Of course he knows she's here. But not now, seeing Dobby might be too much. First I need to see her, gauge her awareness. Hell, what do I know? This is my first reuniting of two captives when I was one of the captives. Sure as hell aren't CliffsNotes on how all this shit will go down.

Each step moves quicker, faster. Even though I'm scared shitless, I'm ready to see her. The past four months I've dreamed of this moment. But somehow in the dream, we were always past the awkward part. In those dreams, I told her how much she meant to me, how she is the only woman besides my sisters who’s seen through me. Told her how much it killed me to hear her crying at night and not be able to hold her. How pushing her away that day was the hardest damn thing I've ever done and I've regretted it every day since. In those dreams, it’s perfect.

When we round the corner, Tex and the other two guys look up, focused on me, but my gaze stays on the black fabric–covered head sitting on the couch facing the front door. Fighting back the urge to run, which I've been doing a lot of the past couple weeks to get back in shape and get used to the new contraption on my leg, I continue forward.

Still she doesn't turn.

The beer from last night fights up my throat, but I push it down. Like he knows everything running through my head, Raider rummages through the fridge and tosses two bottles of water across the room.

Crouching the best I can in front of the couch, I take a swig of water.

"Hey, you," I say, setting both bottles on the coffee table at my back. Holding on to the table and couch, I push past the strangeness of balancing on the ball of one foot. "Hey, it's me. Fate?"

No movement, not even a head tilt showing she hears me.

What happened to her?

"Pops" My voice cracks as every form of emotion swirls within me. The building storm pauses with the slight turn of her head in my direction. Why do my eyes burn? Shit, are those tears? "Hey, you. It's me. Nash." When I don't get any other form of acknowledgment, I take a different approach. "Fuck, I hate that thing. I can't tell if you're hearing me," I nearly growl.

Emerging from beneath the thin material, a trembling hand reaches out and stops midair.

Closing the distance, now more eager than ever to have her touch, I lean to press my bearded cheek against her palm. My eyes shutter closed as her thumb strokes along my skin, transporting me back to the last day in Africa.

"I thought...," she whispers, almost like she's unsure of her own voice. "No. You can't be here. You’re dead. Why are you doing this to me?"

My heart cracks at the desperate plea in her soft voice. "Not that lucky, Poppy. I'm still here. And so are you."

The black material shudders, and the soft whimpers of her tears echo around the near silent room. Making eye contact with each of the guys, I nod toward the front door in a silent request for a few minutes alone.

After they've all filed out, Raider the last one with a cautious second look, the earlier awkwardness fades. Just us. The way it always was, and the way it's meant to be.

Taking the hand still pressed to my cheek, I thread our fingers together and kiss her open palm. "It's just us, Pops. Just you and me, okay? I'm here, and I'm never going to lose you again. I promise you—" Heat builds along my cheeks at the crack in my voice. "I promise you're safe with me. Safe here. Let's take it off, okay? I want to see you. I need to see you," I whisper and lean back into her hand, savoring the touch I've been waiting months for.

Her head shakes, sending the material swishing against itself.

"Why?" I plead. Okay, this is a new low but fuck it. I'll get on my knees and beg if I have to. The urge to see those bright blue eyes inches up with each second they're hidden away.

"It's my protection. I'm safe covered, hidden. He can't find me," she whispers, voice still shaky and unsure.

The need and urge to protect her snuffs the earlier foreign emotions. Anger builds and my fingers flex against hers. Hell, it takes every ounce of control not to just pull her against me, burka and all.

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